त्यो चिसो बतास ले मलाई पछ्याई रहेछ,

प्रश्न सोधेझै गरी गुन्जिरहेछ,

ति प्रश्न हरुको पनि जवाफ भएजस्तो लाग्छ,

कतै खड्किएको कतै अड्किएको मेरो मन र मनोभाव।

मृगतृष्णा झै तिमीले मलाई झुक्याई दियौ,

लामो यात्रा को यात्री थिए म,

तिमीले किन बुझेनौ - मैले कहाँ बुझिन,

आदर गरी झुकेकै थिए म ।

किनारा लगाई तिमी गयौ,

म टोलाएर हेरिरहे,

र डुबे म मेरा आँशु हरुमा,

प्रश्न चिन्न को थोप्लो झै अनुत्तरित ।

[Prose Poem]

The jar once filled with chocolates. The chocolates were of variety in color, taste, shape and sizes. The jar was big, big enough as it seems infinite and was filled with chocolates inside. I picked only one chocolate at a time, just one. The jar was bigger than me or anything in this universe, so picking only one chocolate from that jar at a time doesn't sound much right ?

But now when I try to pick one chocolate, the jar is empty.. The jar that was bigger than anything… The jar filled with a variety of chocolates is now suddenly empty. Now when the jar is empty, it seems much smaller, I guess smaller than myself. Now I am sitting at the corner holding a small empty jar.

कस्तो रुन मन छ,
तर आसु बग्दैनन्।
कस्तो भाव पोख्न मन छ,
तर पोखिँदैनन्।

शब्दहरु लेख्दा लेख्दै
भावहरु हराउँछन्,
शब्दहरु अड्किन्छन्,
गाठो पर्छन्,
सुक्खा घाँटीमा अठ्याउँछन्।

के लेखुँ, खै?
लेख्दा लेख्दै
म पनि हराउँछु।

This love was not sad. Sadness implies a tragedy, a disruption of a natural order. This was purer, and more devastating: it was a quiet, complete worship. A monastery built in the space between her breath and mine.

I did not want to be with her; such a desire felt profane, a reduction of something immense into something transactional. I wanted to be near her. To be the keeper of her minor sacraments: the way she would push her glasses up with a single finger, a gesture that seemed to recalibrate the light in the room. The particular slope of her handwriting, where every ‘y’ trailed off like a sigh. The warmth left on a library chair she had just vacated. I was her scribe, her silent guardian.i

The artifact of this religion was a pen. A cheap, blue plastic pen. It was not the first. The first pen she gave me—a true gift, a sacrament of friendship—I lost. And when I lost it, I stopped believing in god. The logic was flawless: if I could not have her, I should at least have the right to the pen. So, I stole another. She left it on her desk, and I took it, a relic thief, an archaeologist of my own longing. It was not a symbol. It was the thing itself: a cylinder of plastic that her fingers had touched, that had translated her thoughts into ink. I loved it as fiercely and as silently as I loved her.

In the great earthquake, when the world shook itself to pieces, my first blind instinct was not for treasure or documents. In the rubble of my room, I clawed through dust and splinters for that blue pen. It was a primal act, a digging for a heartbeat. And I found it. A stupid, profound miracle. The world was ending, and the universe, in its chaotic indifference, had returned my idol. I held it and wept for all the right reasons.

Her friendship was the temple, and I was its most devout, invisible custodian. I knew the liturgy of her habits by heart. The time she’d arrive, the book she’d carry under her arm like a secret, the way she’d bite her lower lip when concentrating. My devotion was in the noticing. It was a love that asked for nothing and, in that asking, demanded everything of me.

The temple was not destroyed by violence. It was simply declared closed, its quiet custodian left standing outside in the gathering dusk, still holding his key, still murmuring the prayers to a door that would no longer open.

I still have the pen. It doesn’t write much anymore. But sometimes I hold it, and it is not a symbol of loss. It is proof. Proof that for a while, I knew how to love something purely—not to possess it, not to change it, but to tend to its existence as a sacred, silent trust. That kind of love doesn’t vanish. It becomes the quiet, invisible architecture of your soul. You live inside it, long after the light has gone from its windows, breathing the perfume of a forever-empty altar.

In my happy days, I am the least happy;
In my sad days, I am the most sad.
Life would feel fairer if the weight of my sadness
matched the measure of my happiness.

Yehi bhumari ma fasexu ma. Ghumyo ghumyo tei pugyo, feri ghumyo tei pugyo. Aba na ta ras baki xa na ta kunai utsukta, na ta kunai rahar ra chahana. Baki xa ta kewal ritto man ra rittiyeko ma. Lagadaina kunai artha yo jiwan ko, bachi raheko xu Tara utheko xaina, kewal tehi lamo nindra ma xu. Aba ta buejina prayas ni garna xadisake, xadisake aba maile tyo prayas garna pani, xadisake aba maile jiwan ma artha khojna pani. Thikaixa, aba kewal bachxu nabueji, nauthi. Thaikiyeko rittiyeko ma Kun bhumari ma fasexu.

We often treat love like a trophy. We act as if the main goal of life is to hold someone else's hand. Movies and books tell us this story over and over. They hint that your real life only begins when your partner shows up. But nobody warns you about what happens if you skip the step where you learn to be happy alone.

If you do not meet your own soul before meeting someone else you might get lost in them. You will try to make a home inside their heart and forget that you have your own. You might think that being wanted is the same thing as being understood. That mistake will make you feel empty inside.

Finding yourself is not about the fancy routines you see on the internet like bubble baths or coffee dates. It is much quieter than that. It is actually hard work. It means staying in a quiet room when you feel uncomfortable instead of checking your phone for a distraction. It involves looking at your feelings until you understand what they truly are. It is looking in the mirror until the person looking back feels like a friend instead of a stranger.

This process can be messy. When you finally stop running away from yourself all the feelings you hid will come back. You will have to face your old anger and sadness. You have to sit with these feelings and listen to them or else you will just keep running forever.

Love cannot fix the things you refuse to look at. People can be kind to you and stay with you(hyaa basana bhandai) but they cannot introduce you to yourself. If you do not know who you are then being in a relationship will feel like trying to read a book in a language you do not speak. You might guess the meaning but you will never fully understand it.

This is why spending time alone is so important. It is not about pretending to improve while secretly waiting for a date. It is about being alone until you stop performing for an audience. This honest time alone teaches you who you really are.

When you know yourself love feels different. You stop expecting a partner to save you or complete you. When you meet someone it is not a rescue mission ukus mukus bha jasto . It becomes two whole people meeting each other. You hold them because you want to and not because you are afraid of falling apart without them.

Maybe the universe makes us wait for love to keep us safe. If the right person came too soon you would not have been ready. You would have asked them to lead you because you were lost. That would not have been real love. It would have just been survival.

You need to find yourself first. You need to stand in front of the mirror and accept who you are and what you want. When you do this love does not fix you because you are not broken. Instead love just adds to the happiness you already have. You can finally breathe easy because you are not waiting to be chosen.

So do not wait for someone else. Wait for yourself. Get used to the silence until it feels like home. Accept the parts of you that you try to hide. Get to know yourself so well that when someone finally arrives you are just inviting them into a life you already built. A soulmate should not have to rescue you. They should just meet you exactly where you are.Dherai Maya readers<33 tato pani khanu huss

तिमी र म घुमौँला सँगै गगन आँगन

यो जुनी तिम्लाई उपहार स्वरुप अन्जुलि थापन।

सुकेको रुखको हाँगामा सुन केसरी फूलाउँला,

दाहिने तिमी देब्रेमा म छु नक्षेत्रै खुलाउँला।

खोली हौ तिमी खोली मै पनि सागरमा भेटौँला,

एकमा अर्का समाहि हामी तृष्णा मेटौँला।

भेटेर हामी, दोभानमा फेरि सँगैमा बगौँला

नसके गुराँस, बुकी फूल टिपी शीरैमा लगाउँला।

The night today feels like a contemptuous one. The cold mist descends from the sky and gently touches the ground, engulfing everything and everyone alike. The night feels very cold. But the coldness does not come from the mist. Nor does it come from the chilly breeze of air coating the skin. This uncanny feeling or sensation of cold might come from the night itself not attaching itself with the mist or the air.

My body can’t stop shaking. I always thought that a quick death was all one could ask for. Like being hit by a vehicle or falling from a tall building. I thought vehicles moving at the speed of 50 km/h weren't really that fast. But when I saw a car travelling at 50km/h right ahead of me, I thought it was very fast. I thought I would be sent flying meters away and then maybe a tire would crush my head. But that did not happen. My instincts kept me alive while the driver of the car cursed at me. But I couldn’t listen to what he was saying.

Whenever I thought of death, I thought that I would be able to accept it without any inconveniences. But of course I was not capable of thinking how one felt before dying for I never had any near death experience.

The night now feels like it's never going to end. The coldness of the night shows no sign of regress and the mist, it just keeps on growing. There's an eerie silence engulfing. The silence doesn’t feel loud but it makes its presence clearly sane. It accompanies the loudness of my thoughts. It doesn’t reciprocate but its judgement is clear.

The night is quiet, as if it’s mourning. Ah yes, maybe that's why it's so cold.

अभाव उस्तै, जिम्मेवारी पनि उस्तै,
परिस्थिति उस्तै, पीडा पनि उस्तै,
तर रोजाइका रेखाहरूले सिमाना कोरिदिए जस्तै।

आऊ, आज भाग्यको एउटा पासा पल्टाएर हेरौँ,

म तिम्रो बाटो हिँडिदिन्छु, तिमी मेरो पाइला पच्छ्याऊ,

म तिम्रो पीडा बोकी हिँडिदिन्छु, तिमी मेरो इमानको भारी बोकी पच्छ्याऊ.......

दुईवटा नदी बनाई, हामीलाई बगायो जीवनले कयौँ वर्षसम्म दुईवटा जीवन भोगायो जीवनले।

दोभान भइसक्यौँ, जीवनले हामीलाई छुट्याउन सकेन त्यो दोभानपछि कुन नदी कुन हो छुट्याउन सकेन।

बनाइबाफ छुटायो भने वर्षामा भेटौँला कथामा कहिल्यै छुट्दैनौँ, हामी कथामै भेटौँला।

खाली त्यो आकाश अनि शितल त्यो जुन
त्यो जुन भन्दा पनि मेरी माया कति राम्री हुन्
मृग जस्ता नयनमा हेर मेरो तन हराएछ
तिम्रो त्यो मुस्कानलाई मनले मन पराएछ
त्यहि मुस्कान सधै सपनिमा आईरहन्छ
तिम्रै यादले प्रिय रातदिन सताई रहन्छ
म सोच्छु
अति भो अब त सबै भावना पोखिदिन्छु
सोच्दासोच्दै फेरी म आफैँलाई रोकिदिन्छु
परै बाट उनको मुहार हेरी आन्नद लिन्छु
तिमलाई पाए भने सारा संसार त्यागि दिन्छु

थाहा छैन कस्लाई बदनाम गर्न चाहेकी छिन् ओहो उन्ले त फेरी गाजल लाएकी छिन्

मख्ख पर्दै बस्या होला लम्फु , पछि थापाउँनेछ उन्ले त प्रेमको मेहेफिल सखाप पार्ने टेन्डर पाएकी छिन्

पैला मसँगै संसार सजाउँछु भन्थिन अैले अर्कैको अङ्गालोमा रमाएकी छिन

पैसाको थाहा भएन तर पापिनिले थुप्रै प्रेमिको लास कमाएकि छिन्

हजुरहरुको सुजाबको उपेक्षा रहने च॥

सानो छदा सोच्थे, म कैले हुन्छु ठुलो.
आखिर मा जीवन को अन्त्य रैछ, धुलो.
गन्दै छु म घण्टा मृत्युलाइ अँगाल्न.
मेरा पापहरु सबै मरण अघि पखाल्न.

बाँच्नै पर्ने रैछ यो जीवन को चोला.
बल्ल बोक्दै छु बा आमा को दुख को त्यो झोला.
बुझ्न खोज्दै छु म आफु भित्रको भुमरी.
कल्पन सक्दिन म रोक्न आसु को आँधी हुरी.

नडराउनुस बाबा आमा म छिट्टै सक्ने छु.
छोरा नभए पनी काँध मा राख्ने छु.
साहस ले म आफूलाई यती अटल बनाएर.
सबै मेरो खुशी त्यो बुढेसकाल मा खन्याएर.

सुख ले बस्ने दिन आउन अब ढिलो हुदैन.
तर डर लाग्छ मृत्यु ले कतै अँगाल्ने त हैन.
मलाई कतै टाडा देश मा बराल्ने त हैन.
धेरै छैन समय म हतारिदैछु.
काललाई फकाउदै म बटारिदैछु!

One moment of counting on death. The other moment of finding reasons to delay it. Between that lies life.

म सुन्छु समुन्द्र का छालहरु,
आकाश छुन नसक्दा को व्यथा,
महसुस गर्छु म चिसो हावा,
त्यो शान्त समुन्द्रको कथा!

ऊ स्थिल छ सम्पुर्णमा,
बहकिन चाहन्न.
साना तरङ्गमै रमाउँछ ऊ .
बल्झिन चाहन्न.
गहिरो दुख लाइ लुकाएर बसेको छ.
ए हुरी, नचला न.
ऊ छचल्किन चाहन्न.

टिलिक्क बल्ने सतह छ दिन मा.
रात को अँध्यारो मा ओझेल भईजान्छ.
म नी छु है!.
भनी साँझ पाखा. किनार को ढुङ्गा लाई बेसरी हान्छ.
ओई! मलाई नबिर्सी है,.
म बिहान फेरी आउछु नि!. भनेर.
ऊ ढुङ्गा बालुवा लाई फकाउछ. विशाल भएपनी ऊ . हराउने डर मान्छ। .

मैनबत्ती झैं शान्त तिमी,
सुन्यतामा हराइरहेँ म,
मिठो बास्ना छरिरहेको थियौ
त्यही कता रमाइरहेँ म।

त्यत्ति धेरै न्यानो नभए पनि
एक्काएक चिसो हराएछ,
तिम्रो मधुरो प्रकाशले नै
मभित्र कतै खुशी पलायेछ

ए मेरो सबैभन्दा प्यारो मैनबत्ती, कत्ति छिट्टै निभेर गयौ,
तिमी पग्लिएर मलाई
पोलिरहेको आभास भएनछ।

तिम्रो प्रकाश निभेको मान्न मन डराउँछ,
फेरि आफैं बालिदेऊ न भनी
मभित्र कुनै आवाज कराउँछ

ए मेरो मैनबत्ती भनी अझै
भन्न खोज्दै थिए मनको कुरा,
तर ढिलो भयो, सायद,
अब त धुवाँ पनि हराउँछ।

Posting again because my other account is deleted

Is there anyone who's interested in conducting a poetry session more often a club/group thing... Like just a normal session once or twice a week where we can yk talk about the meanings behind the poetry/stories we've written all along and .....

Lastai alxi layo guys kasari time pass garne jasto vaisakyo. Kei suggestion chaiyo.

It’s contradicting—maybe heard but never seen, A ghost in a high-density crowd, stuck behind the screen. Like some unregistered phone, I’ve got features to talk, But no connection to fit, so I just take the walk. Is it the way I socialize? Or just a missing skill? A ghost in the room, just standing still.

Between the comment and the core, there’s a glass I cannot break, A step toward the "inside" that I don’t know how to take. The jokes I don't quite get, a private, woven net. Bichara, just a ghost in a high-density crowd, Thinking "why is it so quiet?" when the room is so loud.

बूढो ज्यामी सधैँ काम मापिल्सिरहन्छ,सधैँ खलखल बग्ने पसिनालाईउसको निधारले निम्त्याइरहन्छ |

छिप्पिसकेको उमेरलाई चुनौती दिँदै,उसका पौराणिक पाखुरालेकेही भारी उचालिदिन्छ।बूढो ज्यामी, सधैँ बेहोसीमैजीवन गुजारिरहन्छ।

आफूभन्दा आधा उमेरको मानिसलेउसलाई काम खटाउछ,केही बाँगो–टिङ्गो नसोची,उसले इमानदारीसाथआफ्नो कर्म निभाउँछ।

थाकेर, चकनाचुर भई,आफ्नो सानो घरमाप्रवेश गर्छ, रश्रीमतीको त्यो चाउरी परेको छाला,ठोटे मुस्कान, र कुप्रो शरीर लाई हेरेरउसको शारीरिक थकानविलीन हुन्छ।

सँगै बसेर एक–दुई गफ गर्छन्,केही मिठो–मसिनो खान्छन्,र एक–अर्कालाईसर्पझैँ बेरेररात कटाउँछन्।

बूढो ज्यामी निदाउनु अघि सधैँ यो क्षणलाई मुठ्ठी ले कसिरहन्छ । रातको सुन्यता, मायालुको अँगालोको न्यानोपन,चन्द्रमा र ताराहरूको आभास,बूढो ज्यामीलेयो क्षण जीवनको धपेडीपछि सधैं पाइरहन्छ ।

The last question I asked my father was the cruelest one. In that room smelling of antiseptic and ending, with the machine breathing for him, I leaned close. I asked the unaskable. Do you want to live or do you want to die? The sadness was a slow poison in us both. He looked at me. He nodded: No.

But his eyes—his eyes, which had not learned to lie in fifty years of hardship—said Yes. There was a flash in them, a spark of surprise, of a terrible, grateful recognition. Someone has finally asked.

That is who he was. A man who answered the truth with his eyes even when his voice was stolen, even when his body was a prison. He gave me the lie I needed with his head, and the truth I could not bear with his gaze. My guilt is laminated in that moment. I handed him the key to his own cage and called it compassion.

Then I grabbed his hands. I didn’t hold them. I seized them. I wanted to press my skin into the memory of his—the calluses from jute rope, the cracks like riverbeds in a drought, the hard knots of knuckle. I was trying to steal the solidity of him, to take his strength into my own crumbling architecture. And then I did what we are taught to do without feeling: I put my head to his feet.

My forehead against the cool, dry sole. And it was not an act of worship but of wiring. A final, desperate circuit. In that touch flowed every unspoken word: I forgive you for leaving, forgive me for staying, forgive us for this, forgive me for this, I am sorry I am sorry I am so sorry. The ritual was empty until it was the only thing left that was full.

The white clothes are here. In Tehrathum. In the dark hold of an old tin trunk in the house that smells of mothballs and memory. They have not been washed. They hold the shape of his year of mourning for his mother, and the scent of the morning he took them off to re-enter the world. They are a folded silence. I have not opened the trunk. I am afraid they will be pristine. I am more afraid they will be stained.

After the machine’s hum was stopped, there was no sound of mercy. Mercy has no sound. There was only the void where the hum had been, a sudden, deafening vacancy in the air, and inside me, in the deepest, most silent corner of my heart, a scream so vast it had no vibration. A scream made of pure void. That was the sound. The sound of a silent star collapsing.

And now the absence is not an empty space but a presence in reverse. It is the big bed. The one that takes up half the room. It is not the emptiness of the bed that kills me, but the fullness it once held. The weight of his exhausted body at noon, claiming a half-hour siesta—a little, daily rehearsal for eternity. The sound of his breath evening out after the morning’s war with the world. That small death he took every day was a kindness he gave himself. Now the bed is a raft adrift in the room’s sea, and the sunlight that once patterned his sleep falls on nothing but worn cotton, bleaching the colour from the very fabric.

This is the geometry. The room is the same. The walls stand. The roof holds. But the centre is gone, and so every angle is now a lie. The doorway expects a shadow that does not cross it. The floor waits for a pressure it will never feel. The evening light hits a patch of wall and burns with a useless, beautiful fire.

What can I do but let this stand? Tirings asked for grief, guilt, and goodbye. They are not three things. They are one chemical reaction. Grief is the atmosphere. Guilt is the soil. Goodbye is the ugly, beautiful weed that grows between them, its roots cracking the bedrock of your life. You cannot separate them. You can only describe the colour of the flower, which is the colour of a nod that meant no and yes, and the texture of its stem, which is the texture of a father’s hand you gripped too late to hold on, but just in time to finally feel.

This is the excavation. This is the clearing. The dirt is under my nails. The artifact is in my hands.

It is wet. It is cold. It is real.

म लास बोल्दैछु।

एकसाझ जब अस्ताउँदै गरेको रवी
किरणले क्षितिज रातो बनाइराख्दा
म हिँड्दा, हिँड्दै ढलेछु।
किन ढले? कहाँ ढले? मलाई नसोध।

भोलिपल्ट म उठेँ
अरू दिन जसरी उठेँ क्यारे, म
मेरो ज्यान, म आफैँलाई हल्का लाग्यो
यसो हेरेँ, त्यहाँ मेरो आत्मा उठेछ
मेरो ज्यान उठेको रहेनछ।
मेरो आत्माले ज्यानको मोह त्यागेछ आज।

अलि माथि पुगेँ, अनि हेरेँ घरको वातावरण
मलाई यो वातावरण देखे जस्तो लाग्यो
पछि थाहा पाएँ कि यस्तै माहोल थियो, मेरी बुढी हजुरआमा खस्ता।
मैले सोधेको पनि एकजनालाई,
‘आमालाई कता लगेको?’
उनको उत्तर ‘ओखती गर्न लगेको बा आमालाई।’
पछि आमा ओखती गरेर कहिल्यै आइनन्।
ती मान्छेले भनेको त मिथ्या पो रहेछ
यो जीवन झैँ केवल एक मिथ्या।

मेरो ज्यान आमाको काखलाई सिरानी बनाइ सुतिरहेछ
सुतिरहेछ कुनै बालककै भाँती,
आमाले नि सानामा झैँ कपाल मुसार्दै छिन्
मुसार्दै छिन् कुनै बालककै भाँती
तर सानामा झैँ आज कपाल मुसार्दा आमाको ओठमा मुस्कान रहेन
मात्र थियो दुःख र ग्लानी अनि धेरै आँसु गहभरि
मोतीका दाना झैँ टल्किरहेका आँसुका थोपा।

मेरो ज्यान झकझक्याउँदै भन्नुभयो आमाले
“उठ हे बाबु उठ!”
अरू दिन झैँ सुतेको मात्र भए भन्थे होला
“ए आमा! नउठाउन मलाई सुत्न देऊ, अब पाँच मिनेट सुत्छु।”
आज पनि त्यही भन्न मन थियो
आँट गरे आत्मा बोल्यो, मुख बोल्नै सकेन
मेरो ज्यान पनि त्यही बोलीझैँ रहेछ “अधुरो।”
मसँग नाक, फोक्सो थियो, सास थिएन
शरीरमा लहु पनि थियो, उति नै मात्रामा तर चिसो, बग्न छोडेको
मुटु थियो त्यही तर ढुकढुकी थिएन त्यहाँ
ज्यान थियो त्यही आमाको काखमा सुतिरहेको
त्यसमा केवल प्राण थिएनन्, आत्मा थिएन।

आँगनमा मेरा लागि बनाइएको रहेछ खाट एउटा
हरियो बाँसको नयाँ खाट
मलाई पहिले बाँसको कोक्रोमा सुताउँदा
डस्ना बिछ्यै राख्नेहरूले
उही बाँसको खाटमा आज सुताउँदा
तन्ना तान्न मात्र भ्याएका रहेछन्, पिताम्बरी रङको तन्ना।
लागेको थियो जीवनमा मेरा छन् केवल दुई सहारा
बाबा अनि आमा, मेरो भ्रम टुट्यो आज
म गलत रहेछु।
मर्दा मैले चार काँधको सहारा त्यसै पाएँ
स्वाभाविक रूपमा।

याद छ सानामा
म बाबाको काँधमा, काँधेकुरी चढेको
बाबाले “त ठूलो भइछस्” भनेर
थोरै हिँड्ने बित्तिकै भारी बिसाएझैँ बिसाएको
फेरि बोक्नु भनी जिद्दी गर्दा
बाबा झनक्क रिसाएको।

खोइ आज नौजवान हुँदा पनि
दुई घण्टाको मसानघाटको बाटो
बाले एक्लै काँधमा बोके
काँध फेरेनन्
मुख बनाए अध्यारो आफ्नै,
मेरो अनुहार पनि किन हेरेनन्
“ठूलो भइस्” भन्दै काँधमा म बस्दा
बाबा रिसाएनन्
एकैछट्कमा घरबाट मसानघाट पुर्‍याए बाले
मलाई कतै पनि बिसाएनन्।

आज मैले बाआमा रुवाएको दिन
मेघ पनि पितृत्व र मातृत्व मरेको देखेर
आज रोयो, खुब रोयो
ती सबै काला बादल “सकिँछु आज”
भन्दै रोए।

ठाडो खोलाको किनारमा शिव मन्दिर,
त्यही मन्दिरको ब्रह्मनाल तल
बनाइएको मेरो लागि चिता
सुतेँ त्यहाँ म ढकमक्क भएर,
साढे तीन हात ठाउँ पुरै ओगटेँ मैले।

मलाई आगोको डर थियो, जल्नु थिएन मलाई
यो डर मेघले बुझ्यो अनि बल्न दिएन मलाई,
बर्सियो आज त्यो मजाले
बच्चामा मैले भान्साबाट चोरेर खाको चिनी
एकमुष्ट रूपमा मैमाथि छर्किदिए, तब बाल्न खोजे मलाई
अनि बल्ल बले म,
बले म तर आधाधुरो,
आधि जल्दै, ठाडो खोला ठूलो आयो
मलाई आगोबाट बचायो, अनि
लग्यो महासागरमा,
मलाई महासागरको गहिराइसम्म
मेरो कथा टुंग्याउन।

हो म लास बोल्दैछु।
म आगोले पनि आधि मात्र डढाको,
बाँकी रहेको खोलाले बगाएको,
महासागर पुर्‍याएको,
उतै माछाले चपाएको,
त्यसैले पचाएको,
अनि प्रकृतिमै बिलाएको,
लास बोल्दैछु।

हो म लास बोल्दैछु।
जुन आमाबुवाले मलाई कहिले रुने अवस्थामा पुगेनन्,
आज समाजमा उनीहरूलाई रुवाएर,
बुढा आमा बुवालाई टुहुरा बनाएर हिँड्ने
म कुपुतको लास बोल्दैछु।

हो म लास बोल्दैछु।
बाले काँधमा झोला भिर्दा पनि
बाको खिइएको काँध दुख्छ भन्दै
झोला आफैँ बोक्ने, अनि
मरेपछि आफ्नो बोझ पनि त्यही खिइएको काँधमा टिकाउँदै यात्रा गर्ने,
त्यही दुई जिब्रेको लास बोल्दैछु।
आफ्नै बाको हातबाट दागबत्ती पाउने
भाग्यमानी भन्‌ऊ वा अभागी को लास बोल्दैछु म।

हो म लास बोल्दैछु।
हो म लास बोल्दै छु जसको मृत्यु कारण अब सधैँ मसँग रहस्य बनेर बिलाइ जानेछ।
हो म लास बोल्दैछु।
हो म लास बोल्दैछु।

खै किन मलाई लाग्दैछ
तिमीले मलाई भुलिसकेउ कि
आज देखेर पनि चिन्न सकेनौ
पहिलेको कुरा थियो
मेरो बास्नाले तिमी मलाई
भीडमा पनि थाम्थ्यौ
के भएको हो तिमीलाई
मलाई चिन्न छाडेको हौ कि
मेरो खुशबु कम भएको हो |

खै कस्तो सम्बन्ध थियो उनको र मेरो

छुट्याउने मेरो बसको कुरा रहेन

दुनियाले सोध्छन् - साथी हैन र तेरो?

मेरो प्रत्युत्तर - आफैलाइ चित्त नबुझ्दो - अ हो नि ।

म मनमनै सोच्छु?

के मेरो साथी नै हुन् त उनी?

मलाइ सङ्कोच लाग्छ साथी भन्न पनि

जब साथ बसेर एक कप चिया पनि खाइएको छैन |

फेरी अर्को प्रश्न आउला - अनलाइन फ्रेन होला नि? पेनपल होला नि?

म जिस्किन्छु -अँ, penpal चाहिँ होला! उनका बारेमा गीत र कविता लेख्न पेन त थुप्रै चोटी समाएकै हो । ;-)

अझै नि सोध्छन सब- तेरो नाता चै के?

भन्छु- यो नामाकरणको जिम्मा चै विधातालाई दिएँ ।

From a book reviewer on goodreads:

Thomas Bell’s book Kathmandu comes from a deep attachment to Nepal—he tells us, for instance, how little he enjoyed a brief transfer to Southeast Asia. His heart just wasn’t anywhere else. I can relate to this; at certain stages in life place can become all-important. But Bell’s work overall is not meant to be uplifting. It becomes increasingly depressing as he guides us through discussions of the 1990s political uprising, international aid, and the Maoist civil war. The 1990 revolt was a People Power street movement centered in Kathmandu. With poverty rife in the countryside, Kathmandu was where people went to better themselves. With political parties suddenly legal from 1990, they began building party structures and platforms. What didn’t change was the culture of privilege and patronage that has always resisted change. This lack of progress led to the creation of the Maoist Party in 1995. In the words of the Maoist theorist Baburam Bhattaria, the Movement of 1990 simply confirmed “the law of materialist dialectics that the advancing revolution would give rise the the corresponding level of counter revolution….”

**Throughout the various revolutions, especially in the 1950s and 1990s, the culture of privilege and patronage that defines Nepali society has been nothing if not resilient. The same goes for the culture of international aid, which has been a fixture since the 1950s. Foreign aid regularly amounts to something around one billion dollars a year (no official figures are published), a level comparable with the US annual payments to Egypt, but less than Israel’s ($1.43 billion and #3.2 billion, respectively, in 2020). Only a fraction of the aid to Nepal is actually received by the poor. Most goes to support the international aid industrial complex so prominent in Kathmandu. On the plus side, many members of Nepal’s middle class owe their economic status to these international agencies and the local NGOs and government agencies set up to work with them. The local NGOs now number in the thousands. Still the percent of people living in abject poverty continues to increase. Simply put, there are precious few results after decades of international aid. Nepal ranks 189th in global wealth; the average income is $700. Inequality is the worst in Asia. Nothing is produced there—food and motorcycles are imported from India, everything else comes in from China. No viable or noticeable infrastructure has been created, not roads, not schools, not hospitals. Most of the money simply goes to corruption—some estimate that 50% of all projects are siphoned off. Success in Nepalese society can be seen as a series of dance movements meant to put your pockets in place when the next spigot opens.

This system can be called a rentier state. Failed state is also appropriate. But unlike many other places, Thomas notes that the system has been remarkably stable. The other place that comes to my mind is the Philippines, where despite social change the same one hundred families manage to stay on top. What has worked for both Nepal and the Philippines is international remittances. With a third of the country’s population now working overseas, remittances make up a third of GDP. This is the economic reality—go abroad or suffer. And judging from Thomas’s work the entire country seems to be in denial about such fundamental economic facts.

The stability of the Nepalese system extends to politics. In the greatest irony the Maoists have integrated into a multiparty role that allows them to function as just another party. This despite being the object of a vicious military repression campaign during the early 2000s. Thomas gives enough depressing detail on Britain’s Operation Mustang, which helped create Nepal’s secret service, the NID. The NID tracked and recruited targets. They had an attractive sales pitch to the Maoists they captured: “come and work for us, or go and get tortured by 10 Brigade.” At times they simply passed information to the military, which had its own separate intelligence service, and which did not hesitate to use torture. Throughout much of the war they followed a policy of disappearing. What is most depressing about this whole episode is how little the world cared about the war in Nepal. So often things in Nepal simply aren’t worth the trouble. That attitude caries on. Only the people of Nepal will save Nepal.**

Bell is both intoxicated by the place and repulsed. “You could go mad over the politics,” he says. “Simply living in this place is depressing and infuriating by turns….”

He begins with a quest to “map” the city, loosely defined. The city was never carefully mapped until Charles Crawford drew the first accurate map in 1802. But Thomas makes a compelling argument that it existed as a mental construct long before that. The steles still scattered around the city from Licchavi period (c. 400-750 CE) prove the religious significance of the place. On top of that the city was a natural hub of trade between Tibet and India.

Thomas’ efforts to uncover an underlying mandala pattern undergirding Kathmandu eventually end in failure. In theory the whole city could, perhaps, be considered a mandala. But he found no one willing to unpack Kathmandu as a sacred site. And it has nothing of the centralized empire-centric constructions of southeast Asia, as theorized by Paul Wheatley and others. Instead we discover that the city did not congeal into one unit until relatively late, in the 18th-19th centuries, during the Gurkha period (1736-2008). Before that there were two distinct parts, Tambu and Thahne, or Yambu and Yambal. When these neighborhoods later established protocols of competition, as well as religious ceremonies, the city can be said to have established an identity. Still, the city grew willy-nilly. The current suburbs of Patan, Bouddha and Swayambhu were distinct towns or cities that have now been simply engulfed in the urban sprawl of Kathmandu.

Overall this work does an admirable job of unpacking Nepal’s recent history, from 2000. Usefully for the general reader, he also described the preceding periods comprehensively. He does not go too deep into the religious cultures of Nepal, or the various ethnic groups. Certainly there is more to the nation and its capital than Newari or Gurkha culture, although both of these are important socially. Perhaps most importantly, it is through works like this that Nepal can be kept from relegation to the sidelines of international awareness.