This is about Nepali Festival Dashain and Tihar Music Video Song.

The air in London was damp and cold, a stark contrast to the vibrant warmth of Kathmandu that Anmol often dreamed of. It had been five years since he left Nepal for the United Kingdom, chasing the dreams his mother, Susmita, had envisioned for him. She had sacrificed everything-her small savings, her comfort, and her daily joy of having her son by her side-so Anmol could study and build a better life abroad. Anmol was a hard worker, juggling university classes and long hours at Amrish's restaurant. The boss, a shrewd businessman, valued profits over people. Anmol, like the rest of the staff, was little more than a cog in the relentless machinery of the restaurant's success. One evening, after another grueling 12-hour shift, Anmol sat on his small bed in his shared apartment. His phone buzzed. It was his mother. "Anmol, Dashain and Tihar are coming. I've cleaned the house and even set aside some money to buy your favorite sweets. Will you come home this year?" Her voice was full of hope, but Anmol felt his chest tighten. He hesitated before responding. "Aama, I told you I'll try... but it's so busy here. Amrish Sir didn't give me leave." There was a pause on the other end. Then, Susmita's voice came back, soft yet tinged with disappointment. "Next year, maybe?" Anmol clenched his fists, guilt and frustration boiling inside him. "Yes, Aama. Next year for sure." But he had said the same thing the year before. In Kathmandu, Susmita prepared for Dashain, stringing marigold garlands and lighting oil lamps. She tried to keep her spirits high, but the empty seat at the family gathering reminded her of her son's absence. The festivals were not the same without him. Meanwhile, in London, Anmol's life remained a blur of work and exhaustion. On the day of Tihar, he watched videos his friends posted from Nepal-houses glowing with lights, sisters placing tika on their brothers' foreheads, families sharing laughter. He felt an ache deep within him. That night, after work, he called his mother again. "Aama, I saw the photos you sent. The house looks beautiful. I'm sorry I couldn't come." Susmita replied with her usual warmth, "Don't worry, Anmol. I know you're doing all this for us. Just promise me, one day, we'll celebrate together again." As he hung up, Anmol sat in silence. The weight of his sacrifices and his mother's quiet patience bore down on him. The distance was more than just physical-it was a chasm of longing, responsibility, and love. He vowed to himself: No matter how hard it is, next year, I'll go home. I'll see her smile again. But for now, the lights of Kathmandu would remain a distant dream, and the cold streets of London his reality.—Kumud Pant