It’s okay to miss you.

I never thought I would cry about you. I never thought that I would miss you so much that I would break down in the middle of the road. I never thought that unable to hold my tears any longer but not wanting to cause any trouble, I would walk away from everyone else and find a corner for myself to cry, saying I’m sorry.

I don’t know to whom was I asking for forgiveness, was it you or was it me? Or was it no one exactly? But I was sorry. For not having enough courage to tell you that I loved you when I had time. For not making more memories, that I would have passed down to my kids one day, of a man who shaped me for who I am. For not laughing with you on your silly jokes and for not sharing my own sillier ones.

I never thought I would cry about you. But I did. Second time was past midnight, when I was all prepared to go back home. I never thought I would remember that you ended up being the one who waited for me to be back home. You used to call me when I was on my way to check where I had reached so that you could be home when I was home. It wasn’t always like this. You were never home but you were learning and you were trying and you were mending. And now, there would never be you to go back home to.

I never thought I would cry about you. That I would miss you. That I would notice you were gone again. But I did. And after crying for an hour or more, when my tears dried up like a monsoon flood, I was thankful and happy. Because crying for you meant that I missed you. Missing you meant that I had loved you. I never fully accepted my love for you and I was finally allowing myself to do that.

I never thought I would cry about you but I did. And that’s all that matters for now.
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Her.

“Who are you waiting for?” she asks.

I take a good look at her face. Her dark brown hair is tied up in a bun, but not in the way you usually see those young girls of her age do it. Her tied bun looked more like maa’s hair tied into a bun. There are a few strands frizzy and dried, flying off as if they are naked wires, searching for plugs. I laugh remembering how mother always complained that she looked like a grandmother from behind when she tied her bun like that. She must be looking like one even now. My eyes fall on her forehead. It is covered with tiny indistinct spots, almost invisible if you aren’t concentrating hard enough. There are dark bags hanging  below her eyes because she had lost sleep for a couple of weeks. Although a sleep lover, she’d been refusing to sleep for some unknown reasons to both of us. Her nose is sunburned and a little tanned than the rest of her skin. There are light speckles and scars in her face. Sometimes, I feel like if I looked hard enough I could find more furrows. But right now, she looks tired and worried. Even as she looks straight back at me, I somehow feel that she is looking beyond me, searching for answers, seeking escape, looking for a way out. She is tired and worried.

“You,” I finally say with a sigh. “It’s time for you to come home.”
Because I’ve realized that even the girl in the mirror needs a reminder of the love you have for her. Especially during time like this.

बा

घरमा बसिराख्दाको कुरा हो,
उहाँलाई पर्खिराख्दाको कुरा हो,
घरको फोन एक्कासि बजेपछि,
मन फुर्किन्छ।
फोनमा अपरिचित स्वर सुन्दा,
“यो उहाँको घर हो?” भनि उताबाट प्रश्न अाउँदा,
मनमा चिसो पस्छ।

“हो” भनेँ मैले,
“को?” भन्यो फोनले,
“छोरी। तर बुवा त काठमाण्डोैँमा हुनुहुन्न”


“हेलो?”
“नानी तिम्रो बुवालाई अस्पतालमा राखिएको छ,
उहाँ बेहोस हुनुहुन्छ, तुरुन्तै आऊ”
भनेको सुन्दा मन झल्ल्याँस हुन्छ।

बाटो भरि मनमा अनेक कुरा खेल्न थाल्दछ,
“कहाँ गएका होलान् बाउ,
के भए होला उनलाई,
लडे कि,
घाऊ भाछ कि,”
कति सोच आउन थाल्दछ।
अस्पतालमा पुग्दा
वार्डमा नभई
मुर्दाघरमा लग्दा
छाँगाबाट खसे झैँ हुन्छ,

“धरहरामा पुरिनु भाको थियो,
बचाउन सकिएन।”
भनेर पुलिसले भन्दा,
खुट्टाले भुईँ छोड्दो हुन,
चितवन गएका बाउको,
घर फर्किने तीन दिन अघि
प्रहरीले यसरी लास थम्याउँदा,
दिमागले काम गर्न छोड्दो हुन।
“उनको झोला यो” भनेर हरियो ब्याग हातमा थम्याउँदा,
ब्याग भित्र नोटकापीमा “अाज छोरीको जन्मदिनमा उसलाई चकित पार्छु,
निउ रोडमा गएर उपहार किन्छु”
भन्ने वाक्य पढ्दा मात्र मन भक्कानिदो हुन।

 

 

Things I tell myself.

If you haven’t been following what’s happening in Kathmandu, then you wouldn’t know why I had been walking to work almost every day. So this is what I told myself whole way (45 mins) while walking to work from home.

1. It’s so suffocating to see all these people in the streets. Why couldn’t they just stay at their homes? Today is supposed to be a public holiday. Dammit, I am so claustrophobic. But wait, I don’t mind crowd in Ason or Indrachowk. Why am I having problem in RNAC?

2. This road from Tudhikhel to Tripureshwor is the worst way ever. I mean, there aren’t much for entertainment besides Army men practising in the barrack (who are nowhere to be seen right now).

3. I wish I had Nightcrawler for a best friend, so that he can teleport me to work. But wait, best friends always leave right?

4. Dear Professor X, why did you never come to pick me up? I could be Storm or Jean Grey. You never know. I also never got my Hogwarts letter till last year. My life is sad.

5. (After crossing Thapathali bridge) I don’t think I can walk anymore. But I have to, I am almost there. I always give up on things, people, dreams after almost reaching.

A journey.

He walked me home tonight. Not exactly home, but then the entrance to Thamel has always been home to me. And on the way, the moment we passed Indra Chowk and its going-to-be-closed shops, he excitedly told me this was the place where he grew up.

These were the roads he first stepped on, the area where he first went to buy pau with ek suka. There was a twinkle in his eyes that I couldn’t miss. Although, I too had been walking these very road since I was a kid, although, this too was in some way a home to me; I knew what he felt about the road from Indra Chowk to Ason, with Janbahal and Balkumari inbetween was totally different from what I felt. I just passed those areas, he grew up playing in them.

“Do you wanna go and see my house?” he asked suddenly.
“Sure,” I was excited.
“Do you know which is my favorite home?” I asked him.
“Of course. Right there, that.” he said.


We took the small
galli behind the temple in front of my favorite home. Right on the small door, he was stopped by an elderly woman. “Babu, you are home?” she asked. “Well, technically.” “Are you sleeping here?” “No, have to go back. I just wanted to check the house.”

We entered the galli and turned around the corner. “Kaka, are you alright?” he asked a shopkeeper. “Oho, babu. Yes I am. How have you been? Are you going to spend your night here tonight?” “No kaka, I have to go back.”

I could see his smile getting wider each time we encountered someone he knew on the way. They would exchange greetings and he would be asked the same thing. Someone would ask him about his family, someother wondered when they were coming back. After few steps, he showed me a big white washed house with tiled roof and perfectly crafted windows. But the house was dead. With windows shut and no one living in, it felt as if the soul of the house has been lost.

“That’s my house man.” he broke the silence. “That’s where I grew up as a kid with 32 members.” The smile that had been there the moment we stepped on the streets of Janabahal was long gone. A sadness had replaced it. “This was the house that used to be the brightest in this chowk. This was the noisiest house in the tole. Now, it’s dead. It’s the darkest one and it’s the quietest one.”