Oblivion!

आज म तिमीलाई उनको कथा भन्छु।  विचित्र छन् उनी ! को हुन् उनी ? उनी, जसको लासलाई सिढी बनाएर कदम चालेउ तिमीले, जसको आदर्शमा टेकी लिपिमा रगत छरेउ तिमीले, उनी, जसको मर्यादाको चिहानमा आज तिम्रो दरबार उभिएको छ,  जसको बिनम्र चित्रणमा तिम्रो मपाईंको भोग चढिएको छ।  उनी, जसका लागि यथार्थले अपराधको मोड लिदैछ, जसले प्रारब्धमा बनाएको सिसाको महल,  आज बिहानीको सुर्यको किरण संगसंगै टुट्दैछ।   टुट्दैछ आज सपना तिम्रो हरेक कदममा।   कस्तो कदम हो यो तिम्रो ? सभ्यता नै डगमगाउने ! उनका शब्द शब्दमा झल्किदैछ मानवताप्रतिको गुहार,  बोल्दा बोल्दै पनि अबोध बन्न पुगिसकेको छ उनको चित्कार,  "न्याय भोली" को आरम्भमा न्यायको बहिस्कार, आश्चर्यचकित यो तिम्रो कोमल माटोमा जननीको धिक्कार ।  उनी केवल हाँस्न सक्छन् ! तिमी सोध्छौ उनी किन हास्छन भनी ? त्यो घब्राहट को मुस्कान हो,  विजयको बलिदान हो,  त्यो हार मानेको मानिसको शान हो ! मस्तिस्कमा प्रलयको प्रतिबिम्ब गाँसेर हिँड्छन उनी,  आफ्ना काला नयनले कालरात्रीको कल्पना गरि बस्छन्।   सोच्छन उनी,  सोच्...

The fall of a sunset, it wonders: What if the world never ended? Barbaric melancholy, it drowns in the feathers--- a hefty chunk,  sucking a wild mirage in the desert. A sight of horror.  It transcends  the bitter,  bereaved love of unfulfilled masters. Brooding the agony,  fretting the despise, carving the rocks,  a puppeteer it stands, craving the dolls.  "Unite" it says, to a chunk of dust. Hidden under the walls of a haunted fortress. Let the shadows be called. Let the colors be called. Hovering  the towers, a prick of sunlight, a howl of a beginning. Let the scream of silence be called.  Let it fly! The cage stands still, a creaking door opened.  And this flight ends with a bang. Let that embark the beginning of peace.

Emancipation! A claim was brought- plowing through the deeds of a broken chain. The shook future, a numb utopia— a silent franchise with dead sequels got to the light— the light of fear. The light of tears. A hitherto black eye, piloted disgrace. Pivotal is the man who tries to break the cage. An empty vase is the life he lives: a surging pass of a life unlived. A sanctuary spitted on, grave of grace. A lie lives a better life. A hidden tale of the sun, and somewhere beyond he preaches the gun. The world of slaughter, stained distress, a slaying paradise, a weapon unveiled. He lives. There's a weapon by his side. What are you going to do, big guy?

  There was always this blow of passion, something soothing and yet demolishing, woeful were the days when lies stepped up to her and she would say "My dear, put your shoes on." Stained in the brief encounter with the wild touch of pressed ambivalence, and her happily sad embrace. She would look from outside the window and count the steps of nothingness. Afar it was and yet so near in her backyard the voices of howling motives the desires that burnt her the way she always intended. The red lips gorgeous as always, the thin long hair, hiding the painful slither of her beauty and those eyes showering with her own departure. Oh the suitcase is full and so is the mind. Where to? She knows not. Trembling in the silence with nothing but her bare skin the nude clothing caressing her bones like the only true care she ever really got. "Darling, the shoes" she says. Dancing the ballerina out of her, slowly, then fiercely, utterly, then ...

  Mornings hurt me, and for a pretty different reason than just waking up. Mornings are when you are forced to wash your face, and while I pour the splashes of water onto my weirdly round face, the stupid water would gently caress the facial hairs right above my lip, and there it is - my mustache! Oh, how heartbreaking the reminder feels like. Me and my mustache have a friendship of ages. It started with the linings of milk on my face as a child and smiling like a maniac about it, to now actually having it. It’s not as visible as I’m making it sound like; but yet, with a little attention as one would give to a stranger at the side of the road doing a random dance, it shines like a diamond on my face. It rests calmly and cherishes the honor I have given to it. Facial hair comes like disgust and a form of mockery for girls my age. But, for me, it has been a medium to mock others. “Bruh! My mustache is bigger than yours”, has shredded so many guys, and in such violent ways, as if tha...

And oh, the feeling of being able to love someone! Sweet, enchanting, ebullient, and whatnot. The warm feeling of being somnolent. I wonder if love comes the same every day, every moment. As a brother looks at his little sister dancing along the music he composed; a dad managing to sneak peek at his son while he so tiresomely stood late nights to compose the same music; a wife who waited by the bed for her husband who was busy making silent conversations with his soon-to-leave-for-college son; the dog who patiently waited as he wiggled around the corridor while the little sister cried at her brother’s departure. So solemn, isn’t it? Moments. Terrifying, and yet, fulfilling. People know about departures, don’t they? But they get attached anyway. To places, to things, to people, and to time. The worst attachment of all. Nostalgia. Pretty common word, eh? People yearn to go back to the time they felt good, they yearn to go back and reminisce about life back then with the utterly important...

A little enchantment slowly trespassing through life, so bittersweet this moment, Oh! The redemption of getting over the little pinpricks, and finding love. Love. Those pages of books and narrating countless equations, the subtle art of points and lines and curves, falling in love has never been so easy, has it? The wild attachment, the daily thoughts, as the dissonance speaks and draws this surreal antipathy of the moment, how delicate, and how cruel! Falling in love with non-chalantness, relentlessness, and slowly dubbing the beauty with your names and frames, the table you look at, the walls you devour, the pens you trace with, and fun is the hour. Slowly, recklessly, and yet so sublimely quick as the passing time. Momentous, hitherto the feeling of bewilderment, canned is this little card-deck, perfumed with the sweetest damn rays, the words and lines so therapeutic, and oh! how someone would love to be there. Haven, of the infinite jewels, the cascade o...

The pride of existence, melancholy of shine, renouncing a faith is a haunting paradise. Somebody woke up. A dream of a hefty life. Somebody so un-broken, so unwilling to peace, humble and yet, a faulty rampage, it's a war! The worlds, sickly- and living this rigor, this pivotal dissonance, the cries of the hollow presence. A message of hate, peace of salvation, piece of that peace, and yet there is the unannounced hoax-- deprived epiphany-- aristocrats at lease! The silence guides up bereaving the empty sodden orthodoxies of hypocrisy! The blame game goes on, the someone is put to sleep. And goes back the world, living its own peace. The moulds grow deep, the birds chirp till they weep. A window gives up on time. The lights fly riling up the heat from the superiority of a statute of this moral absurdity trying to set aside the brokenness. Of present. Of an utopia never coming to life. Unleash the rebel, the mask of history needs a fa...

 And just when the world broke itself  in chunks of sheer trepidation, searching the canvas, to bleed upon and avenging the turmoil, vorasciously serpented,  the door was opened. And in,  flew the dust.  On each piece. A shadow cast of ivory, desperately disparate souls, The Holocaust, but even more brutal.  The eagle speaks of doom. It's feathers procured  with disbelief, screaming with silence.  It beams the dark. Redeems the violence. Like a soft eruption, a storm that awaits. It's the bloodshed  that's flooded. And with the obscure sanity of the insane, a dream is made.  The dream- Devour!  Footsteps are seen, pretentious,  pretending to behold, but surrendering peace with each piece of the world. The dream of fault this shadow behaves,  and among the weeds, a seed is planted. And again, in the burning symphony of silence,  the eagle flies. Fingers are raised. The resemblance is uncanny!

Running with toddler footsteps screaming “Buwaa….(grandfather)” as he waited at the doorstep with both his arms at our arrival, me and Dada (my brother) jumped right at him- all in the vigor of spending the upcoming thirty days in pure bliss. I always got to stay with him a bit longer, for I was the younger one. With that memory still intact, I watched the gentle smile that made home to his shabby face while I walked towards the once young gentleman seated on the corridor today- a subtle reminder that while I enjoy my time being a “young adult”, people around me are turning old.  As I waited for Baba (my dad) to come pick me up from there, after merely thirty minutes today, I could see Aama (my grandma) struggling to keep her words “stay a little longer” within herself. But she knew that I wouldn’t and that would hurt even more. She must have consoled herself with the fact that Dada was on his way on his bike, and would stop by.  The journey from the capital to my village, I r...