Kathmandu, 28 Oct: It was almost 10 o’clock at night. As the air around Patan’s Krishna Temple began to cool, a young boy could be seen hurrying around, selling steaming cups of tea.
Carrying a small backpack, holding plastic cups and a thermos in his hands, and a little pouch tied around his waist for money — he was a self-equipped young entrepreneur. Around him were couples whispering sweet nothings in the temple’s shadow, groups of friends sharing cigarettes and laughter, evening strollers watching the scene, and youths striking poses for TikTok videos. The boy didn’t skip anyone.
He would appear out of nowhere and say in a soft, pleading voice, “Please have a cup of tea. Not a single cup has sold yet.” A mix of shrewdness, stubbornness, and childlike innocence defined him. He sold each cup of tea for 25 rupees. Some people offered him more money, but he never accepted it. “I can’t take more than what it costs,” he’d insist, sometimes even handing out tea for free, saying, “Money isn’t everything. You can pay later.” It seemed as though time and hardship had made him far more mature than his age.
In truth, he wasn’t just selling milk tea or spiced tea — he was selling kindness. He gave love to everyone and received it in return. When he liked a customer, he would chat freely, telling stories about who mocked him, who scolded him, and how people treated him while selling tea. With a bold grin, he’d say, “It’s okay. One day I’ll be someone big. I’ll earn a lot of money. Then you’ll see…”
Sometimes he would open up to a customer about his little secrets — how he hid money from his mother to buy small things, who he planned to play with secretly, laughing as he shared. With a teasing smile, he’d add, “When I grow up, I’ll buy a bike. I’ll take my girlfriend in front and my mom at the back — and we’ll go for a ride.”
With others, he poured out his heart — how circumstances had forced him there, how many cups he sold each night, how he managed the household expenses, how he looked after his sick mother, and how the landlord threatened to evict them for not paying rent. In a tone full of quiet sorrow, he would say, “People look down on you when you’re poor. Maybe because I’m small, they don’t respect me.”
But he didn’t have the luxury to sit and talk for long. Suddenly, he’d snap out of his thoughts and say, “Oh no, Mom will scold me!” Then he’d jump up and dash off into the crowd, chasing another passerby, pleading, “Please have some tea, please…”
Poverty and Childhood Struggle
The little wandering tea seller’s name is Paul Chepang, age 10.
Behind his bright smile lies a story of pain and struggle. What forced him into this work? How heavy are the burdens of home? How does he care for his ailing mother? And how hard is it when he can’t pay rent or school fees?
The gap between his age and his responsibilities is vast. Carrying the weight of his family, Paul ventures out every night to sell tea. “I wake up at four in the morning,” he says in one breath. “Then I do my homework, eat, and go to school. After school, I do more homework and then go out to sell tea. I sell tea until late. If I sell it quickly, I go home and play with my little brother. If not, I stay until eleven at night, go home, eat, and sleep.”
At first, his mother sold tea to barely manage the household after her husband abandoned them. With two small children, she carried the full burden alone. But as she continued to work nights, her chest began to hurt badly. She coughed up blood. After a hospital visit, she learned she had a heart condition.
If she worked in the cold, her chest pain worsened. If she stayed home, they would go hungry. Seeing his mother’s suffering, Pavel decided to take her place. He was only seven years old.
He carried two thermoses — one with milk tea, the other with black tea — and followed people around, saying, “Please have some tea.” Since then, he has never truly rested. Every evening, his mother brews the tea, and he sets out to Patan’s Krishna Temple with his thermoses, following visitors, selling cups, and bringing the earnings home.
He never knows how many customers will buy his tea or how much money he’ll earn. But he knows that if he returns home empty-handed, they won’t have food or shelter. So whether it rains or the cold bites, he has to go out. He has to follow people. He has to sell tea. “If I don’t sell tea, what will we eat? My brother, Mom, and I will starve,” Paul says — not sadly, but with quiet determination. He speaks like the head of the household. “We have to eat, I have to study, we have to pay rent,” he says. “Uncle, the landlord kicked us out once because we couldn’t pay rent.”
Pavel’s life leaves no room for childhood. Poverty has stolen it from him. He may be small, but his responsibilities are immense. His evenings unfold around the Krishna Temple — beyond that, he knows little of the world.
Where in Kathmandu would he like to go? When asked, he pauses, thinks, and replies, “Kalanki. I want to go to Kalanki.”
What food does he like? He doesn’t even need to think: “Chow mein,” he answers quickly.
And play? He hesitates, unfamiliar with the question. After a moment, he says softly, “I play at home, with my brother.”
Then he tells us about a recent event. “A few days ago, while playing, my brother disappeared. We couldn’t find him anywhere. Later, CCTV footage showed he’d been kidnapped. Within 24 hours, the police rescued him.”
After finishing the story, Paul looks at us and says, “After that, my brother went viral. But Uncle, please don’t make me viral, okay?”
