Life, Bookmarked

Did we take enough photos?

To capture the evidence of presence of innocence,
before all the violence destroyed hopes from life.

Scented animals spread fear and terror
And expect the timid to bend before
their three guns that they point from four directions

The only place to go thence,
are the graves that smother the voice
and trace of smiles
in the healing power of the earth
that takes takes takes
and leaves nothing,
but life behind.

I then saw a photo an enthusiast took,
long time back,
of a sapling
that wanted to give life.

I bookmarked that paged.

Letter #16

Letter #16
December 1, 2014

I haven’t written to you for ages (or what feels like ages). When I was spending some time with my friend, I felt like writing, and felt like writing exclusively to you. For some reason, my listlessness had something to do with not being able to write to you, not being able to read your words and hear your voice in them.

I feel alone again. You’re here, yes. You picked me up from the usual place and dropped me through those foggy streets to my college and I when I saw a third of your face, the most vital part of it (although I treasure the part hidden by it as well) and felt like capturing it, in my heart, forever.

There is a way you look at me makes me feel sometimes, like something out of ordinary, something more than a lover’s gaze toward his beloved. Something I can’t explain as of yet. I don’t know how to return that immeasurable gaze you give me, or fathom its meaning. What do you mean when you look at me like that? Do you know what look I am talking about? It’s like your eyes are trying to trace every scene my eyes saw since the day I was born; as if you were desperately waiting to have a look at the things I had long since forgotten and it looks as if you don’t want to miss a single thing that my eyes have laid on ever since I could lay my eyes on anything. But you do that so innocently, as if trying not to make me conscious of that. Hiding your intentions under that benevolent look, your stare, out of the ordinary.

But you forget. You forget that I seek those things of you, too.

Through your eyes, I try to see you, too. I see you, your stare holds me. If gaze was an object, it would be two masses, tied to each other, suspended in the vacuum space, amid the stars and planets uncountable; the sun, a witness to what we witness.




I feel them in chaos when I am with you, when I think you.

And I feel them in the chaos born from our love. Because nothing is as powerful as a circle that has no beginning and an end. Because baby, we have known each other from time immemorial, and yes, our bodies may be reduced in ashes but we, we, my love, are immortal and reside within that circle.

Her Unexpected Flight

There was a beauty in the way the floor was swept from her feet –
she wasn’t a victim of fate, nor deserving of the action
They had decided to experiment and she was a mere guinea pig;
She had no heart.
For a moment, she suspended in disbelief,
But she realized that she was not to feel
and quickly jumped towards the direction
where she felt the gravity was the strongest;
it was odd, she thought,
as resistance greeted her
where the ground and the crash was to welcome.
She thought it was very odd.
When she slowly opened her eyes and dared to peek
The clouds were rolling around in puffs and shone like silver,
Her wings struggled until she got used to the idea of flying.
In her acceptance of the reality,
she had flown and won.

Writing 101: Three Most Important Songs in my Life

I could start this piece in a very vague way, or by directly listing the three songs that are important to me and writing why. I’m going to run around a bit, playing hide and seek, or like the children in here play the ‘rumal lukayera khelne’ (the game where you hide the handkerchief, and try to find out who has it) with it. In the last 22 years of life, I have heard many songs and many of them have left a deep impact on me. Although I listen to soft romantic songs most of the time, I’ve noticed that over the years, the pattern has changed a number of times. Pattern, as in, the genres.

Being considerably influenced by Bollywood movies and their melodious songs, I remember myself listening and singing (in a childish way) to them. Old songs, especially by Lata Mangeshkar and Kishor Kumar were preferred. Then there was Kumar Sanu and Alka Yagnik. Some of them, I still listen to, while the others have been forgotten. Now, when I happen to listen to them, it is hard to believe that i used to like listening to them.

In this context, I remember a nepali song, I don’t remember which film it was, but it goes like this – ‘chitthi ayena, chitthi ayena, mero mayaluko malai chitthi ayena…’ (My love’s letter never reached me). My mom used to say that when I was a mere 4 year old, I’d sit on the cold cemented staircase outside the second floor and sing it alone. I try to imagine a 4-year-old me singing this song and it makes me laugh. I don’t even remember the words of that song! Here, I feel amazed at my mom’s acute memory, always telling us stories about ourselves about our past. I usually complain about this habit of my mom’s how she can’t let go of some painful things and embraces them, like holding the thorns close to her heart and letting it pierce it until she is bleeding. Nevertheless, I admire her for the person that she is. Her stories of the past, sometimes painful to listen to, and at other times, are the lullabies of the time that I can’t ever remember.

In my teen years, when I started getting conscious of myself, my inclination towards the songs I listened to changed as well. It was the time when I started listening to radio, 24/7. I’d wake up in the morning and tune in to my favorite radio station, and wait for good songs to come. Good songs, as in, English Pop songs – Green Day, Rascal Flatts, Jason Mraz, James Blunt, etc. Because the radio stations early morning put up devotional songs, I used to sit by the radio, wait for the commercials to end to find out which one was playing the songs I liked. Every 5 minutes, I changed the station and it was annoying. As I had no phone or internet, I didn’t have any choice but to put up with it. And I did. Can you believe, that I’d wait for my favorite songs to play with a pen and some papers to write down the lyrics and sing it later? Whenever I think about it now, a strange feeling overwhelms me. I somehow miss doing that. I almost had this feeling of devotion towards the songs I liked, and waited all day, changing the stations frequently, to track them.

With the accessibility of the internet and mobiles, though, a little of that is still done. Nothing like that, however. But I don’t complain. There wasn’t a particular song that used to be important, but playlists that varied according to my mood. I categorized songs according to my impression of them, and changed the lists in regard with my moods. They were a temporary escape from the troubling time, teenage turmoils and my tenacity of breaking down at every word that came my way. Now that I’ve been transported to a bit calmer days, I wander around to look for music that will carry me away to a better place. Hence I can’t really list out three important songs, (I was never going to), but certain songs will remind me of those times and will walk me down the memory lane. Always.

(Writing 101, Day Three: Three Most Important Songs in my Life)

Day Two: A Room With a View

Radiant flowers spread till the edge of horizon. Autumn’s sun. Bare feet and a summer dress. Peace. The feeling of being the only human in there, as far as it goes.

This is the picture that I often transport myself into, mentally, if not physically. This is somewhere, if this somewhere exists, where I’d like to go, and forget about the dominance of time and obligations. But this picture never ends. As quiet and tranquil as it sounds, the rustle of the trees and the whisper of the winds keep me on my feet, treating my senses. Although it calms my senses, it never lets me sleep. Here, I don’t need to sleep. Because sleep is an escape from reality, and this feeling, I could never get enough of it. As I lie down on the grass, I peek open one of my eyes, and see the flora, moving, in a serpentine way, tickling and incessantly making their way towards the sun. I know I smile, how could I not? Even thinking about it makes my heart jump like a frog, and do a fandango! If I knew how to dance, I would, every time I thought of this. If only I could go here, and be there forever. I would find a way to stop time.

How ironic, then that when I think about it, my heart is at unrest. Like the blue curtains and my white walls are provoking me to find that place right now and go there. As if the books, newspapers, a plastic jar, my bookmarks, and everything else lying around me is coaxing me to shun it all for the love of the god! and go there, immediately. But I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t. And nothing makes me unhappier than this limitation of reality that commands my presence in my large room, devoid of any flowers, or the feeling that makes me feel that I belong here.

The only places that I think of that is even remotely near to the aforementioned dreamland, is Ghalegaun in Lamjung district of Nepal. Earlier this year, I went to see this place with my friends as a part of my college tour. It was the first of its kind on me and needless to say, it left a huge impact. The landscapes, the road there, the people, the mountains and the hills – I was a mere spectator in the Nature’s theater, where she was playing the best of her miracles. I was dumbfounded. That feeling has never left me and I hope it won’t. I want to treasure it till my last breathe.

(Writing 101, Day Two: A Room With a View)