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 Somewhere in my life – be it buses or streets, or homes and museums – somebody has always told me about how it has always been with them. Moments of understanding, and moments of faith, all so truly astonishing about how life has played out so differently for them. I have listened to their stories, mused in their favorite music, admired their art, loved their presence, been lost in their happiness, and felt closer to the idea of connections. In those moments of lively conversations, those moments of immense gratitude and sometimes those moments of helplessness towards the world or the self, I am reminded that nothing has been constant in this life for anyone. Has it? 

I see new phones, new covers. I have shouted dayyumnnn to the Tesla's speed somewhere in Kathmandu. I have adored the hazelnut lattes of Himalayan Java and paid excessively high for peach tea. I have been on bike rides with friends only to see the Christmas decorations, and I have been around people I barely know in my pursuit of understanding. What's more fulfilling? I don't know. I have eaten the best meal which I – apparently – effortlessly cooked (made), and I have hated the meal my mom made (cooked) just for me with her tiring efforts. Have I been selfish to let those cheese sandwiches take the place of her Rajma delicacy? I guess. Is it the same as liking sunsets and hating sunrises? Or is it the same as liking people for their individuality and somehow hating my own? Or is it the same as loving the present narratives of time and space, and somehow hating those same ones once archived? Why are moments so futile in the grand scheme? 


I have seen the ecstatic lights of Diwali, and the joy of Ursa Minor shining upon the sky. It's all different; it's all relative; it's all momentous. How the infinite sum of our experiences beholds a giant tapestry destined to design something, and curate love and hate alike, curate emotions and feelings simultaneously, is beyond my comprehension. From pastel colors to purple color, a white saree draped with white blouse gives my friend elegance while dancing, and with those same white colors, a woman in her Nepali wonderland wonders the culture of being surreally unimportant. Isn't it weird how the same things can mean so different for different people? What is it that brings such human ponders – both humane, and inhumane? From lighting cotton threads every day to holy basils on leaves and torn leaflets, to lighting Diyas during birthdays, which fire really took the responsibility of birthing new life in me all these 19 years? Does the fire know which day is special? Frankly, do I?


Whether it's the haircut, or the nail paints; the bow tie or the black gloves; the crop Tees or borrowed sweaters; a calm and chaotic game of chess or the shuttlecock mercilessly shoved towards the ground, what is more fun? More necessary? More you? Sometimes the landscapes of your place can feel so distant from yourself, and sometimes the scenes of a movie, or a play, too dubious whilst being too obvious, can be your home. You have heard home being people; my home is that one Dead Poets Society cave; it is those corn field of Interstellar, the "Mind Palace" of my beloved Sherlock; it is the line "Just because my dreams are different than yours, doesn't mean they are unimportant" Little Women whispers to me every time, and the best of all, my home is within the thoughts of Winston in 1984. 


New people, new experiences, new books, new meals, I don't have a count for the new things in my life. Falling in love with those happy chances of what it is to be alive amidst Dhaka Topis, and velvet sarees, and also among branched roads and converged arcs, is a part of me being existential, and even though my solace and such "happy chances'' don't necessarily even contain me sometimes, I feel relieved, for I am not obligated to always be happily responsible for happiness. 

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