Oblivion!

Our dates were never the kind of "dates". It wasn't me being obsessively ready, he coming to pick me up, it wasn't a planned hifi meet, and neither there used to be discussions of whether the meet up would be over a dinner, a lunch or a brunch.  It was us, going to a cafe basement, while returning from work, not because we hadn't been on a date so long, but because it's raining, and none of us have an umbrella. It was ordering two sets of veg burgers and me stealing his French fries and smiling knowing that it would account enough for that little robbery. It was him taking the first bite and all of the insides falling out. And then, it was us laughing, and letting the two people sitting behind us stare at our mediocrity. It was us enjoying our company and then was our little exit. It was him walking towards the wrong direction, just to drop me off to the bus stop, because I so utterly asked for it. And then it was me, waiting till he crossed the road, just to ...

How becoming someone could be so  belittling, the profound mystery  of existence, lost.  And the little epiphanies slowly dripping off. Later you sew a melancholy  fine and prudent, something that resembles hope while being so desperately hopeless. You ask, you ask life for a moment for time to stay still for words to become malevolent for your speech to  kill the thrill, for your own little giveaways were given away in some holy time of belonging.  The flowers you planted, the music you composed, the poetry you wrote, the moves you bestowed, were they even truly yours in the first place? The epitome of withering and withering and withering, fanatic prose along the lines  keeping you waiting.  What do you see have become of the wise, of the cries, and what do you tell them  of the person in disguise What have you become  oh my human! Just a little sadness, and you don't seem to dare anymore.  Just a little madness, and you don't see...

 Love. I heard this word multiple times throughout my life, when moms at beaches held hands of their little kids who caressed the sand with their feet for the first time; when patients died at hospital rooms; when somebody’s son graduated; when people bid goodbyes and when they mouthed hellos. It’s weird how the same word could mean so different and yet grace every bit of the situation with nothing but itself. A wordless power it has!  My journey of love started the same, from hospital wards where I heard stories that my dad ran the whole hospital corridors after my birth, screaming with happiness. This meant a lot different back then, for a girl wasn’t something everyone wanted. And yet out of everything, I existed there, in the arms of my mom, wailing like any child would do, and despite that annoyingly bitter cry, she vowed to love me till her last breath.  Growing up, transitioning, being loved by things and walls around me, making myself an archive of my little memor...

We all know how the blissful mornings of monsoon ask for rest and a warm cup of black coffee in bed. While I was enjoying this delicacy, my grandfather made me get out of bed, and in a city full of modern conveniences, asked me to bring “Gobar (cow dung)”.    As early as seven, my quest for Gobar hunting began, because apparently, I needed fresh Gobar and mornings were the times for that. I was completely grossed out, which was understandable because I was roaming the streets haphazardly in search of cow dung, as if I had no better work to do. When I reached a cow farm nearly 20 kms away from home as directed by my google search, I asked the person there for “a packet of Gobar”. He laughed as if I gave him the best laugh in his entire life ever. He, unlike me, saw no disgust in the task at hand. With a nonchalant demeanor, he wrapped a polythene bag around his hand, delved into a pile of Gobar without a hint of hesitation, and presented me with a parcel that he seemed to han...

Somewhere through a crippling paradox arises a memoir, a rainbow someone waited their eternity to look at a voice someone so dearly wished to hear,  and with the ripples of her own misery. There she is, on a moony night, startled, and in rue,  shaken and doubtful,  cursing those skin of color, while the stars in the dark shimmer in awe of her beauty.  The cappuccino cup broken on the rim,  the coffee tastes of dissonance---  a life unaffordable and with every sip  there it is! The realization that even a coffee cup is too much.  staples and wood,  a combination of cards pasted and wasted so easily, so differently,  and while the foam builds in the canvas, there lies the identity of her life. She’s just a girl who likes black coffee.  She paints the coffee stains, and unbothered, unethical she stands,  in desperation,  fixing the epitome of a human,  the perfumes smelling of lavender,  the color purple swaying it...

Religion is a spectrum. While the conceived notions of actions in coherence with a particular religion are at vast differences with the other ones, they have a similarity which comes from the teleological nature of religion. Every aspect one undergoes by being a member of a particular religion is an act done with regards to that principle he adheres to and has some end point for achieving a goal.  Humanity has seen a lot of revolutions in the name of religion. There have been underlying amendments in every religion (Christianity and homophobia, Hinduism and life sacrifice) with the maturity of people and the evolution of society going forward. The very fundamental activity of amendment of rules in a social construct is characterized by what is essential for the society at that time period. Keeping the core principle of a certain sect intact, any traditional value can go through changes. And the fact that a group of people who have willingly grouped themselves together into a relig...

“(In a sing-songy voice) You are what you eat; you are what you eat; you are what you eat”, said one of my wisdom teeth, smeared and covered in dark chocolate, trying to bring me (and itself) out of the chocolate bubble. This was right after I had had my salad, so yes, there was another one of them holding onto the last fragment of spinach, hardly trying not to say goodbye to the last piece of the salad. Maybe I was “spinach dipped in chocolate”. Honestly, it’s a very weird (and gross) combination, but I will take it.  For me, the combination was clearly bad; there’s no kidding here. But for the painfully grown teeth at the very back of my jawline, progressing as if a sculptor had been hitting the skull daily to make a space, it was worse; worse than growing the teeth in the first place.  Its tendency to hold on and stick around tiny fragments of eaten items never really stopped. Someday it was constantly trying to paste the popcorn onto itself, someday it was a wall of colors...

 Life is different because it is weird. It is all about perception. Maybe the rainbow after the gray sky is a new beginning, and maybe, maybe the red in the rainbow is just the light bleeding. Yes, deep down, it is just scattering but the fun part is always about a weird interpretation. Yeah, the horizon is just five kilometers away from us. It's just there. Go near it. Further and further and further. And it is still five kilometers. Still 'just there'. Superman has his cape, Spiderman has his webs, Ironman has his suit. What do you have and what kind of superhero are you? The gaze in the mirror is just a physical truth. Break the glass and the reflection is in pieces. Each piece is you. Each piece. Maybe somewhere far far beyond where that piece has never reached, maybe, maybe you will search for it there. Maybe somewhere this spiral ends. Deeper and deeper and deeper. Maybe somewhere even the tiniest possibilities believe in the infiniteness in them. Like dandelions. Lik...

  उसंग नरुझेको भए मलाई वर्षा कहाँ मन पर्थ्यो होला र? आज पानी पर्दा जुन बताशले शितल छहारी दिन्छ, त्यसको महत्व ऊ नभएको भए म सायद बुझ्थिन होला  गहिराइ थियो उसको आवाजमा  र मुस्कुराउदा हरेक रेखाले बनाएको चित्रमा म आफुलाई भेट्दछु,  उसको हरेक गीतमा म आफुलाई सुन्दछु,  उसको हरेक मुस्कानको कारण म बन्न पाए जस्तो लाग्छ, आशयका दिप र उसका निर्मल बहारले लेखेको उपन्यासको छवि म नै हु जस्तो लाग्छ।  आकाशलाई छोपी जब बादलले करुणाको यथार्थ दिन्छ, तब उसलाई सम्झन्छु म,  चिसो बताशको न्यानोपनमा मुस्कुराएका गुलाबका थुंगा देख्दा उसलाई सम्झन्छु म,  उसको हरेक बाचाले मेरै बर्णन गरे जस्तो लाग्छ,  उसको हृदयमा मेरै बास भए जस्तो लाग्छ,  मौन रही बसेका पलहरुमा उसकै बोली सुनिरहू जस्तो लाग्छ।    समयको परिभाषा नहेरी मात्र डुल्न मन छ उसंग,  लामो यात्रा काट्न मन छ,  सहयात्री बनेर गन्तव्यमा हास्न मन छ,  र बाच्न मन छ लेखिएका पानाहरु र खेलिएका खेलहरुमा।   उसलाई भेट्दा थाहा पाएको जीवनको सत्य,  आज असत्य बनी सपनाको यो संसारलाई बास्तविकता मानु जस...

 I saw the sunset, old enough,  that I realized, nothing will ever end as beautifully as it ends.  It's an epiphany,  it's a fine line, the world is always there,  it's time that passes by.  One day, certainly, it will stop.  No more calls, no more texts,  no more docs, no excels.  I will speak the last word,  see the last scene. How delicately cruel the world is! I ran and ran,  for my dreams,  for that passion,  everyday, it convinced me, "Don't you give up." And, today it gave up on me.  Life must have been a mystery,  a chaos in the shadow.  When tomorrow comes,  it will still be the same,  only I won't be there, and I know,  it won't make much of a difference!  - Sampada at 14.  Sampada at 19: You will make a difference kiddo!💜

The city lights blinking and making the ribbons of ethereal. Procured in their own  eccentricity  lies a sleek belt  of a maroon haze trying to manifest  a turmoil and a propaganda. A make belief life of peaceful bliss. Eternity silenced and the  rain dripping off the hearts of benches on the park.  And, oh how the white dove flew with its own sound, dusting itself  of the rain.  How definite it is, always! Someone loving the rain, Someone cursing the rain--- and within that epiphany lies the esteemed feeling.  A feeling of neutrality, living the indifferent.  Hush the shady leaves, the droplets they let go.  The wuthered way  of falling apart, too deep,  too bold,  and existing of a montage, bewildered, bejeweled, and hazes,  and glazes, cooking the blood-stained euphoria and cutting down the edges.  How delicately the rain sweeps off the stains! The bond I make with bondage, sheer is the work, and bear I p...