Homonyms make me suffer

There are some words that we hear often and think that we know what it means.

A time comes when your work will revolve around your knowledge and understanding of that word.

But to your dismay, you’ll realize that what you thought you knew of that word is not even close to what it means.

It has been like this for me for the past few months.

I think I know what it means and try to save my time not looking the word up in the dictionary. That costs me more time and sanity.

This is where I can’t help but curse the makers (or the users) of these words – I understand that their meaning can be manipulated, can come to mean so many things – but really, why would you do that?

One word can mean so many things. One word that can multitask and touch so many fields, minds, and capture their understanding.

These homonyms make me suffer. But they make me humble.

For this lesson on humility, I begrudgingly thank them.

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A Guide to an Unpredictable Friday

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I saw several nightmares last night. In one, I had killed someone and I was grappling with the bloodied newspapers and a green jacket, and trying to hide the murder weapon. In the second, I saw a dear friend’s venture failing and turning into ruins. In another, I was late to work.

Guess which one became the reality?

I had barely had breakfast when I realized that I was getting late. I thought I could just make it, but no. Even though I was on my stop just four minutes late, it set things back. The first tempo wouldn’t pick me up because it was full. I couldn’t believe. What about all the other times you make people hang in the front and the back, I lashed out at the guilty tempo driver internally. But it was no use. He signaled that another was on its way. However, it wouldn’t be for another seven minutes. I counted the seconds and the minutes because there was only so much I could do.

When the bus came, it was very slow, clearly expecting to pick more passengers on the way. Once there, I couldn’t look out the window because it was painfully sunlit.

By this time, I wasn’t thinking about how it was ‘I’ who was seeing a problem in everything. I was still obsessed with counting the minutes till I got to work, hoping that I wouldn’t be late. After a little while, I thought about how I didn’t have the perfect change for the bus-fare. I thought about how I had so much to do but I was still stuck, somewhere.

I thought about how we should start using scented candles at home. An old packet we had was stuck within a box for its dear life. Parents and I squabbled over it. I thought about how my shirt was ruined and smelly because it was barely 9 am (thank god, maybe I could still make it in time) but was so hot. I thought about how I looked, how my hair was all over the place, and my hands were touching the sweat and who-knows-what of so many people during commute. I thought about how I hadn’t felt this way since 2015, or maybe even 2016, when I was working at another place and was equally swamped by inane things like that and how, even two years later, I struggled to break free from them.

Then I hit my head on the side of the bus, because thank you roads in Kathmandu.

Then I stopped.

Just something that a friend once told me made me put things in perspective.

I can wash my hands later. It’s okay to be late sometimes. Scented candles can be dealt when I get home. The conductor will have change.

And they weren’t lies. Not really.

I can breathe again. Meanwhile, let me enjoy this hip track that the driver is kind enough to play for his (and everyone’s) amusement.

I’m sure the weekend will be fine.

Afternoon Yearnings

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I want to take a long walk when the sun is benign
and when the grass is green,
or when my feet touch the leaves on the ground,
they crunch in relish.

A puff of cloud on the horizon, no more!
Or maybe a storm with thunder and lightening!
I don’t know if I want to live in two extremes
or be the one to enjoy the in-between,

but whatever I do,
let that give me peace.

Invasion

24 and clueless.

Still.

Why has the concerns from the teens not left yet? Has it invaded and conquered the 20s? Am I simply succumbing to these woes?

Violence has never been the answer. It frays the body, puts a hole in my mind. I exist only to display this disgusting play brought to you by anxiety and fear. Insecurities. So many characters occupy this miserable story. There is no place for what I thought was my essence.

I am a spectator of my own story.

Is this how I’m going to teach myself a lesson?

To the light and back

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Patan Museum is lovely this time of the year.

Especially today. It rained a bit in the noon and left the city feeling cleaner than it had in weeks.

The April 2015 earthquake did a considerable damage to old structures in the Museum and the Durbar Square. But quick action from the Museum authorities made it possible to retrieve valuable pieces. Ones like in the picture.

These struts (bilampau) are currently waiting to be restored, and are not really in exhibit. They were stored in a small dark room, an entryway to a courtyard. But I thought they were beautiful. Quietly waiting for their turn at glory. Resilient.