Kathmandu

I have always liked Kathmandu –

the softness of eagles,

effervescent noise amidst noise-canceling headphones

somewhere in the cafe across the street,

in the yellowish hue of Gongabu in the morning

as the students in black backpacks 

sing the songs of international artists

and the buses muse along folk ones. 


I have always liked Kathmandu,

for in the rusty dusk 

where microbus stands are filled with 

a monstrosity of people

desperate to book a seat for heaven,

and in the crowd of vehicles, 

the red of the sun somehow loses its way

in the mundane. 

Oh and let me remind you, 

the rain in Kathmandu ricochets 

in the taste of a lavish lavender (I guess).


The windows of old houses

peeking through the animality of

a silent existence that 

somehow resides in the eyes of

solar panels sunkenly 

placed in capped rooftops –

the messiahs to the temples

and the priests of the Gumbas

all come along in the eccentric entirety 

of emotions

as a minute call strengthens:

"We want our king back."


I have always liked Kathmandu;

there are opinions

in every corner of the street. 

In the books of dear children,

patriotism lies in reddish colors

and they sing their favorite hymns 

in morning assemblies. 

We are English loving patriots, you know.


It's beautiful here –

with cars and buses 

full of chatters and banters,

parties in clubs and movie-goers 

fanatically loving their life;

the morning begins with signs

of an empty road along Ghantaghar –

timelessly stupefied and 

momentarily distinct;

Kathmandu wakes up late. 


But I have always liked Kathmandu,

for in the dust,

in the noise,

in the emptiness within the crowd,

in not knowing who my neighbor is,

in not knowing the Nepali words,

in running hysterically to catch that window seat,

in cafe dates,

in the musings of T-scale

ill-fittingly placed in an engineer's arms,

in the hefty cameras and tripod stands

deliberately held on overhead bridges,

in the scenes of night-time Maitighar,

in the parking near Durbarmarg 

where I'd probably just lend my car free,

inside the thousands of houses,

people exist–

all eager to write a story. 

Kathmandu is full of them.


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