An open letter to Bipul Chettri

Dear Bipul,

I have a confession to make – I am not your biggest fan. Not compared to few of my friends or other people, who know each word of your song. Not compared to many who waited in line or tried every way to get your CD first. But I am still your big fan.

I don’t listen to your songs every day. I do when I need someone the most. When I cannot write a single word to express what I am feeling. When I am feeling almost nothing – the emptiness taking me with it. These are the moments, when I need to listen to someone, take my mind off the stupidest things I could ever think. These are the moments, when I listen to you because you bring these emotions out of me, even when I feel nothing.

I remember listening to you for the first time. Few years ago, a friend from States send me the no-longer-available YouTube link of Wildfire. I got immediately hooked because of the lyrics and the tone of the song. The song is a sad one but you have written it in such a fun way that it doesn’t sound like a sad song at all. While Asaar is full of nostalgia because of the way you sang it. But that’s not the point here. The point is how I feel about your songs and that’s what this letter is all about.

I have no idea why but your song has such an intimate touch. That every time I hear it, I forget about everything else. I want to immediately sit with a pen and a notebook and start scribbling whatever I can think of. That every time I hear it, I feel this urge of wanting something so bad – a good book, a good movie or just a good friend to spend a day with. Every time I listen to your songs, I feel my heart go heavier not with sadness but with your story.

I don’t know how you write all these songs. I don’t know where you get your inspirations from. But for the last few months, you’ve been my go to guy in case I can’t write a poem or a story. Because you remind me that I need to share my stories to the world. Because you bring all of my stories alive.

Dear Bipul,

Thank you for deciding to release your music to the world. Your songs make my life beautiful. Thank you for coming to Kathmandu the second time. Because yes, I missed your concert for the first time because of other priorities. But mainly, thank you for writing these songs. I hope one day, I can write as good as you if not better. I hope one day, someone will be able to read my story and get inspired to write their own in the middle of it. I hope one day, someone will write a letter like this one to me.

Thank you.

Love.

P.S. I have written letters to only 5 people till now (if the New Yorker was a person) and you are one of them.

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Lost in Inspiration

I am not the girl you think I am. I am not strong or smart or confident. I break down easily. I don’t know why are we having wars. I cannot stand against a bunch of crowd going against my view. I cannot even stick to my view.

I know I declared that I will stop writing for a while. But the moment I declared it, I couldn’t help but long to write again. I was waiting for inspiration. Every Saturday since last few weeks. But all my Saturdays have gone against my wish. The first Saturday, I couldn’t meet everyone I planned to meet. The next Saturday which I planned to spend by reading books, was spent being tired and feeling sick. And today, I thought, I would go out and enjoy a concert. But I’m at home, with an almost sprained ankle.

I have a dream. To write. And travel. And tell stories. I have been planning to do MFA in Creative Writing after a year or two. Then, work in a magazine while also working on some books. Get publishers and travel. Go to places. To Europe, Peru, Egypt. Afghanistan. But lately, I am scared. I don’t feel like writing all the time. I feel vacant and empty inside. As if I no longer have what I love the most. I feel sad and I suffer inside. Oh, I suffer greatly. I might not show it all the time but I spend sleepless night praying for words to come back to me. For inspiration.

This friend of mine always tells me not to wait for inspiration and look within. I always tell him, when I feel restless and frustrated, that I feel like I have been caged inside four walls. “Four walls, there is your inspiration”, my boss told me the other time we were chatting on Facebook as I told him how my words have disappeared. “You can find inspiration, anywhere you look for – books, poetry, walls, chair, table.” He’d said. Well that’s what I fail to do. I try to find inspiration in people. Ordinary people. And people don’t have inspiring and positive stories every time. They also have stories about failures and heartbreak and sadness and suffering. Like these two amazing blogs I have been visiting recently. I know both the bloggers personally and have always been a huge fan of their writings. But lately, I have been thinking that if these two have not yet been able to find publishers to bring out book, what will happen to me.

During these times, I really feel small and unworthy. Also, I want to write stories of ordinary people. What they go through everyday or what they feel. About war and poverty and hunger and the sufferings ordinary people go through. Losing loved ones, disappointments, failures. But today I wondered, is it even ethical? Selling someone else’s sorrow? And what difference does it even make? Many people have written about wars and poverty. But have these books helped to stop the war or eradicate poverty? What’s the use of writing all these stories, if they never help someone or inspire them? I have become distraught with all these questions in mind. I wonder if I need to find something else to pursue but I know that at the end of the day I always come back to writing. Writing is something I cannot leave. And I am not sure if I will ever want to leave.

Right now, I feel that I am in a crossroad. I am confused and more fickle-minded that before. I hope to come to conclusion soon. At least before it’s too late. Or even after, because in things like this, I know it’s never too late actually. I just hope to reach there one day.

A/N: Following are the blogs I was talking about. a) thinkinink b) dearest

The Beginning.

We first met when my heart was broken. The second time in that year. And his was turned into stones. I was walking on the street when we stumbled upon each other. He smiled. I felt as if I found a friend.

I was going to this event for inspiration. It had been almost 2 months since I had lost it. I couldn’t write or even think. I had sleepless nights where I spent my time thinking “May be I’ll never gain happiness again.” He decided to join me. But because we didn’t find the place, we ended up walking for hours. He told me his stories, different phases in life. I listened attentively for the very first time in my life.

We immediately became friends. Sharing life-stories and daily musings. There were times when I would get lost among the crowd I was surrounded with. I would forget every thing I had and get lost in this new-found world of pretense. And he would take me back to where I came from. Where I belonged. To Words. He would get lost in his past and I would try my best to bring him back to present.

One day, I let him inside my world. Let him get inside my most precious possession. My journal. This was the place where I shared every part of my feelings and emotions. Wrote them down to forget about them.

His skin darkened and brow frowned deeper as he turned each page.

“See, you are not a good writer. Look at his skin getting all wrinkled up after reading your shitty writings.” I told myself, trying to calm down.

“Your writing is amazing you know.” He finally spoke, “but the themes are all so negative. Every thing you have written here is about fear, anger, hatred, and stuffs like that. And I guess you have really grown lazy. Look at this, it’s all only half-page” He showed me the journal, turning pages.

“Well, there is not much to write about.” I whispered.

“You can write about happiness and joy.”

“I no longer know what happiness is. Or joy.” I looked at the dirty ground.

“Then start by writing about me.” He demanded.

I then looked at him startled. He was smiling all of sudden, like a 5-year-old child. “I will try. But don’t expect much.”

“Just write. I will be happy with it. And I’ll be taking this journal. Seeing the former pages, you will get discouraged that’s why.”

“Are you kidnapping my journal? Ha-ha!” I laughed.

“If that’s what you think it is.” He joined my laughter.

**********

We first met when my heart was broken. Twice. And his was turned into stones. Now, after a year from that first meet, my heart’s all good. The wounds have healed and the scars have faded. His, hopefully has warmed up. No more frozen.

A.N: This is the third and probably last installment of the Purple Sky Trilogy. Here are the first two: The Purple Sky and Him. I might write more in the series if I get inspired in the future. 🙂

Rain has arrived.

I love the smell of the rain. Actually the smell of the moist air and soil when it rains. It reminds me of freshness in the atmosphere and the view of green woods.

I love the touch of rain-drops in my skin. It feels like the touch of your lover, giving you tingles all over your body every time it touches you and chill down your spine.

I love the sound of rain each time the drops fall on the windowpane and roofs and the streets. Or just the sound of the speed of rain. For me it is the most amazing musical note I can ever hear.

I love it when during rainfall, people who otherwise were busy walking as fast as possible would all rush to the shelter, leaving the streets wide open.

I love rain when I am sad or happy or simply in normal mood. Rain excites me and calms me down at the same time.

I love rain when I have been searching for inspiration. It brings me memories and makes me smile and sometimes, making me write.

I love watching rainfall while sipping hot cup of tea from the window of my kitchen, seeing colours and water splashing over each other through umbrellas and puddles.

I love taste of hot mo:mo while the outside world is getting drenched.

I love the fact that rain makes time stand still. Even if just for a while.

And luckily, I live in a country where rain visits us thrice a year. A week or more during March-April along with heavy wind and thunder. Almost 2-3 Months during June/July and winter monsoon during November-February with hailstorms and snowfall in colder places.

Blogs and More Blogs!

This might be the umpteenth time I might have been talking about this blog that I recently bumped into. But there is more. Because of this blog, I have bumped into other many blogs and well I am in love with all of them.

Right now, with many windows open of different blogs from WordPress and blogger, I finally feel home. As if I’m in a bookshop/library and I’m reading these amazing thoughts of people who are real and not the celebrity types. And I love what I’m read.

I remember talking to a friend about our future generation missing out the feeling I feel every time I go to a bookshop or a library. Well obviously, you can have that overwhelming feeling with the blogs (I discovered that feeling just now) but sadly you cannot smell the papers. But reading these blogs, these thoughts and emotions and dreams and wishes expressed through words and made immortals forever makes you wanna write more of yours. You know, how for weeks you complain about not being able to write anything and one day all those words about different topics come to you. I already have thought about the post I’m gonna write tomorrow! Hehe!

Anyway this is where I stop as I need to sleep. Good-whichevertimeyoureadthis- to-you!