inside a quiet room of a psychologist

they peeled me off like an onion
layers by layers
until my purple skin became white
with fear.
and deep deep red as i rubbed 
the outsides of me 
to feel my heart burn
so that i could materialize 
what i was going through
in the crevices of my mind,
so that my physical being was aware
that wrapped around my neurons were
anxiety and panic: deep deep red. 
and i was allowed to cut 
the onion, 
i was allowed to cry.
i was allowed to hide away,
shrink in the smallest places I could find. 

i told them that
i wanted to become a slow moving clock 
my battery was dying and 
i wasn’t quite ready to replace them yet.
the big mart down the road 
did not sell the same ones I had 
and I would have to adjust 
new ones into my system 
it would take time, i told them,
to tick normally again.
i am not quite sure if they got me.

you see, 
metaphors are easier than
electronic neurophysics.
and i am learning to rewire my brain
i am trying to disconnect and reconnect emotions,
it is not easy. 

it feels like,
stopping a river of emotions 
to build a dam 
and using it 
as a strong hydro-electricity source. 
no engineers.
only a Dutch voice. 

i keep trying to grow skin
around the blankets of skeleton 
but i keep forgetting 
the law of growing. 
there isn’t one, is there? 
it feels like,
my mind shrinks a little 
every time my breaths accelerate.
my body tenses like 
dead dry ligaments 
i feel like
a tree in the storm
i shake like one 
until the leaves fall down,
it takes so much strength to hold on
to leaf like hopes
it takes so much strength not to break
branches like faith
when the storm leaves you, 
you feel empty, 
and it takes a while to feel green again. 
i want to feel green. again. 

Letters and Letters · Poems · The Paths Travelled

where you will find me

You will find me in places
where streets are jungles of people
that smell of old history books.

You will find me walking,
avoiding familiar eyes,
searching for strange ones
where you will find me looking
at yellow brown pupils,
holding sandpaper hands with
fingers circling the middle of my palms
with fingers filling the gaps of my hands,
feeling the woolen texture of
light green and black horizontal stripes of colors;
they speak a foreign language
but is so similar to my soul.
And when his lips brush against mine,
You will fine me in closed eye lids
where you will find me
in the pit of my diaphragm
with strange butterflies that 
do not stop tickling
with heart that stops for a while
entirely following the traffic lights of the body,
forgetting the frailness of universe, of future,
of everything scary.

You will find me in strengths of my legs when I run,
when the air holds my hair and I smile,
when the ground forgets to map out our gravity 
and she lets me float.

You will find me in gullies,
old meeting places where a jasmine tree blooms,
where poets gather and skate boards hang out with
skeleton masks, glass castles, stairs made of trees.

You will find me. 
Not where I should be found. 
But you will find me, 
Broken down and breathing
In key holes and red stages of dreams,
where a shadow follows me around,
showers through my thoughts,
embellishes in me, in the past,
where you will find me in 
oversize school uniforms,
mute and alone in the corner of a bench
not knowing how to end,
how to find arteries in my neck,
pills in the cabinet.
Unable to smile,
stop tears in the dingy toilet,
in a big school,
where you will find me lost,
confined in libraries,
pink books, glossy magazines,
where you will find me 
wishing to be a girl with pink rosy cheeks,
uniform that fits and 
sound that does not liquefy in big halls,
with smile that does not force itself.

You will find me in the past,
the lost hopes that were crippling,
and darkness that was blinding, maddening, 
shrilling images of green pen,
angry hand written letters to god,
burned down ashes,
candle waxes stuck in the table. 
You will find me waiting for electricity,
for energy to touch my feet in the ground,
to walk,
to live,
to leave. 

You will find me in struggles,
basic teenage years,
acidic experiences.
Never knowing who friends were,
Never knowing my insides that 
flickered, failed to light up,
tried to light up,
failed to light up,
until twenty people clicked three of their fingers together. 

You will find me in a washing machine poem,
appreciation cards,
you will find me in a brazen millet field, under million stars,
with porridge bowls, 
with Allah’s favorite people,
smelling of polar ice cigarettes 
and dusty mud, 
plastered  cow dung and 
love that sounded like river flowing along the banana groves.

You will find me
when I smelled of molten agar, 
bacillus stained in slides,
alcohol rubs, Bunsen burners, 
And dreams. 
You will find me in dreams. 
Because that is where I dwell. 
Because all the places that you will find me in are 
all the places that my dreams dream of
when I am wide awake. 
And you will find me wide awake,




Late at night, when sleep won’t summon me into his arms

I think of all the people I want to talk to

And I can think of none because they are deep in slumber

Engulfed in their temporary death,

Flying in seemingly colorful dreams

So instead, I think of caffeine coated books

With the corners and nooks

Filled with these amazing beings that make me believe

Insomnia is like a knight in shining armor.

Savior and protector of realism,

Killer of nightmares,

Proprietor of unseen marks under spectacle ridden eyes.


Late at night, when I keep staring at the ceiling

With nothing but thoughts popping out

Like bubbles in murky muddy puddle

I think of time as a domestic abuser who

Drags me faint through corridors and stairs

Kicks me in the ribs till I scream in pain

So I pretend that night never happened

Darkness is just a state of mind

There is still sun in the sky

And I wake up, brush my teeth, and write a poem

About a girl who died in library and woke up in the book she was holding,

Where there was a person who listened,

To things she whispered about the dreams she never had.


Late at night, I try real hard

Not to give in to my demons,

Not to walk in to the ghosts of my past

But I still do sometimes

I stumble into the thorns of uneven future

That stares at me through walls which were supposed to be doors

I stare right back at it,

Eyes fixed on it

I try hard to summon sleep,

Just few hours of thoughtlessness,

Where the mind won’t whisper my cause of death

Where I am free of me and everything I see

Whoosh of the wind or smell of the sea

It’s unreal as myths can sometimes be

Because the sleep won’t come to me

No the sleep won’t come to me.











Rubber Legs

Rubber legs run through the paved streets,

Joints crack in response,

Heart beats faster,

Skin reddens like the setting sun,

Lungs keep breathing.

As hands stop writing,

The legs compensate the ink,

Roads become papers,

Gridded in the edges but otherwise plain,

Letter sized roads re-write and un-write,

Sweat strikes through,

Muscles fold and unfold,

Body crumbles and

Throws itself into the shower,

Writing is undecipherable now,

Ink washes away.

Rubber legs.

Don’t stop running.


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!)