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Hills and Rivers

In Golping, I often stared at nearby hills in the evening and tried to listen to their silent stories.

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Poems · Stories



I suppose that is how it happened.

The process of regrets and gratefulness followed.

So many things followed.

Nothing mattered because,

serendipity never chose to leave.

We found our way,


gullies of loneliness,

streets of emptiness and

bridges of hopelessness.

Looked into each other’s eyes

only to look away.

Glances mystified and conversations halted in the tips of our tongues,

like early onset of Alzheimer’s taking over for a moment.

The bus stop was a huge stadium surrounded by people,

hearts blazing as loud as beat box,

we evaded the bond that was right there.

In front of the café in the bend of the road, we loved walking on

we needed a catalyst to swing by

and it came when clouds decided to shower the bamboo trees.

The drizzling Blues and bright streetlights

reminded us of

The Smiths.


There we were on opposite lanes,

same song playing in our ears

never realizing that half our souls we were searching

for every second of every day

was just a second away.


That’s how it happened.

We smiled and we knew love.

You were strong enough to pick up my pieces

I was strong enough not to break you apart


The carousel could not stop turning in the park

where roses were shades of faded pink

Not trying to sit still, the sands took the shape of a hurricane,

passing by us like a genie in the bottle,

granting the wishes we wished last night

Without realizing that

we were no longer going to be You and I today.

And then,

we became the candles of conscience drifting in the air.

mixtures of blood mist and shattered organs.


That’s how it happened.

We died knowing that there’s a light that never goes out.





Poems · Volunteering Diaries

Doors and Windows

I am always close to doors and windows

In buses, I seek out the window seats

Or seats close to creaky damaged doors

I am always close to doors and windows

Like I am close to broken walls,

Skeletons of past,

Stories of old rusty people

White haired freckled bike riding scientists.


I am always close to doors and windows

Places where it is easier to slip off

Unnoticed and invisible

That is why my hands search for keys in the darkness

My legs seem to stand beside gates of bye byes in parties

I am always the first one

To leave the claustrophobic elevators

Where my heart drums down my rib-cage that holds it prisoner.


I am always close to doors and windows

Because it is easier to escape

It is easier to find a tunnel, a worm-hole, a book

Than to stay real, unmasked, vulnerable

Because it is easier to find ways to

Unhurt, un-love,

This ever scared prisoner heart.


I am always close to doors and windows.

Poems · Stories


Two thousand seventeen was the year I struggled with the definition of home, felt homeless, searched for home, got home and still kept searching for it.

Home was round spiral wooden staircase,

Smell of wet mud and cold breeze

Home was around small stupa

And gold plated, bowl bottomed, oil filled thread lights,

It was stony broken roads

You could play see saw with your legs on either side of stones

Home was where grandma made hot rotis

And I dipped them in milky white tea


Home was when my brother saved me each time from being a seeker

And I hit him with lego pieces just because

Home was papa coming home

After his leather jacket smell reached home first

Mommy’s lipstick stains on both side of cheeks when she went off to work

Home was simple things

When happiness had wings, we saw it in the sky full of kites


Home was holding baby brother

And counting tiny star like dots on his nose

Home was a cacophony of laughter and noise in a busy streets of Ason

Home was home when home needed no definition.

But still was.




Home is the top of the hill

It is breathing hard while walking up

The sound of heart beats as they sing how much your legs have strained

How much your head is free of thoughts

Home is an ocean of colorful eyes, uncooked friendships, hopeful souls


Home now is a universe

Trying to find a coherent chaos

Trying to make bridges

Home is not what home was.


But Home still is.



The Perpetual Circle of Miseries

  1. The first ray of sunshine

makes you miss the warmth of his hands.

2. Never spent a winter outside home

And now you don’t know where home is anymore.

3.  You walk up until your lungs cry

but the smell of pig sty and familiar noise,

the fact that you’ve reached the destination

doesn’t make you happy.

4. You search for a familiarity in phone calls

and somehow everything is different.

5. Your friends have moved on

and their stories do not involve you

6. There’s hurt in your heart.

but pens refuse to jot it down.

7. Your skin is rusty, knees dry

mirrors are brutally honest

you tell yourself empty lies.

8. In evenings, you forget to see the sun set,

in mornings, you forget to hope,

afternoons are a blur.

9. Always scared of unfinished task

always on the run

always thinking

you forget your reasons

and rely on emotions instead.

10. At night you stare at the stars

they are the only things

you believe in now

because they fall and still shine in the dark.

11. You lose faith

you miss everything

that never really belonged to you.

12. The calendar

makes your heart beat faster.

13. Escaping is not an option

Perpetuality is your new master

You are a slave to life. Now.

A slave to life.


Poems · Volunteering Diaries


On 12th November 2017, I was in Hetauda for the mid-phase review. There was excitement in the air. Everyone was going to meet everyone and share stories. We had access to cafes and wi-fi for 3 whole days. We had a soft bed to sleep in and warm showers. I should have been happy but I was not. The second day hit me like a wild-fire and the anxiety and un-certainty about the future creeped in. It is still there. I don’t know if it will ever go away. The fear of the un-known and a million questions that start with, “What if?” What if I always feel like this? What if it never stops?


And your body just goes limp

when you look into the future

because there is nothing that you can see

that fits that clicks that smiles and winks

And all you see is pitfalls

darkness engulfing,

fires rising, dividing your heart,

And you ask her ‘Why?’

Why can’t you choose or compromise?

Why can’t you stay and be content?

Why do you have to wander and search?

What are you searching for?

Until she crumbles into pieces,



and answers back in raging sadness

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

And your body goes limp again.

Your throat is dry now

there’s a little lump in it you cannot swallow

there’s bitterness to it

And your brain knows they are the fears and inhibitions seeking shelter

They are refugees fleeing away from the battleground

Hiding from barrels of guns

They are prisoners of war,

PTSD injected into them,

They need help or they’ll burst into anxiety bombs

destroying your Hiroshima body

And you will go numb again

You will go limp again

And while you are un-crumbling your dying heart

While you are picking pieces of yourself scattered in the ground

Jolts of sadness keep engulfing your soul

Pathetic but you feel apathy to everything around you

And it is a lie,

You do not want to be this person

You do not want to run away

But you always find a reason

Run until you are far away from home

Or the idea of home


Until you stop breathing

Stop thinking



(The picture is sketched by my friend Christina. She’s amazing!)

Odes to people I know and don't know · Poems · Volunteering Diaries

Monkey Nose

This was our first prompt. On 17th November, right after the phase review we decided to have daily poetry prompts. There was going to be a training session on Natural Resource Management and Climate Change. The villagers were gathering and we were waiting for the trainer to arrive. I had an amazing time at the phase review but the fact that there was internet made me anxious. I felt like every one of my friends were moving on and I was stuck somewhere I wasn’t even needed. They had new dreams now. They had new stories to tell and I was not part of it. It was selfish of me to think like that but I still did. Human minds!

This prompt came about when we made two of the volunteers say a word. One said “Monkey!” and the other said, “Nose!” I had no intention of making up the poem the way it is. The major difference I found while writing it was that I was not scared of any judgment because it was merely in the paper. And I had so much freedom in the paper, in the middle of nowhere that I was. I felt like I could write anything I wanted to write. I have never felt that kind of independence before.

Words have magic in them. The way they stir your memories like ashes in fire. And I remembered her getting in the micro-bus everyday in front of my school.


She was an epitome of beauty,

Her eyes stared into your very soul

The soft curves of her body

Walked fearlessly in days that needed her to be fearless

Walked home in the rain

In days that she needed to wash away her pain


She was an epitome of beauty

Except in the mirrors that she looked into

They told her a different story

To her,  they were less kind

More rude, cruel, angry

They sang the songs of crooked eyes,

Exhausted tired face

They sang the songs of imperfection

How her nose looked inhumane,



They called her “monkey nose”

Her mirrors were not mirrors

They were the world staring at her

While she walked fearlessly

Fighting for her rights,

For her freedom

When people who were scared of her blissful soul

Sprinkled showers of sulphuric acid

Raining down

Her skin screamed and melted into the ground.

“Monkey nosed” they still called her

Her mirrors.

But she never believed them.