Roshan Shrestha didn’t start with a camera. He started with a cracked roof. Back in 2015, when the earthquake shattered homes in Sindhupalchok, no reporters came knocking on his door. There were no lights, no crews—just rubble. So he filmed it himself. Not for likes. Not for headlines. Just to show what it looked like when your home was reduced to dust and no one was around to ask how you were.
That instinct to document stuck with him.
Born in Hundung, Bahrabise-7, Sindhupalchok, in 1996, Shrestha grew up in a farming family that relied on the land for food and on hope for everything else. School meant walking far—first in his own village, then to Nagpuje. His old teacher, Bajir Singh Bhandari, remembers him as “quiet, stubborn, and always asking questions we weren’t ready for.”
After his SLC, he headed to Kathmandu to earn a living. Marketing job. Odd hours. Still sat for his Class 11 exams. One year later, he returned home to finish Class 12. Then came the quake. His house crumbled. Exams continued anyway. He passed—not with flying colors, but through sheer will.
For the next few years, Shrestha didn’t hold a press card or job title. But he did something else. He helped farmers. He knocked on doors, called up officials, filled out subsidy forms for families who didn’t know what a PDF was. “He used to walk all the way to the district office just to help us file papers,” says Narayan Pradhan, a local elder. “He didn’t ask for anything.”
That was journalism—before he called it that.
In 2077 B.S., he came back to Kathmandu again. Worked at a vegetable shop in Koteshwor. Nothing fancy. But in between customers, he picked up his phone and recorded pieces of home—fields, hills, stories. A chance meeting with Rajib Basnet, who owned a café and had ties to the film world, opened new doors. Soon, Shrestha was interviewing actors and local leaders. No script. Just questions.
In 2078 B.S., he made it official: Khoj Samachar—a news platform under Bethel Media House. Then COVID hit. Everything froze. His dream paused. But not for long.
In 2079 B.S., after lockdowns lifted, Shrestha pivoted. He didn’t go back to websites—he turned on his camera and spoke directly to viewers on Facebook. The news was raw, daily, and personal. One or two videos every day. Land rights. Labor fraud. Youth issues. Whatever mattered that week.
No big studio. Just presence.
Young viewers noticed. His page grew quietly. So did his influence. He wasn’t a celebrity. But he was consistent. And that mattered more.
Then in 2025, he did something few local journalists even try—he launched a mobile app. Simply named: Roshan Shrestha. It wasn’t flashy. It just worked. Visa status check for migrant workers. Career tips for digital platforms. A Nepali calendar. No ads. No fees.
Over 100,000 downloads. 10,000+ positive reviews. Even MP Gyanendra Shahi gave him a shout-out on Facebook. “This app,” the post said, “bridges the digital gap for ordinary Nepalis.”
That’s what Shrestha’s always done. He bridges things—villages to platforms, problems to questions, silence to speech.
He doesn’t wear a press badge. But thousands listen to him anyway.
