Thirteen and half years old me wanted to travel around the world and write. She wanted to be a single mother by the time she was 30, she didn’t care if she ended up being alone. She wanted to fix the climate change. She wanted to stop global warming and prevent the earth from being destroyed by humans. She wanted to know what happiness felt like.

Sixteen and half years old me wanted to preserve the endangered wildlife, the tigers and the lions, the snow leopards and the elephants. She wanted to go to Africa and learn about chimpanzees and lions. She wanted to go to Siberia to look at the birds during summer. She dreamed of having adventures of a lifetime.

Nineteen and half years old me got her first heartbreak by an almost best friend who ghosted her when she was far away from home, sick. By that time, she’d wanted to save the world – prevent wars and abdicate hunger. She wanted to be a wanderer, roaming around aimlessly at times. She’d started doubting if happiness even existed.

Twenty two and half years old me realized she was afraid of being alone and single. That when she was alone, she almost gave up because she was not ready to adult yet. She also decided that motherhood is not for her. She didn’t want her children to know the pain of losing a mother. “The more people you know, the more pain you get” became her philosophy. So, she shut herself off and pushed people away only to realize her solitude acts as venom. She thought that happiness isn’t worth it at all.

Twenty five and half years old me wants to travel the world again. And write. And learn. And experience it all over again. She wants to be a mother, and isn’t scared about being  single. She is ready to be a single mother before she crosses thirty three; because, otherwise, complications. She is finally sorted in her life. She has friends who stood with her when she completely fell apart. She knows what she wants to do in her life (i.e, travel and write and be a museum curator if possible) and how to do it (hello master’s degree!). She, for the first time in life, has Plan B if Plan A fails. She is in love and still heartbroken but she knows that at the end of the day, she will be okay. She is finally happy.

Thirteen and half years old me is kinda proud of twenty five and half years old me. Because sooner or later, I will have done everything I’ve wanted to do as a kid. Maybe, I might do them less frequently than I’d hoped and wished for but I will still be reading, writing, traveling and growing. Because I will not have given up on my dreams. Because I will find happiness. And that is enough and will be enough. For now. For always.


You and I

I want to trace the map of Kathmandu on the back of my hands with the stories you’ve told me. But you were never a storyteller and mapping Kathmandu on the back of anyone’s hands, no matter how big they are, is not possible at all.

I want to retrace the path we’d walked, in the three cities. The galli where you kissed me when we thought no one was watching, the chowk with a dead end which looked like a haunted place and the falcha in the middle of the pond where we wrote stories in form of poems, eating aloo-chips we bought nearby.

Then I realized as we mapped Kathmandu with the stories we’d known and the stories we were creating, I’d long forgotten how it felt like holding your hand and simply enjoy your presence. For many moments I’d found special, we were busier trying to find a new opening to the galli we’d just walked. Or find the darkest galli there is or the chowk with the most beautiful windows.

I wish I could write songs instead of this piece. At least I could then trace our story, step by step, chapter by chapter, song by song. And we could finally see the pattern. Of how we went on from being a head over heels lovers to unrecognizable strangers. Now, we, or rather I can just read fragments of story formed in my head making me suddenly realize, I don’t even know what you feel.

So I want to trace the maps of Kathmandu and retrace the path we’d walked in the three cities. I want to rewind everything so that this time, it’s your narrative. It’s your monologue. It’s your story. Will you let me?

I am here to understand.

Write to me about what hurts. Write to me every time you feel sad or you just want to cry. Write everything, every little details. Write me long letters or emails or just posts. You can also write when you’re happy or you discovered something exciting or you found what you were looking for. Write to me when you are excited or inspired or just full of smiles.

If you can’t write then send me your doodles. Tiny sketches and pattern on the side of your notebook when you were bored. Squares, circle or just scribbles when you were angry. Tiny figures with tears stains or coffee.

You can also send me the music you’d just recorded. The notes and tunes you just played. I will move with it. I will sway. I will close my eyes and listen to it with all my heart trying to understand.


Because that’s the only thing I want to do. I am here to understand. To know. What you are going through. All the places you’ve been through, all the roads you’ve taken. All the nooks and the darkest corners of your mind. I want to know them all. So that I can know You. Because I am here to understand – what it feels like to live with a burning soul, a broken dream, a shattered heart.

Because I want to know all your thoughts. I am not obsessed about it but I always believed I am here to listen, to read, to learn and to understand what you feel. Because I just want to know. Because I am here to understand.

I would rather

How do I start this article when I am not sure if this is what I want to do for life.
I would rather write stories, poems, spaces, silence, words, letters and symbols
I would rather listen to songs, poetry, art, notes, music, melody,
I would rather read hearts, people, love, emotions, places, details,
I would rather go on a journey, travel, get lost, wander and wonder
I would rather smile, shout, scream, laugh out loud, fall of the chair.
I would rather walk in the sun, rain, storm and cloud.
I would rather sleep, dream, eat, wait and let the world pass by.

Why can’t we just let the world pass by.
Why can’t we just sit in the window and watch people
Enjoy the weather,
Joke around with each other
And share the secrets with hushed voice.
Why do we need to write words we’re not sure we love,
Walk the path we don’t want to walk
Sign the checks,
Deposit the amount
Count the money.

I would rather write about you
About your dark hair
How I can’t breathe when I am with you
Buried deep in your arms
Thinking we’ve stopped the time,
Talking about the rituals & traditions
And that window near your house
And the missing flight
Debating about life,
Our favourite songs and favourite writers
Of the books you no longer remember name of
Of the stories which left a deep scar in my heart
I would rather explain how beautiful you look to me
In your gray tee
And faded pair of jeans
Trying to play me a tune
And your wrinkled face
As you try to remember the words
Of the song you used to know all by heart.

I would rather soak in the sun,
Drown inside our memories
Of you asking me to runaway with you
To a place faraway
With just 500 in hand.
Of you telling me
That I was too beautiful and you were too old
To be perfect for each other
Of us basking in the sun at Mangalbazar
With its red bricked floor
And getting wet in the rain in Bhaktapur
With its big ponds filled with golden fishes
And sharing a glass of tea in Basantapur
With its narrow lanes where bikes passed in speed.
I would rather look at you
And feel content
Not worrying what would happen next
Not remember the broken hearts
And the hidden scars
I would rather whisper in your ear
And tell you, you’re too beautiful
And I am just good enough for you.