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Buwa

 Buwa I have been thinking of you lately your exuberance on those starry nights cold summer breeze, open skies my head on your chest your hands on my hair the joy you felt when you shared your tales of turtles & rabbits, of madmen and saints, i remember cucumbers and watermelons its sweet taste under moons and constellations i remember the spark on my eyes when i saw yours amidst the darkness i remember those nicknames you gave me i had many haku singh, kalu prasad, kaley tumbahamfe i remember that voice i remember the laugh i remember the joy i remember the five rupee note my first salary from your hands when i massaged your back I remember the morning shakes the hundred rupee you had saved for alcohol and cigarettes on Jerry and swari tarkari I remember the taste of that extra bite from your plate I remember the ghosts you said you battled with your shotgun from Germany the day i peed my pants when you invited me to see those ghosts how scared i was, how you smiled and said y...
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Memory

Memory Endless horizons amorphous whites auric auras of infinite sunsets mellow lights fading to black into city charms with infinite homes infinite lives infinite worlds do you see what i see? the summer breeze whispering greens rhythms of time dancing in silhouettes wrapped inside the songs of blackbirds singing of the transcendence do you hear what i hear? droplets on leaves like emeralds and ecstasy the middle of nowhere enriched with everything this world can offer a smile, a tear, a sigh a breath, a warmth, a chill hands holding souls lips merging worlds of imagination and gloom do you feel what i feel? pomegranates and dirt childhood bliss and spring calls i belong to no nowhere nowhere beyond sunflowers and cherry beyond spring fields and buwa's arms beyond busy streets and aama's palms the fragrance of pomegranates and dirt do you smell what i smell? i hope you could i hope i could capture and embrace moments into pictures, art, and poetry alas, the world isn't ver...
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Doggo and Existential Relief

Isn't it just great to play with doggos? They are cute, fluffy, playful, and don't hold back to blissfully wag their tail when you pet them on their head or caress them below the chin.  It feels ecstatic to notice how the doggo closes its eyes in peace, enjoying the open and intimate communication of love between two entirely different species. I was at a local forest today, and while I was chilling with the trees, a doggo came and sat next to me. 'Aau aau eta aau, Come come Come here', I signaled him with my hands, smirking at him like a gullible young child. I started petting him, playing with his hair, and telling him he's a good good doggo. The doggo closed its eyes, seemingly in comfort, and started wiggling its tail with joy. I couldn't stop but feel the exuberance of those wags; they spoke something deep inside me today. A unique emotion flabbergasted me. I was unsure of its origin, but it was a familiar emotion that I couldn't pinpoint. I stopped pet...
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Moms, Unsung Heroes, and The hole of Capitalism

 My house was resonating loud with the speeches of Ravi Lamichhane as usual. My mom, a big stan, cannot help but nod her head with peace to his words while she cooks breakfast for us. This is a daily routine — my mom wakes up at 5 AM, listens to Ravi speak, and patiently waits till I wake up to tell me that I should be as great as the Majestic Ravi. But this morning, something different happened and it told a lot of hidden stories. I heard my mom whisper to herself, ‘Oh, I see people or should I say heroes of my age changing the world, and here I am, stuck and struggling’. Melancholy struck me like violent storms in an ecstasy rally.  I felt a sudden unfairness, similar to the feeling you get when you truly realize how unfair this world is, a similar feeling to the one you get when you see starving people sleeping on the cold roads outside the President’s bungalow. I hated it. I hated how the unsung songs of unsung heroes were barely heard. Tonight, I want to write about it....
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Yin and Yang and Carl Jung

There are nights when just can’t sleep with the thought that life is a constant transformation of reality and thoughts. There are days when I am at my darkest stage from the evilest to the kindest to the happiest — all of them have happened, and when they did so, they felt like the only existing and non-ending reality. Then, what does this transformation mean and why is it there?  Well, maybe because life is an unending cycle of accidental ups and rejuvenating downs. We have those cycles within ourselves as well. This is what Psychologist Carl Jung explains in his concept The Shadow. It is the darkest unknown part of yourself. There’s a murderer, abuser, thief, cheater; a monster within you but these forms are repressed due to societal conventions of normal. To no surprise, this isn’t sustainable. Repressed energy often burst out, that’s why you have serial killers and psychopaths who are bold enough to challenge and rebel against the world.  We have that within us which I lik...
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Mehendis and Stereotypes

Aesthetic designs, rusty brown hue, and earthly fragrance you cannot stop sniffing every 10 seconds —  decorating your hands with Mehendis(hennas) is one of the best traditions in South East Asia. However, it has been only traditionally exclusive to women.  Grade 2 Shrijan didn’t care much about it though when he let his three sisters experiment with Mehendi art on his chest. They made a small heart-shaped design with a few doodles on the borders. The next day in school, one of my male teachers somehow noticed it. He raged at me, stripped me naked, and embarrassed me in front of the class. In the shithole that I studied in for 11 years, this wasn’t anything strange. I remember blaming myself for letting my sisters put Mehendi on me. But as I grew up, my concerns started to change.  I believe that the rage stemmed from how masculinity has been defined in our mindsets. I understand that putting on Mehendi is a culturally 'girly' thing. But whenever someone tries something d...
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On Choices, Regrets, and Guilt : Some Key Realizations

We have been there. It’s post-midnight. Your pitch-black room barely illuminates from a narrow beam of moonlight. Rolled up in the darkness, all you can see is a faint image of your ceiling and what seems like a shadow demon staring at you from the corner. But you care less for tonight. Your thoughts are much darker. We have been there because all of us have made terrible choices in the past — whether it be a decision that would have put you in a better place or something that has hurt someone in unimaginable ways. And these choices hurt us. Most of the time, we cannot forgive ourselves for what we’ve done. Other times, we end up contemplating our present as things could have been different if we had taken some other choices.  I have been experiencing such nights for quite a long time now. Having a brain that likes to show me flashbacks of every deplorable and embarrassing moment of my past doesn’t do much justice to my sleepy eyes.  However, I have come up with some recent re...
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A critique on the 'Not Caring About The World' trope

The inception of COVID-19 blocked not only the borders around me but also my unfettered inquisitiveness to know about the world. As every news regarding the rise in infections and death toiled my brain, I started to find myself more overwhelmed with any tragedy or updates in the world. I stopped reading news, articles, and podcasts as I used to and I rarely cared about what was happening with anything.  My rationale was simple, and I believe it still holds true for me. At this point, the world was too huge for me to care about because I knew that I barely had any power to change it. Phrases like ‘Ignorance is Bliss’ resonated harder than ever and my conception of a better life became that as an owl(a latokosheko) — blissfully unaware of its unawareness. These thought-trains flowed to questioning the credibility of morality and losing hope after realizing how unfair, chaotic, and immoral the world was.   The availability of other sides provided me with much-needed perspect...
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Why risk your life as a journalist?

CRASH. Blurry visions of dust, broken glasses, and what seems like a group of militants surround you. You just had an accident.  You open your eyes, walk out, and breathe in the air of being alive; the feel of avoiding death by a second. As your vision starts to become more vivid, you see a policeman looking at you. With dead eyes, he walks 3 steps forward and casually crouches with his gun. The last thing you see is a strong beam of yellow light with a loud bang. You just survived death to be killed again.  The incident I am describing happened in a video that popped up on my Twitter wall a few minutes ago. There wasn’t much context to the video except that it happened in Palestine and was a case of extreme police brutality in an ongoing conflict zone.  As an aspiring Journalist, this sent shivers down my spine. My future profession will most likely revolve around going to the most dangerous of places: at massive protests where I could be hit by a random stone, at terror...
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