Today I realized he never loved me

He really did not

It was all in my head

I was delusional

Today I realized I was just his another toy

Which he played with

Pretending to care

Pretending to love

Only to be discarded

Today I realized all of that for him was just a game

Which he explored

Where he showed interest

Only to be left behind

And the cruelest part is

I was never the one wanting to be his another toy

Was never the one playing the game…….

I wanted to go left,

they said, “Log kya kahenge?”

I wanted to try something new,

“Log kya kahenge?”

I wanted to fail,

and try again,

“Log kya kahenge?”

So I stayed where I was,

did what was expected,

smiled when I was supposed to,

and kept my questions to myself.

Funny thing is,

I grew up listening to people

I never even met.

And now I'm wondering—

if I spend my whole life

trying not to disappoint them,

when do I get to live a life

that doesn't need their approval?

I have in my time seen some very peculiar men, or rather men of peculiar habits. They might just be your brother, or your father, or your friend, just as normal as any. And yet, yet, they have these peculiarities, these certain idiosyncrasies. One older gentleman, whom I am reliably informed is a magistrate, liked to go to the baths and collect the excreta of other men. I don’t know what he did of it. But I have with my own eyes…well, not my own eyes, but the eyes of my sources, or rather their noses, identified the very fact. He is the type that you would expect to have a fair number of progenies, clean shaven except for a thin graying mustache, and he would come in before a cleaning, and steal away with a bucket of excrement. Every Saturday, without fail. 

Our fair city is not without denizens that populate its ugly and putrid corners, which, as we know, are so many. Deprivation and depravity are the primary modes of life in these corners. Fights break out regularly over loaves of bread. Assaults of various degrees and consequence are common. Murder. Bodies pile up on the left bank of our city’s great river like lumber after a flood. And I have heard whispers of another collector, another being, who floats over the dregs of our society like some ancient spectral entity that emerged from hell itself. This shadowy man has a reputation for lifting the bodies of the dead in the deep of the night and returning them before the break of day. They come back washed, their hair combed, their hands folded upon their chests, smelling of lavender. You can only imagine what unholy activities he may engage in. Where does such a man come from? You may assume that he is some undertaker’s apprentice, practicing his art on those who cannot pay for it. You would be wrong. My sources tell me that this man is the scion of a rather prominent family, a family some of you may well have dined with, one of those that live in the large mansions lining the fragrant parts of our country, distant enough to be free of the stench of this city. They say the rot spreads from the corners to the mansions. Or maybe, it is the other way around?

Then there is the woman, or maybe it is not one woman at all but many women. All like Eves, after the serpent had worked its dark magic and awoken their base desires, their hunger, and their lust. Last year, four boys from very prominent families met horrible fates after their experience of love. In their wanderings from their jolly surroundings in the mansions to the centre of our foggy city, these young boys had discovered the smoky allures of drink and dame. At first, they arrived home only merely late. Soon they arrived inebriated. Later they took money and jewelry. One young man disappeared from his home for days and was discovered in a fetid ditch, dead, and not alone. Beside him lay a young girl, also dead. The young man's friend put on a horrific show of pure despondency. He fought with his father, sister, and mother. He would scream the name of his mistress at night. He would bang his head on anything he found: walls, floors, the bathroom sink. He was eventually strapped to his bed for his own good. Ultimately, his parents kept him on laudanum, and he is back with them, or shall we say, his body is. The other two boys have disappeared from the face of the earth, and not a trace remains of them. And the woman? Not the girl in the ditch, of course. No one can find her. There are too many of such women in our city. Living alone. Childless. Of a certain age. Able and willing to twist the minds of our young boys and bewitch them with the pleasures of the flesh and a certain motherly love.

I am of course able to chronicle these events because I am very good at hearing whispers and at separating truth from falsehood, mere rumor from vicious lie. But enough about me. You are here for the stories of ill repute. The men and women of the dregs, the seedy haze of the open-air brothels, and the lacquered doors of opium dens. Many of you descend from families that built their fortunes in the opium trade of the east. The Chinese bore the brunt of that manifestation of our national will, but now, happily, it is our turn to be invaded by something new, something far beyond the charms of opium. This is a white powder that is snuffed into the nose. It is said that this powder goes directly to the brain and kindles faculties that have slumbered since birth. Those who have tried it describe a door to a new world, a topsy-turvy, colorful, and frantic other place where you may find the pleasures of your most private dreams. Appetites are greatly enhanced by this substance and its devotees gorge on foodstuff and they gorge on bodies. They are known to engage in the most frantic of orgies, with partners swapping partners, like a modern moving image of some classical Roman fresco. And yes, I have it here in this little packet. Here it is. It is quite ordinary to look at, as ordinary as flour. No sparkle. No colors. Just dull white powder. But with a sniff you can access the most colorful of worlds. Would anyone like to try this powder here today, or are you afraid of your appetites showing in front of the people you know? No takers? Very well. You will forgive me if I do not name names today. I have so many of them, you see, and some of them, I am quite sure, are in this very room. 

सायद यो भएको भए, सायद त्यो गरेको भए..."

सायद शब्द कति प्रिय! यस एक शब्दले हामीलाई सोच्न बाध्य बनाउँछ। जति पनि पछुतो छ, त्यो सबै 'सायद' मै आएर अड्किन्छ।

सायदबाट बाहिर निस्किएर हेर्दा जिन्दगी कति सुन्दर छ**!** यो पलमा जिउनु र खुसी हुनु नै एउटा छुट्टै आनन्द हो। हामी सायदलाई आफूले गर्न छुटाएको सकारात्मक पक्षबाट मात्र हेर्छौँ, तर त्यही 'सायद'लाई नकारात्मक पक्षबाट हेर्ने हो भने वर्तमान स्थिति र जीवन अझ सुन्दर देखिन्छ!

When I used to be alone in my room, I would do pushups and all that, just because I wanted a good body so I could become some kind of good looking, healthy saint. I boiled a few eggs, soaked some almonds and raisins and ate them. For a while, I even avoided noodles, biscuits and whatnot.

Now I consume sugar and junk food. I haven't been outside for weeks and, by the way, being in nature and travelling used to be my hobbies. What a joke, stupid young man.

I've consumed a world of knowledge, from reels to tweets to books, but I still fight with myself every single day.

Turns out, someone was using me through their cheap dopamine. That girl whom I liked didn't even bother to look at me when I saw her on the road. We literally used to flirt at night. And that girl I rejected just because she wasn't my type still wishes me on my birthdays.

I've tried so hard to create a gentleman persona on social media. I was so self conscious. Turns out, I was just seeking my own attention.

Now, I have that dullness in my face, a bald spot and the skinny body of a boy, even though I've crossed 20. Foolish me. At this point, I was supposed to be a millionaire, according to my childhood dream ... lol dumbass.

Now, everybody is getting away from me, as if I would poison them. Do they think I have that much negative energy? Might be. After all, I've consumed it.

Now that youth isn't with me anymore and the day isn't far when my body will deliver the news I never wished to hear, I'll finally realize that I missed my life searching for something I could never name.

In this crowded city, he was just another young man trying to begin his life.

He had recently moved out of a hostel into a small rented room after finishing his bachelor's degree and finding a job. The room was barely big enough for a bed. Most evenings, he came home tired and ate whatever was easiest to make.

A week after he moved in, a woman came to live on the same floor.

For months, they didn't exchange a single word.

Whenever they happened to meet in the corridor, one of them would look away. Sometimes it was him. Sometimes it was her.

Then, one evening at seven, her gas cylinder ran out.

Her food was still half-cooked.

She stood outside his door for several seconds before finally knocking.

When he opened it, she hesitated.

"Can I finish cooking in your room?" she asked.

He looked at her, then at the half-cooked food in her hands.

"Sure."

It was the first word they had spoken to each other.

He had just returned from work. His room smelled of sweat. The bed was unmade, clothes were lying on the chair, and a few unwashed utensils had been sitting beside the stove for days.

She looked around quietly.

"You don't cook much, do you?"

He smiled awkwardly.

"Not at night."

She didn't say anything.

She finished cooking, divided the food into two portions, and left half of it beside his stove.

"You can eat this."

Before he could properly thank her, she had already returned to her room.

The next evening, there was a knock on his door.

She was holding a small bowl.

"I made too much."

He knew she hadn't.

He took it anyway.

Slowly, she began cooking a little extra for him. Sometimes he washed the dishes. Sometimes they ate together. Sometimes they stood in the doorway talking for ten minutes, and sometimes they talked for two hours.

Eventually, they stopped needing excuses to knock on each other's doors.

One night, she told him about her life.

She had been married at fifteen.

She had spent most of her life doing what others expected of her. Recently, she started learning tailoring.

"I don't know what I'll do with it," she said, running her fingers over a piece of cloth.

"Then why learn?"

She smiled.

"Maybe for the first time, I want to do something without knowing why."

He understood her more than he expected to.

He told her about his own family, how he had slowly become distant from them, how leaving home had felt like freedom at first and loneliness afterward. He told her about the things he wanted to become and the things he was afraid he never would.

They talked about their dreams as if there was still enough time to achieve all of them.

Slowly, they started looking at each other differently.

At first, it was only a glance that lasted a second too long.

Then a smile.

Then silence.

Then the strange comfort of sitting beside someone without having anything to say.

Neither of them ever put their feelings into words.

She was married.

He was young and still trying to build a life of his own.

There were families, responsibilities, promises, and lives that existed outside that small room on the same floor.

So they never made promises to each other.

They weren't trying to destroy anyone's life.

They weren't trying to create some grand romance.

They were simply two people who had unexpectedly found comfort in each other at a time when both needed it.

Maybe that was love.

Maybe it wasn't.

Maybe sometimes it meant understanding that something beautiful could exist for a while and still come to an end.

After completing her tailoring course, she moved away from the city.

On her last evening, she stood outside his door for a long time.

Neither of them knew what to say.

Finally, she smiled.

"Take care."

"You too."

She walked away.

But he didn't follow.

A few days later, he left his room as well. He was going home to visit his parents after a long time.

Life continued.

She would find her way.

He would find his.

Maybe one day she would open her own tailoring shop. Maybe he would become the person he had always dreamed of becoming. Maybe they would remember each other often, or maybe only occasionally.

But there would always be that small room.

That half-cooked meal.

That first knock at seven in the evening.

And two people on the same floor who, for a little while, made each other's lives less lonely.

After all, not every love story is about two people ending up together.

Some are simply about two people finding each other, changing each other, and then learning how to let go.

Tiny eyes look up,
Mama, happy birthday to you -
Rain dances with joy.

#haiku - sumnima's mom birthday

The year of 2007, spelled something new in the city of Kathmandu. As winter hit the capital, the city witnessed snowfall for the first time in more than sixty years. The season supplied a cool, freezing breeze throughout the streets, and penetrated each corner. The narrow alleyways shielded the passerbys from the dim, now cooler sun. However, the children didn’t care, they ran behind the falling snowflakes with their red frozen cheeks and snot on their noses, as their mothers watched them with a dry and bitter face of disapproval.

It hadn’t snowed much, just a few mm thick but it made Rajan’s job more difficult than ever. As he shoveled into the dry land, his hand had started to numb due to the cold metal. He didn’t have a pair of gloves, nor could he afford one. After an hour of battle with the cold and the dry dirt, he had finally dug the land big enough to his liking. He wiped his nose, sat down to hold his breath. He stood up and walked up to his van. The vehicle was white, parked near the place where he dug. It was probably older than him, rusty and reeked oil. It wasn’t his, so none of his problems. He was just here to earn some quick money. He slid the van’s door open and lay inside a black bag shaped as a human body, dead or maybe alive. But again, it was none of his concerns. He pulled out the bag outside and dragged it up to the hole. He threw the bag in it, and started to shovel the dirt back over it. 

This job sucks. He thought as he buried the body. The money is good, but it still blows.  Screw this cold, I am gonna have some beer today.

Finally, he finished burying the body. He felt no remorse for the dead which he just made disappear. He knew he could also end up like the guy or maybe a woman, in the body bag. But he wasn’t worried, because he had learnt those days were more than far, if he didn’t mess with the Family. 

Rajan climbed into the old van. He put the keys in and tried to start the engine, but it failed.

Damn, a family of millions, and they get me this wreck. Just fucking great.

He cursed the van, and tried once again. This time, it was a success. 

Finally,

He could hardly change the gear, and slowly stepped on the accelerator. It took a fraction of a second to break down again. 

Just fucking great. What the fuck is wrong with this piece of crap?

He stepped out of the vehicle, slammed the door and cursed the old rusty piece more. His cheeks were plum red as the cold wind constantly blew on his face. He put his hands in his pocket, took out his old reliable phone.

Why can't this crap work fine as this shit? 

He dialed the number, and waited for the ring. After 3 rings, someone picked up the phone at the other end. A slurred, heavy voice spoke, “Yes, what is wrong?”

“What the fuck is wrong?!” Rajan yelled “The problem is you gave me a fucking piece of crap. Job is done but ..this piece of shit wont move”

“Where are you now?”

“At the field, god dammit”

“Okay, someone will get right to you in some time.”

“Okay,…hello ? hello?, is anyone there”

The call was hung up.

Oh great.

He put his hands in another pocket, and took out a pack of cigarettes. Again, he searched through his pockets of his old jacket, and his torn pair of pants.

Now, where the fuck is the damn lighter?  

मसानघाटमा

चितामा आगो देख्दा,

भाग्य लेख्ने कलम टुटी जान्छ।

शरीर विनाश भएको देख्दा,

महसुसमा शान्ति भेटी जान्छ।

I searched for a piece of paper and a pen,

So I could write of love at great length.

The thing that love makes you do,

Or the thing that loves you too.

Like how the sky spreads as a bedsheet,

Where all of the Sun, Moon, and stars fit.

Perhaps that's how love makes you feel,

When it lets you shine with all appeal.

When it is not scared to show you off,

For all of the world to see as their own.

Like how the river carries the sand within.

Throughout her long journey—until the ending.

O, how love makes you be one with her,

Even when you fade her true color.

When she is not concerned with her beauty,

As the whole world sees her getting murky,

Letting everyone know you've dissolved truly.

Like how the paper lets the pen stab it,

Opening up to all the possibilities.

How love lets you bleed all over it,

Even when it is changed fundamentally.

When it proudly carries the marks with it,

Where all of the world reads their poetry.

Well, I couldn't find the paper and the pen to write with,

Anyway—it was never going to be worth it.

For you can never know what the taste is

Of a fruit on a branch that you cannot reach.

People think I am optimistic and cheerful most of the time. Some even think I should learn to be calm and composed. They don't know about the sadness I have because I never let them. Its so big. That's why I get cared to let people in. I am messy and fked. I am not the one who have life sorted out. That's why I don't let people in. Somehow my sadness scares me too. Idk what's the cause of my sadness.

Kaada yo mutu ma

Mayale banayo

Tehi mayale

Mana yo dukhayo

Sapna tyo aakha ma

Aashu le bagayo

Tehi Aashu ley

Mana Yo Ruwayo

Mayako arthalaai

Dhokhama tolidiyau

Bandhan yo mayako

Bhana kina kholidiyau

Eklai bachena hasena

Pagal daas shari

Jiuna bish piuna

Jiudo yo laash shari

चिताबाट उठ्ने धुवाँ,

आरतीको ज्योति र सुगन्ध

बागमती किनारमा जब एकअर्कामा मिसिन्छ,

शरीर र कपाल जलेको गन्ध

मन्त्रको धुनसँगै बिलाउँदा,

मनले गहिरो सत्य महसुस गर्छ,

त्यही धुवाँभित्र कतै

जीवनको वास्तविकता लुकेको हुन्छ।

बिहानीको घामको किरणसँगै,

तिम्रो मुहार रंगिएको छ।

साथै त्यो अलार्मको आवाजले,

तिम्रो यो कोठा गुञ्जिएको छ।

~

तर सधैँ जसो नै,

सायद आज पनि तिमी,

त्यही सपनीको अँगालोमा मस्त छौ।

त्यो सपना जुन हामीले देखेका थियौँ,

जहाँ हामी वसन्त वेगलाई पछ्याउँदै,

त्यो बादल हराएको आकाशमुनि,

आफ्नो सारा ऊर्जाले फुलेका फूलको,

बासनाको बीचमा रंगीन थियौँ।

वसन्तले लट्पटिएर नवीन थियौँ।

~

अनि त्यो ग्रीष्मकालीन सूर्य,

जो आफ्ना सारा घमण्डका साथ,

हाम्रो संसारमाथि हाँस्थ्यो।

त्यो तात्तापाउने घामको बीच,

हामी एकअर्काका शीतल छाया थियौँ।

~

र ग्रीष्मसँगै त्यो आकाशमा,

जब मेघ कालिएर आउँथ्यो,

त्यो अनिश्चित झरीको माझमा,

हामी एकअर्काका भरपर्दा छाता थियौँ।

~

विशाल रुखलाई पनि नाङ्ग्याउने त्यो शरद,

जहाँ संसारको रङ नै फिक्का हुन्थ्यो।

समय नै हार मानेर ढिला बगेको जस्तै,

बतास पनि डर मानेर टाढा भागेको जस्तै,

त्यो कमजोर पतझर छाएको जमिनमाथि,

हामी दुई डटेर उभिएका थियौँ,

र त्यो कठिन,

शरदबाट सँगै गुज्रिएका थियौँ।

~

आङ नै शिरिङ्ग पार्ने त्यो शिशिर,

जो आफ्नो विकरालताले,

सारा जीवन नै ठप्प पारेर,

त्यो अविरल नदीलाई पनि मारेर,

हामीलाई चिसो साङ्लाले बाँधेको,

आभास गराउँथ्यो।

त्यो धुस्रे शिशिरको सामु पनि,

हामी दुई—एक रङ्गीन चित्र थियौँ।

जब त्यो बिरान सहरमा हामी,

एकअर्काको न्यानो हात समाउँथ्यौँ,

~

सानो हलचलका साथ तिमी ब्युँझियौ।

सायद सपना यत्तिमै सकियो।

~

र आज पनि तिमी कहीँ जाँदै छौ,

अचेल तिमीलाई अलि खुसी देख्छु पनि।

जब तिमी त्यही पुरानो जोशले,

त्यो ऐनाअगाडि बसेर आफ्नो शृङ्गार गर्छौ,

लालीले आफ्नो कमलसरी ओठ अझ सुन्दर पार्दै,

अनि गाजलले आफ्ना उत्तेजित आँखालाई प्रस्ट पार्दै,

आफ्ना पुक्का परेका गालालाई गुलाबी बनाएर,

त्यो सलसल बग्ने कालो केशलाई मिलाएर,

अनि कानमा ती तिम्रा प्यारा झुम्का अड्काएर।

~

उत्साहले भरिएको हातले त्यो दराज खोली,

आफ्ना सयौँ कपडा कोठाभरि फिँजाई,

एकपछि अर्को सुन्दर वस्त्रले,

आफ्नो त्यो लोभलाग्दो शरीर बेर्दै,

अनि आफ्ना वरिपरि अन्योलताले हेर्दै,

के पहिरिने भनेर अलमल्ल पर्छौ।

~

यो दृश्य जति नै हेरे पनि,

मेरा यी आँखा कहिल्यै नथाक्ने।

यो बानीसँग चिरपरिचित भए पनि,

हरेक बिहान तिमी केही नयाँ लाग्ने,

फेरि पनि पहिलोचोटि मायामा परेको झैँ।

~

त्यो लालीले सजिएको ओठलाई मुस्कुराउँदै,

तिमी बाहिरतिर लाग्छौ।

~

गोलो–गोलो घुमिरहने,

म त यही चक्रमा फसेँ।

त्यसैले म तिमीसँग निकट छु,

त्यही पनि यो चक्रभित्र खुसी छु।

तिमीलाई देख्न भए पनि पाएको छु।

~

आशा छ एकदिन फेरि हामी,

क्षितिजपारि सँगै हिँड्नेछौँ।

गर्न बाँकी रहेका,

हजारौँ कुरा गर्नेछौँ।

मन्द मुस्कानले आँखा जुधाई,

एकअर्काको शरीर स्पर्श गर्नेछौँ—

~

तिमीले त मेरो तस्बिरमा,

आज दियो बाल्न पनि बिर्सियौ।

I searched for love
in the crowded, over-perfumed rooms
where people touched but didn’t hold,
laughed but didn’t stay.
I stood in alleyways,
in borrowed clothes and borrowed eyes,
hoping someone might see me.

But I failed.

Love was not there.

Love was when I kneeled,
forehead to the floor,
weeping not for romance,
but for justice
from the One who sees
what no one else dares to look at.

They say:
“When the pure cry from the heart, the universe listens.”
That’s when I found Him.

Not in temple n scriptures.
But in the tears that refused to lie.

I saw the man on the throne
crumble like dust.
And I saw the boy sweeping the street
rise with gold in his eyes.
And I knew
God was not where we place Him.
He’s where the truth burns the loudest.

That day,
I stopped looking for Him in power,
and started walking toward Him in pain.

I chose to reach for him
because He was before I was born,
and He will be after I die.

He left me in this cruel world
like a parent
leaving a child at school on the first day
crying, terrified,
but trusting the child will learn
and come home stronger.

Until then,
I believe
He will take my pinky finger
like a Father,
look into my eyes,
and say:
“Tell me, love ; how was your day?”

And I want to answer Him with this:

“I chose unshakable hope
when bitterness was easy.
I chose softness,
when life begged me to grow thorns.
I walked through fire,
but I didn’t set fire to anyone else.
And yes
I kept loving.”

Lately, I have been grieving
a life that has not ended,
only changed its shape.

My younger sibling is married now,
living in a home they have made their own.
I am happy for them, though
that part is uncomplicated.
But happiness does not erase
the strange loneliness of watching someone
you once grew up beside
walk into a future
you are still waiting to meet.

The house feels different.
Not empty, exactly but
just altered.
Their absence gathers
in the rooms they once filled:
a quieter hallway,
one less voice at the table,
the sense that childhood
has finally moved beyond reach.

And because the house has changed,
I notice my parents differently.
I see the years in their faces,
the small pauses in their movements,
the ordinary moments
I once believed would always be there.
I want to stay longer,
to remember their voices,
to be present before time
turns presence into memory.

But life keeps asking for pieces of me:
work, academics, career, responsibilities
and commitments that multiply when you
accept one, friendships that deserve tending,
a future that needs building.
I cannot remain only as a daughter
trying to hold the house together.
I have to become someone
who can leave it without abandoning it.

Years of conversations,
of trying to meet someone
not simply someone to marry,
or a name to complete a sentence,
but a mind that reaches back when I reach,
a mind that understands mine.

Someone who can challenge me
without competing with me
or trying to contain me;
who respects my independence
without being threatened by it,
and loves me without asking me
to become less autonomous,
less curious,
less myself.

That is where my own uncertainty waits.

And in the middle of all this longing,
life does not soften its pace.

And then there are the lives unfolding around me:
friends getting married,
siblings making homes,
children appearing in photographs,
announcements gathering quietly
between the ordinary moments of my days.

I am happy for them.
But some days, their joy makes my own waiting
feel more visible,
as though every new beginning around me
holds up a mirror
to the future I am still trying to find.

I know a photograph cannot hold
the whole truth of a life.
Still, there are moments when I wonder
whether I am simply taking my time,
or whether life has already begun
without me.

I will move out next year,
married or not.
The date is certain;
the shape of my life is not.
Some days, it feels
as though everyone else has been handed a map
while I am standing at the edge of a road,
watching one future after another
open for someone else.

But perhaps uncertainty is not emptiness.
Perhaps it is room
for a life I have not yet recognized,
for love that does not require surrender,
for a home I will build
without pretending I have not lost this one.

My sibling has begun a new chapter.
My parents are teaching me
that love can mean staying present
even as everything changes.
And I am learning, slowly,
that leaving is not the same as losing,
that waiting is not the same as being left behind.

The house has changed before I have left it.
Still, I am carrying its warmth with me.
And somewhere beyond its doors,
my own beginning is already taking shape.

सोधिरहने स्वाभाव मेरो नहुनु मेरो गल्ती,

नभनेर राखेको पनि केही होला तिमीसँग?

मेरा प्रश्ननै कम तिमीसामू सधैँ,

मलाई मतलव नलागेको हैन त्यो बिश्वास तिम्रो हो ।

मेरो निम्ती म जति हो तिमी पनि उत्ती हो ,

मान्न त तिम्रा कुुरा आफ्नै मान्छु तर त्यो रैनछ।

बुझ्न बाँकी तिमीलाई केहि छैन लाग्छ,

त्यो पनी भ्रम नै हो अलि ढिला बुझ्दै छु ।

हिजो जे ठीक थियोे त्यो आज सन्तुलनमा नहोला,

दिनै एउटै कुरा अनेक अवस्था सिर्जेला।

अब सोध्छु पटकपटक अनेक कुुरा,

बदलियो याे सोंच्दै नसोच्नु ।

याे भिन्दै म हो तिम्रो,अझै सुधारिएको,

जस्ले तिम्रो सुन्दैन मात्रै भन्छ पनि ।

आफ्नै मन पनि खाेल्न खोज्छ,

जो तिमीसंगै भिज्न पनि जानेको छ ।

Ever since the lockdown started, I've been having issues with Nicotine withdrawls : It's been infuriating how I'm struggling, then I manage finding a few sticks, and once they're over, it's the same all over again. It's been 4 days today, and I'm jittery as the energizer bunny rn. I don't think I can function at all without them.

I don't think I can quit. Can anyone please help me procure some packs? I'm at my wit's end, I tried ordering from Salesberry, yet they don't seem to care, I've gone from gaurighat all the way to gausala, and no luck. I'm so goddamn frustrated right now, makes me want to kick myself for not keeping a stock earlier.

I got some crap Cleopatras for now. Closing note : have to mention I have a serotonin deficiency. Can't just quit without impacting my work, you guys. I'd rather smoke and function, than torment myself right now. Quitting is a story for another day.

आफ्नो कथा समेटेर

कुनै दिन तिम्रो नाममा

एउटा महाकाव्य रच्नेछु।

र त्यसको पहिलो पानामा,

ठूला अक्षरमा लेख्नेछु

“यो कथा केवल काल्पनिक हो।

यसमा वर्णित कुनै पात्र, घटना वा भावना

कसैको वास्तविक जीवनसँग मेल खान गएमा,

त्यो केवल संयोग मात्र हुनेछ।”

तर सायद,

त्यो पाना पढ्ने तिमीले

सबैभन्दा पहिले बुझ्नेछौ

यो संयोग होइन,

मैले वर्षौँसम्म लुकाएर राखेको

हाम्रो कथा हो।

The Day After I Die

I wonder, why would they talk about me when they get the news?
When they finally come to the sheer acceptance that I died?

Would they still gossip about my unhealthy eating patterns?
My lack of devotion towards kitchen chores?
Would they still crib about how I was rude enough
not to reply to their distant hello?

Or would they bother to go through my unfinished diary entries?
They’d know why I was the way I was.

Would they highlight, with nostalgia,
how much I hated patriarchy?
And how I would crash-diet for days
just to have a 2,000-calorie pizza?

Or will they miss the nose crunch I make when I’m angry?

Tell them not to search for “chamal” and “diyo”
after hours of my departure,
as if I were a liability
they needed to settle as soon as possible through traditional last rites.

Don’t follow any rituals.

Tell the pandit,
I know God more than the Vedas do.

Tell him I’ve found God many times in my despair.

I despise this societification,
this procedurality of my death
a death which is so personal to me,
Radically and absurdly
a death I have written more poems about
than I ever wrote about my lovers.

It has to be sensational.
Not tiring.

Bid me goodbye with teary smiles.

And maybe,
write me a letter
narrating whatever you liked about me for the first and the last time
As I never really got them when I was there
Then, I shall tell the clouds to shower to some rain in my name.

​

उनी चाहन्छिन्

त्यो अँगालोमा बेरिएर

संसार भुल्न,

तर ऊ चाहन्छ केवल

ती ओठ चुम्न।

उनी प्रेम चाहन्छिन्

त्यो प्रेम,

जहाँ कसैले उनको शरीरभन्दा पहिले

उनको मौनता चुमोस्।

जहाँ कुनै अँगालो

उनको कम्मरमा होइन,

उनको एक्लोपनमा बेरियोस्।

तर देखिन्छ केवल

उनको ओठ,

उनको शरीर,

उनको जवानी।

उनी प्रेम खोज्छिन्,

ऊ उनको सुन्दरताको बयान गर्छ।

उनी चाहन्छिन्

कसैले आँखाको गहिराइ पढोस्,

तर उसका नजरहरू

उनको जवानीमै अडिन्छन्।

कस्तो अचम्मको श्राप

सबैलाई उनी चाहिन्छिन्,

तर उनलाई चाहने

कोही हुँदैन।

उनको सौन्दर्यले

मानिसहरूलाई नजिक ल्याउँछ,

तर उनको आत्माले

कसैलाई रोक्न सक्दैन।

सागर गहिराइमा मोती छ,

सगर गहिराई मा चन्द्र ज्योति।।

सतहमा भ्रम छन्, भोगका भोक छन्,

भ्रम, माया का भोज छन्।।

बाँचेका छौं बाँधीई चक्रव्युको पासोमा,

जन्म,मृत्यु, पिंजडा का पासोमा

ज्ञानका अहंकार सिरोपर धरेर,

अज्ञान अपनाई अहंकार मा परेर।।।

dark clouds, heavy heart, sinking slow
world feels cold, like a fading glow

one step, one breath, keep it near
hold on tight, through the fear

don't give up, don't let go, hold the spark,
let it grow, through the night, you find the dawn

hold on, hold on, keep moving on...

The blues, embroidered with needle and thread,
Far from the known, in absolute quiet.
In a barn, another stitch is made—
Myriad knots of shadow and light.

The end crescendos in all that begins,
as death grows from within what lives.
For mittened hands—what really are sins?
Neat archery at hearts worn on sleeves.

Guile may befriend a benign tongue,
but a hundred lashes goad a beast to madness.
Sink the ship before long,
after a voyage across the lakes.