Little Words That Count

The great detective

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Fri, 31 Jan 2020 09:35:00 +0000

The sun, pushing away the clouds, threw its light upon Naxal park, painting its smooth lawns, cobbled pavements, dark trees with delight and fizzing them with kindly warmth. The older people, with drooping necks, felt the heat press their napes and saw the light pour into the ground. The tides of light gently rolled upon the smooth lawns, cobbled pavements, thronging trees. Widening their eyes, the old peers craned their necks, and looked how far the light would reach, until their necks cracked and an injured look appeared on their faces. They drooped back, clutching their strained necks.

The great detective, his hands clasped behind the back, stepped into the premises of Naxal park. He wore a large fedora hat and had a pipe sticking from the corner of his mouth. He scanned the park thoroughly and then unclasped his hands, pulled out his cigar, and took a drag. He then exhaled billows of smoke. His eyes wandered again, and when they spotted the group of older men, his eyes lost their spark. The expression on his face changed, his shoulders stooped. When the older men saw him, he forced a weak smile and made his way out of the park to Nagpokhari. Just as he reached the park’s exit, someone called his name, “Prakash”.

The detective winced, the way criminals wince when they think that they have managed to escape from the authorities only to learn that they were so wrong. He recognised the voice. It was Gyanshyam Manandhar’s. He had seen Manadhar sitting with Hosh Prasad Sharma and Tanka Bahadur Pun. He was trying to avoid any interactions with the trio, but it wasn’t to be.

The detective let out a long breath and his shoulders stooped. He turned slowly and gave the trio a look that said ‘I am so not up for this’. The trio asked him to come sit with them on the bench. Manandhar even gave him a rib-cracking hug. “So, what the Dickens is the matter with you, old top? Still looking after the lost hen?” said Manandhar, and the trio roared into a peal of thundering laughter meant to humiliate the detective.

The detective’s lips trembled, and the cigar clenched between his lips began to wobble nervously. “I saw him, crouched on the corner, studying the marble floor with a magnifying glass, looking for the hen’s footprints,” said Sharma mockingly, and the trio once gains burst into laughter. “You call yourself a detective, but you can’t even find a missing hen,” added Pun. The great detective’s cigar fell and plopped down on the floor. Manandhar kicked it into the clump of moist grass.

The great detective’s eyes moistened. His old, tactless ‘peers’ pouring sacks of salt in his old wounds touched him in the tender spot. What had happened to him, was as the poet Samuel Butler put it “…a kick in that part more hurts honour than deep wounds before.” The great detective’s head began to spin; he gripped Manandhar’s shoulder like a sinking man clutching a floating log. Manandhar stayed still with an evil look on his face. The detective’s world began to spin, and he could no longer hold on to Manandhar’s shoulders, and his legs gave out. He lay sprawled on the floor with his face on the sweet morning grass.

“He shouldn’t have joined detective work if he couldn’t handle the truth. What a weakling,” said Manandhar. The three old peers left his sprawled body and sauntered towards Nagpokhari.

By: Pratik Mainali (C)

Let the world spin madly on

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Wed, 05 Jul 2017 05:10:00 +0000

It was only after he pointed out couple of years ago that she had noticed she really is compulsive in her own unapparent ways. There were certain (little) things that really bothered her.

This morning, it was all coming back to her, as if the universe was trying too hard to prove a point. There he was: trying to right all the wrongs, trying to speak his heart out, trying to be more communicative. But she just couldn’t focus. She just couldn’t listen to him.

He was seated exactly two and a half feet across a table from her—a safe distance for ex-lovers to talk things through and sort things out. A good distance to comprehend what the other person is meaning to say.

But, there was too much going on in between. Everything was a mess. The scream of the clutter that demanded to be taken care of easily outdid his voice.

Her cup was sticky with chiya that the waiter had spilled on his way. There were cheap paper towels at disposal but they had been unskillfully halved to ‘save resources’. His cigarette had soggy discolouration from last night’s rain. The branded green ashtray boasted the wrong spelling—Toburg. To make it all worse, his leg wouldn’t stop shaking under the table, and the fingers on his left-hand wouldn’t stop scratching the unattended wound on his right-hand knuckle.

“How do you expect me to talk to you when you don’t even try to listen? Why are you always so distracted?”

“Always?”

If she was compulsive, she also had her own ways of dealing with the compulsiveness. She would fix what could be fixed, and shove aside that what couldn’t—out of sight, out of mind.

It was not going to happen this morning.

“I might always have been a bad talker, but you haven’t been a good listener either.”

In her attempt to do him justice, she looked right into his eyes. Ideally, it should have helped her focus. But not today. It only further distracted her. It only made her realise that he had now become somebody that bothered her too. Unfortunately, she could neither fix him nor shove him away.

She loathed herself for comparing him to other things on the table, but she couldn’t help it.

The conversation came to an end with whatever was left of them: “This is it. We can’t be fixed. Let’s try to move on.”

If only his eyes were as sincere as his words.

For the past six months, they had taken turns in trying to mend and break and then mend the relationship again. And had failed together at doing either.

...

If there was one thing that did justice to her current state of mind, it was Kathmandu’s current sky. While everyone around her complained about how the weather was horribly unpredictable—with sun in the morning and drizzles during the day which turned into thunderstorms by nightfall—she just looked up and said, “I feel you.”

“Sometimes I fear you have bipolar disorder—you are utterly sad one moment and euphoric the other.”

He had once jokingly said, or so she thought, to make her laugh on a horrible day. If she didn’t have the disorder back then, she worried she might have developed it now.

Calling him the inattentive one in the relationship wouldn’t have been entirely right. He did pay attention to her—sometimes a little too much.

So often he would point out things—weaknesses—about her that she didn’t even know existed. “Self-absorbed, unhappy, chea…” She tried to list out his weaknesses as she crawled through the jam and stench on the Bagmati Bridge, and then just gave up.

It’s funny how the happy memories always outweigh the sad ones. She had already decided to let go of him, and move on from the place they were stuck in. Yet, somewhere deep down she wanted to go back in time and cling on to what they once had and what they once were. In that moment, as she tried to hate a man she once loved so much, she realised it wasn’t important anymore. The initially torrid heartache now felt so trivial.

...

She had enough work to keep herself busy that day. If only she chose to stay busy. She pushed back her swivel chair with her feet against the wall and spun endlessly on it. “The world spins madly on”—she sang inside her head.

Songs, even the saddest ones, always made her happy. And even if she sang them only inside her head—they made her feel alive. Songs were her secret weapon, her coping mechanism. There was too much to cope with.

Something in the 19° Celsius cool air of the conditioned room had awoken a hibernating rebel in her. “Rebel” being the little girl who just wanted to spin madly on in an office where she was surrounded with people who lived to work.

She scanned the room—most of which was filled with men—and wondered how many people had loved and lost. And how many people would still risk it all and go through it all over again. And she laughed—also quietly inside her head. There’s only so much one could know of a person they have loved for half a decade, strangers were a different story altogether.

Woke up and wished that I was dead With an aching in my head I lay motionless in bed I thought of you and where you’d gone and let the world spin madly on.

By: Abha Dhital (C)

"The Black Diary" Official Trailer (2017)

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Wed, 01 Feb 2017 06:38:00 +0000

THE BLACK DIARY
The most anticipated suspense thriller movie for 2017.

Director: GSUJAN
Presenter/concept: SABIN SHAKYA
Producer : ANOJ ADHIKARI
Choreographer: RAJU SHAH
Stunt: SHANKAR MAHARJAn
Music: MANOJ RAJ BHANDARY/ RAMAN GAYAK
Cinematography: SHER BDR LAMA
Editor : MITRA D. GURUNG / MRIGENDRA GURUNG

Funny Video [1]

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sat, 12 Nov 2016 15:41:00 +0000

Fast and Furious 8 ALL NEW Teaser & Clips (2017)

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Wed, 21 Sep 2016 05:09:00 +0000

Fast 8 is an upcoming 2017 American action film directed by F. Gary Gray and written by Chris Morgan. It is the eighth installment in The Fast and the Furious franchise.

Fast8 is a new movie by F. Gary Gray, starring Dwayne Johnson, Jason Statham and Vin Diesel.

Jack Reacher: Never Go Back Official Trailer (2016)

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Tue, 06 Sep 2016 02:46:00 +0000

Jack Reacher: Never Go Back (previously known as Jack Reacher: Never Look Back) is an upcoming 2016 American action thriller film directed by Edward Zwick and co-written with Richard Wenk and Marshall Herskovitz. It is a sequel to 2012 film Jack Reacher. The film stars Tom Cruise, Cobie Smulders, Danika Yarosh, Aldis Hodge, Patrick Heusinger, and Holt McCallany. Principal photography began on October 20, 2015 in New Orleans. The film is scheduled to be released on October 21, 2016 in IMAX and conventional formats.

Wiz Khalifa - See You Again ft. Charlie Puth, Furious 7

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Mon, 05 Sep 2016 02:17:00 +0000

"See You Again" is a song recorded by American rapper Wiz Khalifa featuring American singer Charlie Puth. The track was commissioned for the soundtrack of the 2015 action film Furious 7 as a tribute to the late Paul Walker, who died in a single-vehicle accident on November 30, 2013 in Valencia, California. The artists co-wrote the song with its co-producers, DJ Frank E and Andrew Cedar, with additional production from Puth and mixing provided by Manny Marroquin. "See You Again" was released on March 10, 2015, as the soundtrack's lead single in the United States.

Assassin's Creed Official Trailer (2016)

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sun, 04 Sep 2016 05:20:00 +0000

When Callum Lynch (Michael Fassbender) explores the memories of his ancestor Aguilar and gains the skills of a Master Assassin, he discovers he is a descendant of the secret Assassins society.

Starring: Michael Fassbender, Marion Cotillard

LEAGUE OF GODS Trailer

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sun, 04 Sep 2016 05:14:00 +0000

League of Gods (Chinese: 3D封神榜) is an upcoming Hong Kong-Chinese fantasy film directed by Koan Hui and Vernie Yeung based on the novel Fengshen Yanyi by Xu Zhonglin and starring an ensemble cast of Jet Li, Tony Leung, Louis Koo, Huang Xiaoming, Angelababy, Wen Zhang and Jacky Heung.

Max Steel Official Trailer 1 (2016) - Superhero Movie

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sun, 04 Sep 2016 01:44:00 +0000

Starring: Ben Winchell, Maria Bello, and Andy Garcia
Max Steel Official Trailer 1 (2016) - Superhero Movie

The adventures of teenager Max McGrath and alien companion Steel, who must harness and combine their tremendous new powers to evolve into the turbo-charged superhero Max Steel.

Samsung Galaxy Note 7

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Wed, 31 Aug 2016 17:09:00 +0000

Big, bold and beautiful, the Samsung Galaxy Note 7 sets a new standard for high-end Android smartphones. It combines cutting-edge hardware with premium design to become the latest (and greatest) member of the Note series. Of course, the 5.7-inch handset comes bundled with a refined S Pen - an advanced digital stylus for sketching, taking down notes, or navigating through the UI. Another stand-out feature is the built-in iris scanner, which is used to identify the device's owner. On the back of the device we see the highly-acclaimed 12MP camera from the Galaxy S7, known for its speed and quality images.

Display	5.7-inch Dual-edge Super AMOLED display 2560 x 1440 resolution 518ppi
Processor	Quad-core 64-bit (2.15GHz Dual + 1.6GHz Dual) Qualcomm Snapdragon 820 or Octa-core Samsung Exynos 8890
RAM	4GB, LPDDR4
Storage	64GB
MicroSD	Yes, up to 256GB
Cameras	Rear: Dual Pixel 12MP sensor with OIS, f/1.7 aperture Front: 5MP sensor with f/1.7 aperture
Battery	3,500mAh Fast charging WPC and PMA wireless charging
Water resistance	IP68 rating
Connectivity	WiFi 802.11 a/b/g/n/ac (2.4/5GHz) MU-MIMO(2x2) 620Mbps Bluetooth v 4.2 LE ANT+ USB Type-C NFC Location (GPS, Glonass, Beidou)
Sensors	Barometer, Fingerprint Sensor, Gyro Sensor, Geomagnetic Sensor, Hall Sensor, HR Sensor, Iris Sensor, Proximity Sensor, RGB Light Sensor
Software	Android 6.0.1 Marshmallow
Colors	Silver, Gold Platinum, Blue Coral, Black Onyx
Dimensions Weight	153.5 x 73.9 x 7.9mm 169g

Soothing Symphonies

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Thu, 25 Dec 2014 05:04:00 +0000

The air was filled with music; at first slowly, but as everyone settled down, the music got louder. At times, the amplitude got so loud that it would have made even Beethoven’s disciple close one or both of his ears. And sometimes the music got so quiet that the same disciple would have wondered which scale they were following. There were no rounds of applause either. Instead, there was laughter, and if you really listened, you could have even heard somebody gossiping about someone. The music was not orchestrated; there was no Beethoven; nor was there anyone willing to pursue in the footsteps of Mozart. And yet, the music flowed, without any flaws, without any orchestra.

“Use scale B,” a man in his mid-forties said with a smirk. “Or else the Goddess won’t hear anything we play,” he continued, with a roar followed by the unanimous laughter of everyone present.

“Pawan Dai is right,” said the woman sitting in the rear. “It’s hard for us to listen here, and we don’t have any hearing problems, so to speak,” she continued, with a mischievous grin.

The man behind the harmonium smiled. He knew that the scale he had been playing was just right, that they were only pulling his leg, or hands, or anything they could pull for that matter.

“Please use scale B, Om Dai,” the woman with the mischievous grin continued.

“Okay, scale B it is,” Om replied. He knew that she had no idea what scale B sounded like, just like he knew that they would not let him continue until he nodded to their random suggestions. He would have stuck with his own scale any other night, but that night was different. He had to reach home early, and there were still two more songs to perform. Om then gave a nod of approval to his friend behind the tabala and started playing their second song.

As the scale changed and new tunes slowly emerged, the people sitting on the straw mat started singing as one symphony. Men, women and children tried to synchronise themselves with the music, their bodies slowly swaying, their hands coming closer in rhythmic movements. All of them were familiar with the tune, the music, the words. It was a song dedicated to Goddess Mahalaxmi, the deity their musical choir was named after. Every evening, they gathered around their chowk to pay musical tribute to the Goddess. Every evening, after the daily chores had been performed for yet another tomorrow, men, women and children would sit round the straw mat, pick up any musical instrument they could lay their hands on and start playing the music in any scale they believed was harmonic. The music they played was not really harmonious. But they continued playing every other night, continued singing one song after another, in an attempt to appease the Goddess and soothe themselves.

“Ten thousand and six hundred, that’s the amount Shankar Dai owes me,” said Pawan, the man with the roar as everyone called him, finally completing his mathematical calculation. He was playing a round instrument made of brass. As he swayed back and forth with the music, numbers flowed in his head. A keen businessman by birth, well-known for his sharp mathematical skills, he never failed to keep a balance between debit and credit. “Five thousand and two hundred, Ramesh dai’s interest,” he calculated. “When will these people pay me back? I too have to pay interest to the blood-sucking banks,” Pawan’s thoughts paced along with the music. “I have to call them tomorrow.” He hated reminding his own neighbours of the debts they owed. But it was his job. He then looked at the idol of the Goddess they had installed years back in the hopes that she would bring joy and happiness to them. “I’m only doing my job,” he said to the Goddess. Pawan sighed as the song came to an end and the sounds of the harmonium came to a stop. He looked at Om, the harmonium player. Om plays well, he thought. “I told you,” he roared, “scale B is the one.”

Om had played in a different scale, but he did not want to explain himself. He only nodded. One more song and I can go home, he thought. Home, his son, he remembered. He looked behind, in the direction of his home; its bricks in a few places were crumbling, unable to resist the adverse effects of the weather. A dim light glowed on the third floor. His son was sleeping there, he knew. His eight-year-old son had been suffering from fever. Om had heard about a new flu that had been affecting a good number of kids, and he had been worried the whole day about whether his son suffered from that flu.

“Is Babu okay now, Om Dai?” the woman in the rear asked Om, who despite being younger than her, was addressed by her with the same name that everyone, old or young, used to call him.

“No,” he answered, hesitant to speak the words. “He’s been sweating the whole day.”

“Maybe it’s the new flu,” an elderly woman said, as she added oil to the burning lamp. That light should never go off, they had always urged one another. And thus, there was always someone who took care of the burning oil lamp, someone who made sure that the light would not so much as flicker while the choir performed. “You should go see a doctor first thing tomorrow morning,” she continued, as she adjusted the cottony tip of the oil lamp.

“Hmm,” Om considered. He would have gone to the doctor that very moment had he not been playing that night. But he was the only harmonium player they had, and he could never refuse playing for them, for the Goddess. Besides, he knew that his son loved anything he played. Maybe the music had soothed down his temperature, he thought. “Let’s play song number three,” he said, as he fitted his fingers into chords over the keys of the harmonium. Song number three was his son’s favourite.

“Babu will love this song,” the elderly woman said.

Om moved his fingers easily,

as if he had been doing that for his entire life. He knew he was not the best musician, but he was better than many others. As the music picked up its rhythm, the air resonated with familiar syllables and a symphony which might not receive a standing ovation elsewhere, but which always managed to soothe the hearts of those present.

“I should go and see an ENT specialist,” the woman in the rear spoke to herself as she pressed her index finger over her right ear. All I’ve been hearing is a buzzing sound, she thought.

“Is everything okay, Rama Bhauju?” a teenage girl sitting beside her asked.

“I feel like there’s a bug around,” Rama Bhauju replied with her famous grin.

“Bug? Yeah, right,” the girl giggled.

Rama smiled and continued singing with the chorus. As long as she could hear those chords Om Dai played, those symphonies they chorused, as long as she could hear the sounds of the bell ringing, she could never go deaf, she believed.

After the song came to an end, a kid struck the bell, a formal announcement that the choir was now over. He then ran to sit next to Om Dai, to play the famous Sa-Re-Ga-Ma-Pa on the harmonium. As the basic chords of music flowed in the air, all of them started sharing the sweets, the Goddess’s blessings. They then stood up and started talking about the flu, the new loadshedding schedule and the songs they would perform the next day.

After the musical instruments were carefully stacked away, the elderly woman rolled up the straw mat. All of them then walked to their homes, to the daily chores that awaited them, to the debts they owed, to the faiths they kept, to the family they loved. The burning light flickered slowly. And in the niche where the idol of the Goddess sat, watched over from and listened, the echo of the soothing symphonies reverberated.

By: - Barsha Chitrakar

Apple iPhone 6 Plus Review

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Fri, 19 Dec 2014 05:48:00 +0000

PROS: Bright, full HD display; Sleek metal design; Fast performance; Long battery life

CONS: Weak audio output; Pricey for 16GB

VERDICT : The Apple iPhone 6 Plus packs a vibrant 5.5-inch display, fast processor and long battery life into its elegant metal design.

With the iPhone 6 Plus, Apple finally has a bona-fide phablet to call its own. It's Apple's biggest phone yet, packing a 5.5-inch, 1920 x 1080 display within a slim and curvy chassis that makes its monster size look elegant. This isn't simply a scaled-up iPhone, either; the 6 Plus boasts features exclusive to Apple's line, such as optical image stabilization and a dual pane landscape mode that makes the smartphone feel like a tablet. Overall, the iPhone 6 is easily one of the best big-screen phones you can buy.

Design

Would you like fries with that? The first supersized iPhone has arrived, and Apple's normally bite-size flagship has made a graceful transition into the phablet realm with the iPhone 6 Plus. This 5.5-incher sports the same curvy edges and smooth, anodized aluminum backside as its smaller iPhone 6 counterpart, though the gray plastic stripes on the top and bottom rear panel distract a bit from its otherwise classy design.

While the 6 Plus' curved edges make it comfortable to hold, the phone's aluminum finish is slippery enough to warrant picking up a case. And unless you've got monster hands, this is a two-handed device; my right hand often cramped when I spent too long using it with one.

Measuring 6.22 x 3.06 x 0.28 inches, the iPhone 6 Plus is taller but thinner than many of its phablet competitors, including the Samsung Galaxy Note 4, LG G3 and OnePlus One.

Those upgrading from the 3.95-ounce iPhone 5s might need some time getting used to the 6.07-ounce 6 Plus, which also outweighs the 5.71-ounce OnePlus One and the 5.3-ounce LG G3. The Galaxy Note 4 is a bit heavier at 6.3 ounces.

Display

Sporting a 5.5-inch, 1920 x 1080 display, the iPhone 6 Plus marks the iPhone's first jump to full HD. The 6 Plus' massive screen is on a par with the OnePlus One's 5.5-inch, 1080p display, though the 5.7-inch Galaxy Note 4 and 5.5-inch LG G3 sport even sharper quad HD (2560 x 1440) displays.

This bigger, sharper screen makes it the best iPhone yet for watching movies; I was able to notice the smallest of details in The Avengers, from the beads of sweat running down Black Widow's face during a showdown with the Hulk to the veiny green skin of the Hulk himself. Games looked vibrant, too, whether I was shooting pigs out of the rippling waters of Angry Birds: Transformers or sliding down a shiny skyscraper in N.O.V.A. 3.

The iPhone 6 Plus registered a super-luminous 537 nits on our brightness test, beating out the Galaxy Note 4 (318 nits), OnePlus One (432 nits), LG G3 (272 nits) and the 367-nit smartphone average.

The 6 Plus displayed a healthy 95.3 percent of the sRGB color gamut, beating out the LG G3 (93.4) and the OnePlus One (92.7 percent). However, the 6 Plus fell behind the 112.9-percent smartphone average, as well as the Note 4's super-high color representation of 163 percent.Apple's phablet boasts above-average color accuracy, with a Delta E (closer to 0 is best) of 1.9 that beats out the LG G3 (5.5), the OnePlus One (8.6), the Note 4 (4.2) and the 4.68 smartphone average.

Dual Pane Mode and Keyboard

The iPhone 6 Plus' phablet-size display doesn't just make movies and games look prettier; it actually lets you use the iPhone in new ways. When using Messages and Mail in the 6 Plus' exclusive Dual Pane landscape mode, you can view a list of your most recent conversations on the left side of the screen while reading each message in full on the right. I was able to navigate the 6 Plus' home screen and the App Store in landscape mode, much like I would on a tablet.

However, the Galaxy Note 4 and Galaxy S5 go even further in terms of taking advantage of the big screen. Multi Window lets you run two apps at once, and even share content between windows in some cases.

When using the 6 Plus' keyboard in landscape mode, you'll have exclusive access to cut, copy and paste keys. Regardless of how you use it, the 6 Plus' keyboard now supports predictive typing via iOS 8, though it lacks the dedicated number row of Android keyboards such as the Note 4. Fortunately, iOS 8 allows you to download third-party keyboards from the App Store for the first time, with a lineup that currently includes favorites such as SwiftKey, Swype and Fleksy as well as sillier offerings like GIF Keyboard and ScribbleBoard. I was perfectly comfortable typing on the default iOS 8 keyboard, but the option to upgrade to Swype is one I personally welcome.

Audio

The iPhone 6 Plus' audio output isn't exactly as colossal as its size. Rock songs such as Yellowcard's "Transmission Home" came through the phone's bottom speaker with decent clarity, but the track's normally crushing guitars sounded thin, and the whole mix got messy during the chorus.

Synthetic tracks such as Kanye West's "Hold My Liquor" fared better on the 6 Plus, as I was able to hear the song's vocals and background synths clearly.

The 6 Plus' speakers registered 78 decibels on our audio test, which is softer than the LG G3 (84 decibels), the OnePlus One (86 decibels) and the 81-decibel smartphone average.

iOS 8 and Interface

The iPhone 6 Plus ships with iOS 8, which builds on the flat, minimal refresh that iOS 7 introduced. The software's improved Spotlight search now includes results from the Web instead of just your phone, and Messages now lets you send quick voice notes and makes it easier to capture short videos for friends.

New to the iPhone 6 and 6 Plus is Reachability, a feature especially handy for the gargantuan 6 Plus. Double-tapping the Touch ID home button will bring the top half of the screen to the bottom, allowing you to more easily access things like app icons and search bars with your thumb.

As with iOS 7, the iOS 8 interface sports an Android-style Control Center that lets you quickly toggle things like Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, Airplane mode and music playback. You can slide down from the top of the screen for the 6 Plus' notifications menu, which now features widget support for select news, shopping and productivity apps.

Health, Apple Pay and Apps

The iPhone 6 Plus' most notable new app is Health, which allows you to track a smattering of wellness statistics, including steps taken, distance traveled, daily calories and sleep. Health can funnel in data from a variety of iOS 8-optimized fitness apps, including Map My Run, Mayo Clinic, Up by Jawbone, WebMD and Sleep Cycle.

The 6 Plus also heralds the arrival of Apple Pay, which stores your payment cards to Passbook and uses the phone's NFC chip to let you pay for goods with a quick tap of the phone at supporting stores. The current list of Apple Pay-ready retailers includes McDonald's, Walgreens, Whole Foods, Duane Reade, RadioShack and Bloomingdale's, as well as every Apple Store in the U.S.

Apple's phablet comes preloaded with GarageBand, iMovie, Pages, Keynote and Numbers, allowing you to make music, edit videos and work on presentations right out of the box. If that's not enough software for you, you can always peruse the million-plus apps available on Apple's App Store.

Performance

Powered by Apple's new A8 processor, the iPhone 6 Plus breezed through any activity I threw at it. Whether I was streaming video, laying down digital drums in GarageBand or bouncing between multiple apps, the 6 Plus did what I needed it to do without a stutter.

Combined with the phone's generous screen size, the A8 processor makes the 6 Plus the best iPhone ever for gaming. The intense gunplay of N.O.V.A 3 ran without a hitch, and the new Metal graphics engine for iOS 8 made Beach Buggy Racing's sunlight reflections and motion blur effects look especially tasty.

The 6 Plus scored 2,903 on the Geekbench 3 performance test, beating out the OnePlus One (2504), the LG G3 (2,401) and the smartphone average (1,953) while falling to the Note 4's beefy 3,124.

The iPhone 6 Plus was less dominant on the 3DMark Ice Storm Unlimited graphics test. With a score of 16,965, the smartphone trounced the 7,143 smartphone average but fell behind the Note 4 (20,126), the LG G3 (17,548) and the OnePlus One (18,399).

However, the 6 Plus fared quite well on the GFXBench Manhattan graphics test, which measures OpenGL ES 3.0 performance. The iPhone notched 31.6 frames per second, which is more than double the Galaxy S5 (11.7) and the Galaxy Note 4 (11.1).

Camera

The iPhone 6 Plus' iSight camera retains the 8-MP resolution of the iPhone 5s, but boasts an improved sensor with an aperture of f/2.2, meaning more light can get in. The 6 Plus is the only new iPhone to offer optical image stabilization, which allows for better low-light shots.

The shots I took on a trip to Union Square looked mostly crisp and colorful. Individual blades of grass stood out in a photo of a Union Square park lawn, and the stacks of bright store logos that adorn the area's shopping center came through clearly. A colorful rack of play balls in Petco looked mostly true to life on the 6 Plus, but the orange balls looked strangely washed out.

If you're like me, you'll probably find yourself addicted to the 6 Plus' slo-mo video mode. You can capture slow-motion video at up to 240 fps on the 6 Plus, which allowed me to turn a calm afternoon of people walking and driving around 5th Avenue into a Michael Bay movie waiting to happen. The 6 Plus also shoots regular old video at up to 1080p, which looked just as crisp as my still shots.

Battery Life

The iPhone 6 Plus isn't just the biggest iPhone yet; it's also the longest lasting.

Apple's phablet lasted an impressive 10 hours while surfing the Web on AT&T's 4G LTE network, beating out the LG G3 (7:12) Galaxy Note 4 (8:43) and the 7:28 smartphone average while falling to the OnePlus One's epic 13:16.

The 6 Plus outlasted the standard iPhone 6 (7:40), and nearly doubled the iPhone 5s' 5:46 endurance.

Configurations

The iPhone 6 Plus starts at $300 on-contract with 16GB of storage. A 64GB configuration will run you $400, and stepping up to 128GB costs $500. In comparison, the $300 Note 4 packs 32GB of storage, and can be expanded to up to 128GB via a microSD card.

iPhone 6 Plus vs. iPhone 6

Picking the right iPhone 6 for you comes down to a few factors. The 6 Plus has the bigger, sharper display (5.5 inches, 1920 x 1080 vs. 4.7 inches, 1334 x 750), but the standard iPhone 6 is more compact and easier to use with one hand.

The iPhone 6 Plus is the only of the two to sport optical image stabilization, though I noticed generally consistent camera quality between the two smartphones. The 6 Plus has an exclusive Dual Pane landscape mode, which gives you a better view of texts and emails when using the phone horizontally.

In terms of software, the smartphones are identical. Both ship with iOS 8, and both have NFC chips that can make mobile payments via Apple Pay.

If you want the most storage for your dollar, you might want to consider the vanilla iPhone 6. For the same $300 asking price as the starting 16GB iPhone 6 Plus, you can get an iPhone 6 with four times the storage at 64GB.

Bottom Line

If you've been holding out for a phablet-size iPhone, the $300 iPhone 6 Plus is for you. The handset's 5.5-inch full HD display and zippy A8 processor make it the best iPhone yet for entertainment, and its long battery life ensures that you'll be able to enjoy apps, movies and games for hours on end. Apple's big-screen phone also packs a fantastic camera in a slimmer design than the competition.

While the iPhone 6 Plus impresses, the Samsung Galaxy Note 4 is the best overall phablet on the market. Samsung's plus-size phone has an even sharper quad HD display, pen input, robust multitasking options and more storage for the same $300 starting price. Still, if you're looking to get as big a phone as possible while sticking with iOS and Apple's excellent app ecosystem, it's hard to go wrong with the iPhone 6 Plus.

By Michael Andronico, Tom's Guide

Two Cows

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Thu, 06 Mar 2014 15:24:00 +0000

SOCIALISM
You have 2 cows.
You give one to your neighbour...

COMMUNISM
You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and gives you some milk

FASCISM
You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and sells you some milk

NAZISM
You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and shoots you

BUREAUCRATISM
You have 2 cows.
The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then
throws the milk away

TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM
You have two cows.
You sell one and buy a bull.
Your herd multiplies, and the economy
grows.
You sell them and retire on the income

ROYAL BANK OF SCOTLAND (VENTURE) CAPITALISM
You have two cows.
You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by
your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption
for five cows.
The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company.
The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States , leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release.
The public then buys your bull.

SURREALISM
You have two giraffes.
The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.

AN AMERICAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You sell one, and force the other to
produce the milk of four cows.
Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why
the cow has dropped dead.

A GREEK CORPORATION
You have two cows. You borrow lots of euros to build barns, milking sheds, hay stores, feed sheds,
dairies, cold stores, abattoir, cheese unit and packing sheds.
You still only have two cows.

A FRENCH CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three
cows.

A JAPANESE CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce
twenty times the milk.
You then create a clever cow cartoon image called a Cowkimona and
market it worldwide.

AN ITALIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows,
but you don't know where they are.
You decide to have lunch.

A SWISS CORPORATION
You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you.
You charge the owners for storing them.

A CHINESE CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You have 300 people milking them.
You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity.
You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.

AN INDIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You worship them.

A BRITISH CORPORATION
You have two cows.
Both are mad.

AN IRAQI CORPORATION
Everyone thinks you have lots of cows.
You tell them that you have none.
No-one believes you, so they bomb the ** out of you and invade your country.
You still have no cows, but at least you are now a Democracy.

AN AUSTRALIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
Business seems pretty good.
You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.

A NEW ZEALAND CORPORATION
You have two cows.
The one on the left looks very attractive...

Little Words Humor 1

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sun, 19 Jan 2014 15:25:00 +0000

STRESS ???!!!

You pick up a hitchhiker, a beautiful girl. Suddenly she faints inside your car and you take her to a hospital. Now that’s stressful.
But at the hospital, they say she is pregnant and congratulate you that you are going to be a father.
You say that you are not the father, but the girl says you are. This is getting very stressful.
So then ... you request a DNA test to prove that you are not the father.

After the tests are completed, the doctor says that you are infertile, and probably have been since birth. So, you are NOT the father.
You are extremely stressed but relieved.
On your way back home, you think about your three kids at home.

NOW THAT’S STRESS!!!

A second grader came home from school and said to her mother, “Mum, guess what? We learned how to make babies today.”
The mother, more that a little surprised, asked fearfully, “That’s interesting. How do you make
babies?”

“It’s simple,” replied the girl. “You just change ‘y’ to ‘i’ and add ‘es’.”

A secretary got an expensive pen as a gift from her boss for excellent work. She sent him a ‘Thank you note on email’. The boss’ wife read the mail and filed for divorce in court.
The mail says: ‘Your penis wonderful. I enjoyed using it last night. It has extra ordinary smooth flow, and firm strokes. Initially its tip was to be licked to bring to working order and it is equally good on both sides. I loved its perfect size and grip. Felt like I was in heaven when using it. I’ve always desired for it and you fulfilled my wish. At last it is mine and mine for ever. Thanks a lot.”

Space is an essential part in English.

An aged farmer and his wife were leaning against the edge of their pig-pen when the old woman wistfully recalled that the next week would mark their golden wedding anniversary.
“Let’s have a party, Homer,” she suggested. “Let’s kill a pig.”
The farmer scratched his grizzled head. “Gee, Ethel,” he finally answered, “I don’t see why the pig should take the blame for something that happened 50 years ago.”

Credit: The Himalayan times (Hi Lama)

Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag Review

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sun, 12 Jan 2014 08:40:00 +0000

As the sea-faring partner in crime to Edward Kenway, Jackdaw quartermaster Adewale often projected a sense of self that made him a ripe candidate for the assassins. Adewale is now ready to forge own path, though Freedom Cry is just a small window into Adewale's solo exploits; we don't bear witness to his initiation into the Brotherhood, and this downloadable content merely teases us with a Templar pursuit in its opening minutes, which quickly goes awry in a storm.

If this stormy start rings a bell, it's because it curiously mirrors the beginning of Black Flag, except now it's Adewale lying on a beach in the West Indies with a mystery package from the Templars. While he's eager to resume his mission, his detour in tracking the package's recipient leads him to Bastienne, a madam in Port-au-Prince. Given Adewale's firsthand experience as a slave and his inherent sense of justice, his interests in freeing the local slaves align with the madam's. Considering Bastienne's association with the Templars, their alliance is a tenuous one, which is further complicated when they don't see eye to eye on how to best initiate a rebellion.

Whereas Black Flag merely touched upon the plight of slaves in the New World, slavery is the main thematic thrust of Freedom Cry. The center of Port-au-Prince provides limitless opportunities to steal keys to open cages and end human auctions stealthily or brutally. Echoing a scene in Black Flag where Kenway is carrying a dying character, Adewale has opportunities to carry poor injured slaves to hideaways in the jungle. It's infinite slave spawning as designed, and given your obligations to the main story quests, the perpetual influx of slaves is a blunt allegory about how freeing such captives isn't a task for one man, let alone one assassin. Yet when you start seeing runaway slaves pop up from the same spots and chased along the same paths repeatedly, these respawns bring out the game's monotony. Moreover, there's no penalty for ignoring these rescue missions aside from missing out on bonus items. It feels mildly twisted that slaves are still treated as a commodity even after you set them free. The more you liberate, the greater the access to optional enhancements, such as more ammo pouches and a steel-forged machete. The story justifies this with exposition that shows the freed slaves are working toward your cause and giving you resources to free others. That doesn't change the discomforting fact that these humans have been itemized and given a value related to various upgrades.

Between the dense town of Port-au-Prince and the adjacent jungle that provides cover for freed slaves, island life can feel rather confining. So it's to Freedom Cry's credit that it features the same mainline and optional content ratio of Black Flag. That includes a segment of the Caribbean available to explore by sea with no fewer than nine question marks worth investigating, as well as fort-invading, harpooning, and diving for treasure within sunken ships. While this gameplay loop very much resembles what you would experience on the seas of Black Flag, the added presence of slave ships to liberate provides a new, albeit minor, level of strategy in ship combat. The challenge comes in destroying escorts without damaging slave ships, a tough task depending on how close to each other ships remain in relation to your cannons' trajectories. The one drawback is that these opportunities to save large groups of slaves at sea in a single battle undermine the value of spending time freeing slaves on land one person at a time.

Spread across nine missions, each with its own series of goals, Freedom Cry plays like a sampler platter of the many mission types in Black Flag. There are ships to sink, suspects to tail, and targets to kill. Just because this mini campaign is a fraction of the size of Kenway's adventure doesn't mean the missions themselves have to be smaller. Yet that's what you get with a couple of the eavesdropping settings; one confines you within a bar, rather than asking you to snoop via long walks through town. There's nothing wrong with these brief objectives, though they do give a sense that the game is more jam-packed with goals than it actually is. Like most other Assassin's Creed games, Freedom Cry is a more gratifying experience when you're accomplishing certain missions stealthily. It's all the more rewarding to liberate plantations quietly, since land owners begin to kill slaves once you're spotted.

The perpetual influx of slaves is a blunt allegory about how freeing such captives isn't a task for one man, let alone one assassin.

Adewale has a much cooler head than Edward Kenway, so it's easy to picture him adept at wielding swords and pistols while gracefully taking over enemy ships. Yet because of the limited resources of the resistance, he spends most of the game with brutal tools like a heavily used machete and the blunderbuss. However crude, the machete affords Adewale the same counter and break defense moves that we've seen from many other assassins. As a rare shotgun-style weapon for the series, the blunderbuss is highly effective in killing at least four colonists in a single round, and dubiously so when you have slaves and other bystanders in the line of fire. Since the main missions take less than four hours to clear, upgrading both Adewale and his ship is a much more abbreviated--and ultimately optional--endeavor than the deeper enhancement paths in Black Flag. You gain access to rope, sleep, and berserk darts early on, as well as the smoke bomb, which is a crowd-stunning weapon that, as it always has, gives too much power to the player.

With the strongest ensemble cast in the franchise, Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag wasn't short of assassins and pirates worthy of their own playable tales, DLC or otherwise. Freedom Cry is more than just another Assassin's Creed IV chapter with a reskinned protagonist, but its troubled handling of dark themes makes this a turbulent voyage.From the infectious sea shanties to the jovial singing circles at the taverns, Black Flag was certainly the most musically vocal game in the series. Freedom Cry manages to match that, which is an achievement when you find out it doesn't feature sea shanties. This time, the in-game singing comes from the slaves tending the fields. Whether the songs were the earliest form of slave songs or merely hymns that evolved from African origins, I couldn't discern. Whatever their sources, the songs add texture to this cast of captive non-player characters, not to mention the game overall. Even Adewale participates when he uses a one-line chant as a password within the resistance movement. And while the non-vocal Pirates of the Caribbean-inspired music of Black Flag was functional at best, Freedom Cry's soundtrack gives the sea combat an epic atmosphere that the ship battles of the main game lacked. This suspiciously memorable soundtrack compelled me to check the game's credits, and where I learned that the music was composed by Remember Me's talented Olivier Deriviere.

By: Miguel Concepcion

The Recurring Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Mon, 28 Oct 2013 13:25:00 +0000

I opened my eyes. In the light, it was something I could do for only up to three seconds at a time. I was cold. After living in a sweet, warm womb for nine months, I had finally entered the big, wide world outside. The hours that had led up to the moment had been happy ones. I was looking forward to getting out of my cramp, congested home. “When I get out,” I had said to myself, “I’ll be able to play, dance and wonder.” In my mind, I would be stepping into a better world, a space that would be all mine, and only mine.

When my days of anticipation had finally come to an end, however, the reality appeared to be contrary to what I had imagined. I could not stand the light, the cold in this place I had come to on my own accord.

“Amma.....!” someone had been uttering these words when I stepped outside. And I couldn't help feeling like they were words uttered in great pain, perhaps the greatest pain the person had ever felt in her life.

“Don’t worry, dear. Everything is going to be all right. Calm down,” said another voice as it struck on my ear.

The two voices were completely different from each other, and I felt as if I knew the first voice particularly well.

“Congratulations!” said a third voice sometime later, sounding somewhat furious, although it was relaxed. “You have given birth to a beautiful daughter, Mahima jee.”

I started crying because of two reasons. The first, because I had been wrong in thinking that this great, big word would be a place of happiness, the second, because the first voice had sounded like it was in a great amount of pain. Somehow, I couldn't help feeling like it was all because of me, because of my decision to come out.

The crying lasted long. I promised myself that I would make whoever it was that the first voice belonged to forget the pain. She would smile forever, as she’d look at me.

Someone wiped the sticky mucous off of my body and wrapped my body in soft, clean cloth. I realised that these people who lived outside the womb had learnt how to create an artificial environment which would keep their bodies warm.

Soon, I was placed over warm skin, my head, between a pair of strange-looking shapes. As the person tapped me gently on my back, and kissed my forehead, I realised that I had known her for a very long time. I recognised her as the first person I’d ever recognised as existent besides myself. A primal instinct kicked in at that moment and I drew my attention towards those strange shapes against which I was being held. I can’t explain why, exactly, but I felt I must lick them. It was hard for me to crane my neck in the right position to do so, but when I finally did that, I felt immeasurably happy. Something told me again, that I must start sucking on that strange shape. It was difficult for me the first time, and that beautiful person with whom I felt an unexplainable affinity helped me.

I don’t remember what happened next. But after what I can only guess was an hour, I found myself in another pair of warm arms once again. Someone—this had to be the second person—was holding me with a lot of affection and love. As I opened my eyes, again, only for a few seconds, I saw so many new faces around me that I could hardly recognise everyone, and yet all these strange faces seemed to be very happy about my arrival.

After an hour’s drive, I was welcomed into a countryside home. I suppose it was the countryside because the air there seemed fresher than it had been at the hospital ward where I was born. With great care, the first person, who was holding me at the time, got off the car and took me into a dark room. There, I could open my eyes a lot longer than I had been able to since I’d entered my new world, and I tried to take in as much of it as I could. Unfortunately though, I discovered I could see nothing in the dark.

The first person carefully placed me on a soft surface and lay down beside me. She then lifted me into her arms and drew my attention towards the same strange shape from which

I had drunk the most delicious liquid earlier, warm, nourishing and full of love. I sucked on it till I was fully satisfied wondering what the wholesome liquid was. And who was this woman who was letting me tug on her body?

People would come and go. They’d lift me up, kiss me on my cheeks and push something into my hands. I could not understand what was happening. I was beginning to get irritated by the kisses everybody seemed to think they could give me without my consent and was wondering when it would all finally be over.

The first person was cleaning me....She showed no annoyance or disgust as she changed me. I too felt no hesitation, no embarrassment. She was the person who’d given birth to me, my mother, and she loved me unconditionally. I was happy. I promised that I would love and make her happy. I was so over come with emotion that I could not stop crying.

•••

“Mahima! Mahima! What happened? Why are you crying? Wake up, dear,” Saugat was shaking me and trying to bring me in to the real world. I woke up and found nothing was quite like it had been in my dream.

“Oh! Saugat, it was a beautiful dream. Our child had come to the world, and you know what, our child…”

“Mahima, let it be…don’t think much. You should rest, and all this stress isn’t good for you,” Saugat interrupted as he handed me a glass of water, which I obediently gulped and laid back in bed. I wish the dream had continued. It had showed me what it must feel like to be a newborn, and I felt like my own child had been hearing everything with me. It was as if she were speaking to me so that I could understand, and act accordingly.

The sun had already come up the hill when I woke up. I couldn’t help smiling when my eyes travelled to the framed image of the Makhan Chor in my room. I thought of the lovable little baby I had just dreamt of.

Saugat walked into the room again some minutes later with a breakfast tray. “Omelette and bread for you, my dear,” he said to me. “And a small portion for my child.” He smiled, and I plunged into the plate he’d put in front of me.

As I ate the food my husband had so loving prepared for me, I thought of the long journey he and I had taken together: our friendship in school, the blossoming of romance in college, and our marriage. Everything had always been perfect, and the pregnancy—although late in coming—had made everything better. After years of trying and failing to conceive, we’d finally received the good news eight-and-a-half months ago. The pregnancy had been as normal as could be, and it had only been a week since the doctor had recommended complete bed rest for me. The dream had left with a lingering feeling of happiness, and I shared it with Saugat again. He was positively elated when he heard I’d dreamt of our little daughter. He has always wanted a little girl.

I continued dreaming of our baby girl. The time of her arrival was nearing, and she seemed to be telling me how happy she was about it. She and I were one soul, one consciousness when I dreamed, so I was a little puzzled when I saw my daughter sitting on someone else’s lap one night. The purohit was chanting mantras as my sister-in-law held my little darling on her lap.

It was Chaiti, the day when my baby’s fate would be written.

I was wondering how she might be feeling at that moment, when my daughter got up from my sister-in-law’s lap and ran towards me. ‘Momma,’ she cried, as she held her tiny tummy and told me it hurt.

I woke up and found my own hands on my belly. “It was that dream again,” I said to myself, and smiling, caressed my womb. But something didn’t feel right at that moment. I felt a jolt I could not explain. I could not feel my child kicking. Something was wrong.

A few hours later, I woke up in a hospital emergency room. My family were huddled around my bed, and I was cold, clammy, strangely empty....I looked at Saugat’s tear-strained eyes. They told me something I did not want to hear.

Even before he held my hand and mouthed the word, ‘miscarriage’, tears had begun rolling down my cheeks.

By: Rabina Dhakal

A winter's Tale

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Thu, 26 Sep 2013 16:11:00 +0000

I remember being happy. I remember walking past the frosted trees, enjoying the misty clouds above my head. I remember triumphing over the cold wind that had a very hard time piercing through my clothes onto warm skin. It was the best winter I’d ever had.

Although it was freezing outside, I had on my favourite overcoat and boots. A steaming, steady brew of my favourite tea kept me warm when I was inside, and my satin shawl and long hair danced in accord with the northern winds. The long winter had been a beautifully orchestrated sonata, and I had obediently hummed along.

“It is winter, a time to escape into fantasy, a time to drown in nostalgia,” I had said to myself then, but this is no longer how I choose to remember what used to be my favourite season at the time. I remember being all wrapped up in warm fuzzies one morning and fancying myself a Yeti from the snowy Himalayas.

I could sense the winds were beginning to grow less cold. Soon spring would come and take my winter wonderland away from me. So I wanted to the make the best out of what remained of the frosty season. And what better a way to do so than enjoy a long, morning walk and get some ice cream?

I walked past my street noticing with delight that I was not the lone person in an overcoat. Bundles of clothing and warm coats and sweaters were still wrapped over half of the people I saw around me.

I watched with a sense of forlornness as some ladies fussed over the marked rise in temperature. “We shouldn’t have worn such bulky clothes today,” I heard them say to each other as all of them took of their coats by way of reaching an agreement.

Those fashionable ladies had given in to the temptations of spring, but I would never do so. Adamant in my attempt to not let go of winter, I headed along, more determined than before, to cool myself off with some ice cream. There was no way I would take my coat off, not so soon.

“I am not like the others,” I figured. “They’re already shedding their skins, ready to welcome the warm rays of spring.” I felt myself rather like a lone adventurer. While those all around me were choosing to moult with the season, I was determined to keep my hold of winter as firm as it had been through the past few months.

When I had left home that morning, my mother had asked me to be careful. “Young ladies like you shouldn’t go walking around town by themselves,” she had told me, and I had scarcely attempted to understand her.

For some reason, I was reminded of my mother’s warning when I saw a little girl on the road. She was a tender girl, for I cannot think of an adjective more apt to describe her. She was young, easily a lot younger than I, and she was eyeing me with an expression I could not make sense of.

I looked at her, intrigued. She was a pretty girl. Indeed, her beauty was of the sort that managed to persist in spite of circumstances that are not altogether fortuitous. “She would have been a beautiful creature had she been born into privilege,” I thought to myself. “Had she had enough food, a nice, warm place to live in, she might have even preferred winter to the other seasons. Just like me.” The last clause struck me more than anything else. I looked at her hands. It took me some time to register that those once soft palms were now bruised and calloused. Her frame was tiny; there was little flesh there. Winter and hardship had eroded her smile a long time ago.

The pride with which I had set out of home that morning evaporated. The vanity with which I had walked out in my favourite overcoat and boots seemed foolish suddenly. I felt almost guilty to be walking about in them.

Even as I walked on towards the ice cream stand I could not help but mull on the differences between the girl and myself. I was scary, a creature of vanity, a self-titled ‘Yeti’ who dwelled on the superficial and was proud of her perceived ability to conquer the cold. She seemed a ground squirrel who had missed her way to the burrow and come to hibernate in a mysterious snow-flaked land.

A feeble squirrel had been awfully frightened by a gigantic Yeti.

I was suddenly unhappy. I had come to detest winter more than anything else. I turned on my heels and walked towards home. As I looked up at the sky, the sun’s weak rays forced me to close my eyes. I hoped spring would come soon. It was too hot to be wearing the silly over coat, after all. I was ready to moult with the seasons.

By: Sumi Thapa

A Tale of Manila

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 04:37:00 +0000

On the third day of December, the men of the families came out of their huts to investigate the silent crow of roosters. They were shaken to discover that their roosters were fast asleep. Their bamboo sticks dropped, as did their jaws, when they saw the moon shining bright. The sun, it seemed, had refused to come out.

The island, Manila, was a square kilometre in size, accommodated only twenty families, and was untouched by the technological advancements of the twenty first century. The waves that touched its shores washed away any non-living object, except for the sand and a few bones, and left the living ones unharmed.

Each one of the twenty houses on the island would create a raft—from tree trunks, fish skin and coconut shells every day, for these rafts lasted only one day, and every other morning was spent building a new one. The fathers and their sons would wake up, every morning, to the sound of roosters crowing, to begin preparing for their day’s work.

Each family had one son, while the number of daughters in each household ranged from two to thirteen. The head of the island was settled not by the amount of coins he accumulated but by the number of daughters he yielded. The women would fetch coconuts, mushrooms, and anything edible they could find in the jungle, and prepare family meals and coconut wine, while the men would drink, fish and devour the prepared meals.

There lived, also, a single witch in the village—an old woman who could cure any and all diseases, although the only maladies the villagers themselves had ever encountered were cholera and infertility. No man or woman in Manila ever lived to be over 50 years of age expect for the old which who was 231 years old. Everyone believed that her seeming immortality was the result of being struck by lightning three times in a row; on the same hour of the same day in different years in the past.

On the morning of the dark day when the men had discovered their roosters sleeping safely in their coops and ascertained that there was no giant eagle covering the sun, they were all in a muddle and did not know what to do. They had no answers…nobody knew what had happened or how. The head of the island had called a gathering. The village’s 19 other men and its 231-year-old witch were called together.

“Dark days have arrived it seems, but we shall not fear the mighty moon and will continue living our lives in complete darkness and hope for brighter days to come,” said the superior, and ended his speech in a reiteration of the same notion.

At this point, the witch stepped forward and said that the sunless day was the result of a curse. “The thirteen dead gypsies who had come to our island only to swim back to their deaths have cursed us,” she said. “We need to present a great sacrifice to the gods of the sun,” she continued, and the major, nodding, concluded the gathering by telling his people to return to their huts and rest, and prepare for the sacrifice which was to take place the next day.

A day passed without the sun, but the islanders managed to continue living their daily lives. The women prepared their meals and made their youngest daughters hold the flame. The men floated along the waves with their sons, and managed to gather some fish.

It was not pitch-dark since the moon was full and so they gathered the next day, with their chicken, goat and fish for the sacrifice. The witch asked for wood from the coconut trees and made a great fire. As she chanted—words in a language none could understand—the villagers began throwing their livestock into the fire, one after another. The fire was so great that the island seemed bright; brighter even than it was on days when the sun rose every morning and shone throughout the day. Everyone was hopeful as they went back to their huts. The fire had been reduced to ashes, and their second dark day had come to an end.

The entire island slept for 18 hours and woke up to find their doors blocked by white, powdery cotton that had piled up outside. The men took out their strongest bamboo sticks and went out of their windows to remove the pile of cotton from their doors. No matter how hard they tried though, more cotton kept falling from the sky. And so, the village leader announced for everyone to come out of their huts from their windows, for it was impossible to get out through their doors, and convene in a gathering immediately.

“The cotton falling upon us is ash—of the chicken, goat and fish we sacrificed yesterday. So, fear not. And let us pray to the gods of the sun, that they come out of hiding soon, and bless us with light,” said the leader, with the bravery of a soldier prepared to die in war.

“No, this is not ash. This is snow,” one of the nineteen men stood up, and silenced the crowd with this display of authority.

“We must get ready for cold winds now,” the witch said in deep despair, leaving everyone in dismay.

No one in the village had ever heard of the term snow, except for that man who had just spoken. He was the witch’s abandoned son, and had startled everybody by speaking up so confidently.

The man pointed towards his mother, and she described to everybody what snow was. The housewives began to get annoyed as they had to use their little windows to get in and out of their homes. Some of them got stuck, and had to have their daughters pull them out. All the men (including the mayor), on the other hand, simply got more drunk.

The snow did not affect the children though, they were happy as ever. As if they’d found a new toy to play with. And so they forgot to go eat their meals. One child discovered that this new ‘snow’ could be made into a round ball and thrown at the others without hurting them. For the children, it was all good fun. Two other kids discovered that ‘snow’, like sand, could be piled up to make fine castles.

A child missed his ‘target’ as he was hurling a ball of snow at his friend, so it landed on the back of one of the 20 drunkards in the island. In his drunken fury, the man squashed the little child’s face with a coconut cup.

The little girl died, but her mother did not shed a single tear over her loss. She simply buried her dead body in the snow. At the age of seven, the little girl was the youngest child to ever have died in the island, and so Manila was drenched in misery. The drunkards became silent, and the children too did not utter a word. The housewives, as always, continued to work.

When the witch heard that a young virgin had been murdered, she rushed to the burial site, and asked the mother to dig up the little girl’s corpse so that she might be presented to the gods of the sun. The mother, horrified at the prospect of having her child burned like a gypsy, retorted, “My daughter is not a filthy gypsy. Where were your gods when he smashed my daughter?”

“Please do not say so,” the witch begged of the mother. “The gods will get angry.”

“Damn your gods,” the woman snapped back at her, as she pushed her to the ground with the shovel in her hand,

The witch knew that the worst was yet to come, and soon everybody came out of their homes to hear a sweet symphony which gushed gently towards them from across the shore.

Everybody turned their attentions towards the waves that swept so gently in the wind, and the sand grains they carried. They fell into deep trance, as if hypnotised by the music. And as they listened, entranced, the wind blew in full swing, raising the volume at which the symphony played.

A cold gust of air swept the entire island. In a minute, nothing was left of that land; no piece of wood, no coins, no bones and no sand.

BY: Shrinkhal Shrestha

Outside My World

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 01:34:00 +0000

Like every other day, this one too begins on the bank of a filthy, dirty river. I look at the garbage around me. There is that same unpleasant smell, the same dark-coloured water; noise from the vehicles up on the road rings irritatingly in the air. Yet another date has added itself on to the history of time. Of this fact everyone, and everything alive, including me, is aware.

I peek out of my small house and see the very same things I am used to looking at every day. The sight is beautiful and ugly, wonderful and disgusting, colourful and colourless, charming and boring. Something and nothing.

This has become my world my whole life; I was born here. My mother has told me that many years

ago we used to live in holes in the fields. Now, houses have been built over those lands. There are no

more fields. So we were obliged to migrate to a place such as this.

Here too we have a very challenging life. Strange people come here,

and if, by any chance, they see

us, they try to hit us, and shout

something like, “Bloody Mouse!”

Yes, these so-called intelligent people call us ‘mice’ and mice we are. We forage for food in these garbage heaps, and that’s not easy. We even risk our lives doing so.

I remember how my grandfather died a few years ago. He used to live with us, and my parents provided food for him. One day, he ventured out to search something edible on his own. He was very slow because of old age. It was perhaps because of this that he was stomped on by a human foot. Later that evening, my mother found him; his body flattened, bathed in its own blood. Everyone was shocked.

As they began dragging his body to the shore, I looked from afar, trying to imagine what death would be like. All of a sudden, everyone started running. Screaming and squeaking frenetically, they abandoned my grandfather’s dead body. A damn black crow picked up his corpse and flew away. I would have slapped the creature, if only I could.

From that day, my mother

has never forgotten to warn me,

“Do not venture too far off. You might get squashed.” And I have tried my very best to keep my word to momma. I know she loves me very much.

With the very same warning, today also she leaves in search of food. And I don’t know when she’ll return. Actually, my mother tells me that I don’t know many things. She says I’m not old enough to understand worldly-matters. Perhaps these worldly-matters are things understood by grown-ups alone. Just now, I know only one thing that a large bag is thrown near our hole and my curiosity about this bag is increasing. I can’t resist myself and finally climb into the bag. I can’t tell you how long I remain there. It is only when the whole world’s moving slowly in its axis; I realise that the bag is being carried away. I startle and immediately think of jumping off. But then I see that I’m far away from my place and need to cross the road to reach there. What if I’m also crushed like my grandpa in the middle of the road, and then taken away by the same black crow. My death will not be counted; after all I’m nothing but a mouse.

I really don’t know why this abandoned bag is being carried back. And I know for sure this isn’t the time to be looking for possible reasons. The only thing that has any real significance to me is what’s going on. I’m being carried away from home, and I’m afraid as hell. My life is at stake. And I can’t even begin to imagine my mother’s reaction to my disappereance. I am truly sorry for her.

Right now, I am completely helpless, you might even say that I feel like I’m about to go out of my mind. A sudden, loud thud and I realise the bag has stopped moving. I remain inside the bag, and after what seem like ages of clumsy indecision, I find it in me to finally peep outside. What I see is completely different from what I am used to seeing. The place is strange to me, it’s not at all what I’m used to. I am looking at what seems to be a large, decorated room. I swear I’ve never seen such a clean room before, or any kind of room for that matter. Everything looks quiet and organised. My mother has told me about ‘houses’ in which ‘people’ live. She has told me how human beings enjoy many kinds of facilities, and that they often lead rather noble lives. This is probably a place where people live. But I don’t like this place. I feel like an alien in here, far away from my own home. I feel like an outcast, lonesome, outside my world.

For a long time, I just sit there and think of a lot of things, all of which I can’t describe now. My mind stops thinking when my stomach starts feeling hungry, and this is exactly what has happened. I plan to get out and find something to eat, but then, I can see some human feet lurking about. I prepare myself and watch, as I wait for all human activity to come to a halt. I know that the bag has been stuffed beneath a wooden structure. It has four legs, two on either side, and I can sense some movement above it. I gather this must be a bed, “a structure humans sleep upon,” as my mother had told me once. I think I will have to wait, bide myself some more time until the humans fall asleep.

When I open my eyes some time later, it is already dark. I decide this is the right time for me to find something to eat. I sense movement above me, the bed makes a rumbling sound as I decide to go out searching for food. I wonder why the children are playing at this odd hour. I cannot understand whatever’s going on up there. Slowly, the noise stops, and I move towards a small room which smells quite pleasant. I’m lucky enough to nibble at a whole host of food items I don’t know the names of. Most of all, I’m attracted to a large box. I climb on top of it, and see that the word, R-E-F-R-I-G—it’s too long, I can’t pronounce it properly, written on top of it. Anyway, the box smells very sweet, and I quite enjoy the taste of the food I find inside it.

Soon after I finish eating, I creep downstairs, quiet as a mouse.

Ha! I already am a mouse.

I’m seriously careful about anyone seeing me.

At the corner of this big hall, I see one room in which the lights are on. I move towards the door of that room and look inside. There I see a man sitting on a chair. A long strand of hair hangs down from the centre of his forehead. It almost looks like my tail. I think it’s funny that a human has a mouse tail on his head. I can see that he’s writing something. He is probably writing this story of mine! No, no, nonono. I can’t imagine such things. Whatever I find here isn’t special. The room isn’t even decorated like the other one was. To be honest, it’s as dead as anything.

I don’t see any good reason for me to keep looking at this room anymore, so I drag my body to another one. Here, I see a girl standing in front of mirror and rubbing her face. What her plans at this hour must be, I cannot tell. But she’s wearing something bright, and half her body is uncovered. There is a small table and my eyes are staring at some white substance that’s been placed under it. I wish I could eat that—whatever it is. But, I know I can’t do that now.

The whole night I wander from one room to another and everything I see in these rooms is something unique. In some rooms, people are lying down, some on the floor and others on the bed. At some places, I hear strange sounds I cannot recognise at all.

To tell the truth, I’m missing my own place, mostly my mother. The next morning, I have a feeling that I can get out of here, but all I see is a woman holding the same bag that has carried me here, with a needle in one hand and a thread in the other.

By: Dipesh Karki

Angel in the City

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sat, 02 Mar 2013 15:18:00 +0000

I woke up suddenly and without reason. I could swear I’d been dreaming but could hardly recall a thing. My head was still hurting from last night’s drink—a local spirit fermented from yam or some other tuber mixed with Coca-Cola. Someone’s wise idea of a cocktail! I had sobered up considerably but still lacked clarity. My inner eardrum rang as if I were suffering from Tinnitus, and for a few minutes it was hard for me to tell whether I was actually in my own room or someplace else. After a while, my faculties seemed restored, and so I looked around and saw that it was dark outside. From the window I could see the moon shining in the western horizon. The air was calm. Silence blanketed the entire neighborhood There were still a few hours before morning broke.

I turned on the switch, but the bulb didn’t light up. It was the ongoing load-shedding, of course. I cursed at the electricity authority and stumbled in the dark, rummaging through items on the table, searching for a flashlight. My knees bumped into a chair and I cursed again. I finally got hold of the flashlight and turned it towards the wall clock. It was quarter to five. The sun was set to rise at around six. I went to the washroom and began brushing my teeth. The toothpaste tasted strange. Lather had built up in my mouth. Damn! I’d mistaken shaving cream for toothpaste in the dark. I cursed at the electricity authority again. I spit out the foam, but there too much of it. I tried rinsing it out but the water ran out. I cursed again; at the water authority this time around. The day had only just begun, but it was already turning into a nightmare. I grabbed the towel on the hanger and wiped my mouth. It was terrible.

There was nothing else to do so I put on my jacket and got out of the house to take a stroll. There was no fog, but the air was chilly. Dew had just started to settle on the grass. The street was almost empty. Only a few early risers were walking or jogging with muffled faces. I exhaled deeply. The breath turned into vapor, and took the form of a small white mist in darkness. I turned towards the main road and took a few swift steps. Street dogs were curled up on a little corner, snuggling against one another. As I walked my shoes made squeaky noises. One of the mongrels snarled in response to this, but the others were too deep in their sleep to take notice. The last thing I wanted was to be attacked by a pack of street dogs. So I avoided the alley and scurried towards the main road.

It was really difficult to walk. The road expansion project was going on in full swing. There were pot holes, and debris of concrete were strewn everywhere. It would have been difficult walking on that road in broad day light let alone in the early morning. Laboriously I waddled along the pavement. A few yards away a drunkard was staggering. As I looked at him, the man fell into a large pit. There was no one around, so I ran towards the pit and looked down.

It wasn’t very large pit, and the man was just lying here.

“Are you all right? Give me your hand man,” I yelled.

“I am fine…It’s comfortable here,” the drunk replied.

There was nothing I could pull him out with so I took off my jacket and dropped its sleeve into the pit.

“Get hold of this”

“Is that a snake?”

“No you Idiot! I am trying to help you”

The drunk seemed to have come to his senses and grabbed the sleeve. The guy was heavy. And with all my strength I yanked him off the ditch.

“You know what? You’re an angel,” the drunk spoke.

He was heavily inebriated. His face was smeared all over with mud. The sight of him might have been enough to make a lot of people puke.

“That’s all right. Just be careful about where you are going,” I told him.

“I tell you. You’re an angel. And by the way, I am an archangel.” He was talking nonsense.

“I am a seraph. Ask whatever you wish shall now be fulfilled,” the drunkard continued.

I was in no mood to spend my morning hours talking to a strange drunkard who looked and seemed insane.

“That’s all right. There’s nothing I wish for. If something comes to my head I’ll let you know. I must go now,” I tried to dismiss him.

“No. You don’t understand. I am an archangel; a cousin of Gabriel’s. I’ve been sent down from heaven to keep track of good deeds.”

“What nonsense. You are a drunk. Get a life,” I yelled.

“No, you see. I am who I claim to be. I was just visiting a local tavern for some beverage. Nowadays there is no good booze in heaven. They’ve reduced our ration.”

“What?”

“They’ve cut back in heaven. Budget Deficit. We are going through a period of austerity. No more alcohol, so l had to sneak into earth for merry time,” the drunk tried to reason.

He seemed more like an ‘intellectual drunk’, someone who’d lost his mind pondering over worly new events.

“So you claim to be an angel, and yet you’re extremely drunk and were lying in a pit until a moment ago. That’s plain stupid. Go see psychiatrist!”

“My shrink is no good. He is in purgatory counseling some lost soul. A real slacker.”

He made a few more blasphemous remarks. I was simply tired of the conversation. Avoiding his presence I turned around.

“Look! If you don’t believe me simply make a wish and it will come true. I insist”

There was no way of getting over this guy.

“Ok then, let the water tank in my house be filled so that I can take shower,” I made a wise crack.

“Your wish is granted,” he yelled.

I turned around and headed down the road. I couldn’t believe my luck, or my ill-luck for that matter. I’d run into a drunken idiot early in the morning. “If that guy was my guardian angel, I don’t even want to know what Satan looks like,” I thought to myself, while the guy was still mumbling something. I couldn’t care less. I looked up at the sky. Streaks of an early morning glow could be seen over the distant clouds. A few tiny stars were still twinkling in the horizon. They looked cold and distant. At the far end of the road were moving silhouettes of a few village women carrying dokos filled with vegetable.

A little ahead on the road I took a right turn. A milk van stood at the corner. A stack of crates had been piled up in front of the shop whose shutter was still down.

“Where the hell is the owner? The son of bitch never opens in time!” the driver yelled.

“Kaale! Go and kick on the door.”

“Sure Guruji,” said his helper.

Kaale went and kicked at the shutter. This created a racket and the dogs in the neighbourhood began to howl.

“Do you know what time it is?” A bald head peeped out of the window next door.

“We know. It seems you don’t. Open the shutter. Will you?”

The guy in the window muttered something. After a while clinking sound came from within and then someone opened the shutter. A boy of around ten appeared from within. He was still rubbing his eyes when the bald-headed guy yelled from the window:

“You jack ass! Do I have to wake you up every day? Sorry guruji. From now onwards I will make sure the shutter opens on time.”

“You better do. Otherwise we will report and you’ll lose license,” the driver quipped.

I stood there for a while and watched while they quarreled. Finally, the boy laboriously carried all the crates inside the shop and the van drove away. It was still early and there were no customers. A few other shopkeepers who sold milk in retail a few blocks down the road were waiting to get their allotment.

By the time the commotion subsided I had abandoned my plans of going to Pashupati. I’d had too many adventurous events for one morning and was too tired. The entire day lay ahead of me and I longed for my comfy blanket. I returned home.

When I got back there was no electricity, and it was still dark. I headed directly to my room. As I was changing I heard something unusual, the sound of running water. I got alarmed. I peeked into the wash room. And what do you know water was flowing from a tap I’d forgotten to turn off earlier.

“Damn! That drunk son of bitch was indeed an angel.”

By: Dipesh Karki

Silent Tears

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 19:13:00 +0000

We were strangers when we first saw each other. We became bench mates when we first sat together and friends when we first talked to each other. We liked each other when we first got to know one another and loved when we first understood each other.

You remember your school life with pleasure, perhaps, and feel regret at its passing. You might feel a sense of nostalgia as you reminisce about those carefree days, thinking of those years as your golden ones. For me, those years carry memories of sorrow and suffering, dark days in which the first seed of sorrow was sown in my heart.

Every boy has his muse, his own Amina—a girl who, for him alone, represents beauty. My Amina was the girl with whom I discovered love. She was the one who awakened my spirit, and introduced me to the poetry of real life and love.

We were from the same school. Childhood friends, you could say. We used to sit on the same bench and were always together. As the days passed, my love for her only grew, and yet she remained ignorant of it. Everyone, except for my best friend, took us for a couple. Only Pema knew us well enough to know what was really going on between us.

On a fine Friday night, Pema and I were talking. We were on the roof of his house. The warm glow of the December moon took the edge off the cold air and caused Pema’s tear-filled eyes to sparkle. Though it was dark, I could see the pain on his face.

“Perhaps, he’s worried about his future like everyone else in the country,” I said to myself. Talking about the future was tough for me, also. I let him be for a few moments, but interrupted his quiet thoughts soon enough.

“Pema, what’s wrong?” I asked him.

“My father’s been imprisoned”, he replied, tears streaming from his eyes.

I felt numb; his answer had really shocked me. I had gone to his house to tell him of my feelings for Amina, but his words proved more powerful than mine. I couldn’t say anything.

He explained that his father had been caught smuggling nine kilograms of gold from Tatopani. He’d been arrested at the Dhulikhel check-post.

“Why would he do such a foolish thing?” I asked, curiously.

“It was forced upon him,” he replied. “My father is a truck driver and his owner forced him to carry his gold. He would have been fired otherwise.”

Everything is about money. Human beings made money first. Now, money seems to make human beings. How can a family be complete without a father? While I felt deep compassion for my friend and his family, I also felt helpless. I could not control the silent tears flowing from my friend’s innocent eyes. Indeed, what could I do other than offer my sympathy and wipe his tear-stained face?

We talked for an hour more under the bright moon and then went downstairs to sleep. I knew that Pema’s thoughts would keep him awake. And as Pema longed for his father, my thoughts turned to Amina. Though sleepy, I wanted to remain awake and think about the beautiful moment she and I had shared in class. I was eagerly waiting for the next day. “If she doesn’t accept, I’ll isolate myself and forget everything,” I said to myself.

A green sweater over a white blouse and green tie paired with a gray, knee-length skirt really matched her personality, I think. She came toward me, smiling her beautiful smile. She looked radiantly happy. I fretted for a moment over my appearance as my heart beat faster. I had forgotten myself ocmpletely by the time she approached me and said “Hi,” as usual, extending her hand to me.

“I have something to tell you,” I stammered.

“So do I!” she said.

“Ladies first,” I insisted.

I could not have anticipated what she would say next in my wildest dreams. “Pema proposed, and I accepted,” she told me. Since he is your best friend, I knew that hurting him would hurt you as well.” My eyes swelled with tears upon hearing those words. She then asked me what I had wanted to say. “Actually, I was about to propose to you on Pema’s behalf; though it’s better that he expressed his desire himself,” I lied, holding back the tears.

She left my side, and my love remained unexpressed. Her words had stunned me. I couldn’t dare voice my desire to be with her now. While I felt glad for the comfort she would provide to Pema, I wondered how I would find happiness again. Doubts plagued me. How could she have been so foolish about me?

We’d been together for so long, why didn’t she understand my feelings for her?

The following day I waited for her at our usual meeting place. I listened to the shuffling of feet as students passed by. I smelled their many fragrances. Yet her footsteps and fragrance were absent. Still, I waited. I waited like a child who is expecting her mother to return. Except, she never came. My eyes grew moist, and the tears streamed from my eyes, down my cheeks and chin first, and then to the cruel surface where tears have no worth at all.

Ideas are poisonous in relationships, I had heard. I’d given birth to the idea of proposing to her. She had not hurt me. Indeed, I had hurt myself. My smile had fallen from my face just as an autumn leaf falls with the approach of winter. She didn’t know how much I loved her. She was innocent. She loved me only as a best friend, not as a lover. Forgetting her proved impossible. From dawn until dusk, I was drunk on her memory. Just as a blind person sees only darkness, in my mind, I could only see her.

Time passed. I never changed for her although I myself tried to escape her presence. She could come sit by me when I tried to avoid her and ask me what was wrong. I would lie. I’d tell her I was unwell, and all the while, a volcano of sorrow would be waiting to erupt inside me. I cried like a child without fully understanding the reason for my tears.

She killed my inclination for games and amusement. She removed the wings of youth from my shoulders.

I can no longer soar across the sky with life and hope. I lost my first love before even having the chance to love her fully.

Now, each time I close my eyes, I see those beautiful days flashing before me. The memories remain vividly clear and the silent tears still cloud my eyes.

By: Pema Tshering Lama

Frozen Blackberry Juice

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sat, 24 Nov 2012 02:35:00 +0000

The street exhaled a cloud of dust and smoke as the procession of tires crushed the ground and carried away a strong smell of tobacco towards the north. Across the street, attuned with the rhythm of drumbeats, the woman’s khukuri continued slicing the chunk or red meat into equal pieces, and the spatula supported by her left hand was dancing on the frying pan.

This side was the tea stall. It was virtually connected with the radio tower looming over its roof. Nityanand was a regular reporter, and I a part time anchor at the radio station situated just behind the stall.

Nityanand was a pensive man. So, our conversation involved more silence than sound. Sometimes he forgot that he was sitting with his friend and having tea. Sometimes he suddenly woke up and spat, “You know…”

It was at these times that I knew that he’d begun hatching the eggs he’d laid in his mind.

“These FM radios are generating a new generation in Janakpur,” he spat.

“Yes I know,” I said. “It’s become easier to catch a hotty naughty and copulate thereafter.”

Sometimes he sounded more a preacher than a friend, “Actually girls now catch mikes,” he uttered, trying to adopt a convincing tone.

“It’s cool that they do,” I responded. But my resignation couldn’t stop him from pouring out the seemingly unending stream of his profound truths. “Girls have overcome the fear of being crowded,” he said. “They can venture into crowds, and ask questions to political leaders; ask them sternly enough to puzzle the men.”

Nityanand was not a man of impulse. But suddenly, a subtle straw of stress entangled his face. “Her voice is a bit tense today,” he uttered.

It was really surprising for me how he could catch the tension in the tenor of her voice from the news on the radio. Her memory, however, had already sent a flush of blood through my temple.

During the last episode of my live regular program, her toe had quietly kissed mine; it had been a quiet toe kiss. Inside my mind, I had already begun to settle a sort of affair with her. Nityanand was my close friend. So, I wanted to confirm, “Is she your girlfriend?”

“Suppose she is.”

“What do you mean ‘suppose’?”

“Suppose that she is my girlfriend”

“It’s good if she is. After all, your face is quite symmetrical; you rather suit her,” I swallowed the saliva that I wanted to spit.

“Absolute symmetry is repulsive, my dear. I am not engaged with her though. Don’t worry.”

I felt challenged. “Hey, I never worry about girls. It’s all about making the best out of everything.”

I wanted to draw his attention away from the news towards my new idea, “So it won’t hurt you if I propose to her.”

“Me? No. But it will certainly hurt you. She is already engaged my dear.” “What if she is already engaged?” I expressed automatically.

“Even the station manager wanted a dive with her in his libidinal desire,” he announced. “Make sure dear. Her eyes are larger than her breasts and oscillate more frequently than her hips.” I was well aware of his habit of expressing things in symbolic terms. “She is seriously engaged my dear.”

“You mean marriage.”

“Yes very soon.”

My dreams of the flesh disappeared, leaving my mind vacant. My friend was trying to disentangle the thread of emotions in her voice.

“I think it’s her turn now,” Nitya prophesised after sometime.

I couldn’t catch his prophesy, “You will also get your turn. Don’t …”

“They demand her signature on a document,” he overrode me.

I failed to correlate things.

“The Armed Forces want her land,” This time, he put things straightforward.

“But they can capture her land without signature as they do throughout the nation.”

“One of her relatives is in the party. An important, commanding position I hear; maybe an area in-charge or something. He covets it.”

“How interests sometimes override—personal over party and party over nation,” I tried to generalise things.

“Her father and brother had already been kidnapped, their hands mutilated, legs smashed and heads sliced. Their bodies were left on the river bed,” Nitya read the news.

The news really shocked me; a four-year-old news. News is no longer a mere bit of information when you know the person it concerns. You experience it. I know her personally

“So she is a refugee here.” Nitya didn’t say anything that might be obvious to me.

“Is she safe?” the only question that struck my mind.

“Are you safe?” This time Nityanand was philosophically real. For the first time in my life I felt my vulnerability and impotence. My programme was due to begin soon. And when I came out of the stall, I realised that I was thinking.

It was already nine o’clock when I left the radio station. The moon had just left the sky. Almost all the shops were closed, except that of the woman who was still serving fried meat to a few customers. In the empty street, I paddled my cycle. Under the street lamp, a drunkard was shouting at ministers.

As I was about to approach my room, I listened to the sound of ecstasy somewhere from nearby, a copulating couple producing the vaporised rhythms of the drum and harmonium. But my vitality soon transformed into a bundle of sorrows.

She had been attacked and her heart pumped blood out of her body, now lying unconscious in the hospital, waking up at regular intervals to ask a simple question “What’s my fault.” This was not ten o’clock news, but an announcement from the radio urging its listeners for a blood donation; the rare group of O negative. For the first time, Janakpur’s radio had become sentimental.

The next day, she was sleeping over her sharp death; her lips open so that she could swallow the frozen blackberry juice over her face, the camera didn’t need flashes to take her clips.

Shattered remains

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sat, 24 Nov 2012 02:17:00 +0000

The letters had begun to form a pile next to his desk. He had been writing them for over a day now, pausing to sleep in half-hour increments whenever his pain abated enough for him to do so. He had attempted to retire around midnight, but kept waking up at intervals to find his pillows soaked with the tears that fell unchecked from his closed eyes.

Fourteen letters, each over three pages in length—at least 42 pages altogether, if he didn’t count the one or two that had exceeded the three-page pattern. He stared at the latest one and grimaced. His handwriting, once neat and curved, had become crabbed, close-knit. And then there were the tear stains on the page,

blotting out the ink in certain places.

He rose, walking away from the desk, leaving the stack of parchment behind him. He circumnavigated the cluster of furniture in the room, stepping over the mess that had been borne of his losing the love of his life, very possibly forever.

Many of his prized possessions—from his memoirs, to the awards and framed photos he kept— were now smashed and scattered across the room. Notebooks filled with years worth of writing—letters, notes—had been torn in half and thrown around the space as he had vented his anguish. Coffee mugs too had been shattered on the walls, the liquid they’d contained running down in deep, dark rivulets.

Not to be outdone, his clothes, neat and crisp at one time, had also bore his wrath, splashed with ink and coffee stains. And his hair, usually well-styled, hung limp from his head, combed ragged by his fingers raking through it; his eyes were sunken and hollow. He was just as much of a mess as his room.

He staggered out onto the porch, the sunlight sending bolts of pure agony through his hypersensitive eyes. Although he was aware of the pain, and knew that under normal circumstances, he would have been screaming, the agony was dwarfed by the ache and longing in his chest. Breathing was difficult. It was a labour in and of itself—painful, as if the very air was punishing him for having let her go.

And what had become of her? Of the ‘them’ they had been planning on becoming? Would he ever hear from her again? Was she angry at him? Would she cast him aside forever? Or would things turn out all right in the end? Would she come back to him, as he had once before, to fill his arms with warmth and happiness? Would she nuzzle him gently and purr against his chest as he kissed her head, the way she had before? The uncertainty was killing him. Slowly, yes, but it was killing him for sure.

His life had become an all-consuming inferno of pain, his emotions constantly at battle with his rational mind. His emotional side wanted nothing more than to vanish from where he was and reappear anywhere nearer to her. He wanted to plunge in like a predatory hawk and steal her away from the misery she was in. He wanted to be the sharp blade of justice that would descend in time to punish whoever was responsible for her pain.

His logical side, on the other hand, told him there was simply nothing he could do at the moment. Interfering would only make things worse. She had ties to sever first. If he went to her now, it could result in anything from making her hate him to other, potentially worse, scenarios. No; he would have to sit at wait. No matter how impossible it seemed.

He grasped at a broken window pane, and the broken glass cut into his palms. Once again, he realised that it should have hurt—it just simply didn’t. It was as if his entire body was committed to hurting at his loss, and could spare no pain to alert him to the agony his hands should have been in. His skin, pale and smooth, was already burning beneath the sun’s blazing gaze. His hands were on fire, covered in blood, and his pupils had contracted to the point of inexistence. And yet, he still stood there.

His tears fell three stories to land in the empty parking lot below. “Please…don’t leave me alone,” he whispered to the blue sky. “I truly can’t live without you. And I know some part of you feels the same. I lost you once; I will not lose you again. Not without dying.”

Suddenly, his knees gave out. His hands slipped from the pane as he fell against the wooden slats; his tears splattering on the woodwork, little streams forming and running between the boards as he knelt there and wept.

It didn’t feel like hours exactly, but when he felt strong enough to stop crying, the moon had already risen. In contrast to the harsh waves of the sun, the satellite bathed him in frigid rays that illuminated his face and eyes. His dishevelled state spoke nothing of the man he had once been as he hauled himself to his feet, still swaying unsteadily.

He hadn’t eaten or slept well for days. Food refused to stay in his system for more than an hour at a time, and he couldn’t sleep without being troubled by dreams of the woman he had loved and the tears that pooled in his eyes at her memory.

He looked back into his apartment, at the bed he had shared with her. Images came flooding to him as he gazed over familiar objects. His coat—a place she would hide in when his words brought a blush to her velvet cheeks—hung forlorn on the back of his door. His sunglasses, which she had hated because they hid his eyes from her, were smashed on the floor, orange shards littering the lobby. His black collared shirt—her favourite—was draped over a chair. A velvet cape, a small gift he had been given that had stirred such glee in her, was slung carelessly over the couch they used to sit together on. Everything felt like her. Everything bled of her. His world was saturated—drowning—in her very essence, an essence he couldn’t escape.

His body somehow led itself to the bed. Books and a smashed lamp covered it, and were quickly swept away as he fell to the sheets. They, like everything else, carried her in their material. He curled up into a ball, wrapping the sheets around himself as if to ward away the demons that plagued him from

within, and continued to cry.

Overhead, unsympathetic and ever-watchful, the moon shone down on him. The moon that had once shone upon them both. The moon they shared. A link to her he could not exploit. Instead, the pale orb bathed him in its ivory glow, highlighting him and his misery as he lay there and wept. Prepared for another sleepless night...

By: Kamana Upreti

One More Time

noreply@blogger.com (Little Words That Count) — Sat, 27 Oct 2012 12:06:00 +0000

He is a man with post, power and personality. He holds one of the topmost chair in his job place, well respected social identity and fingers to dial to bring everything infront of him.

After working all day and nights of complete eight years he had been able to be where he is now.

He didn't posses very outstanding qualities who would be there in top lists among the students when he was in school days. In fact he would be in 4th or 5th from the back of lists.

While he used to be back from his school he would have no proper food to satisfy his hunger because his parents were able to feed him just twice in a day.

He had no complains to his parents for not giving him a proper food...he would rather sleep down on his poor old mattress rather than to scream out because of hunger.

How he had to prepare his notes of chapters and reports was by collecting the spare papers from already used copies in his previous years.The accessories of his childhood had nothing except old school bag and the water bottle. His eyes would see his cousins and other friends around him playing costly ball, durable shoes with new socks inside them frequently. When the children around him cried loudly from the playground or wide lanes then he could not thought of watching them because he didn't want to see his parents eyes being flowed with inability that they couldn't provide the required materials for their son. He never looked into their eyes because he didn't want his parents to learn his deeply hidden fond of getting such glory in his life but he asked for nothing.

He knew he had to study but inspite of his hard works he would not have been able to secure good marks, he had no regret for anything as he knew that being promoted was greater for him.

When he went to the high school then also he had no ornaments that would be seen in every student of the high school. He had no long chain in his bag swinging to and fro as he walked, nor very smart dress on his body as the ability to put on uniform was good enough for him. He didn't ask for anything more except all those petty things that had been offered by his parents by their effort.

As he had to go for higher studies then he dared to ask from his parents for the favor of selling a piece of land what they had only as their property so that he could study and what he wanted to study was banking and finance and it was not easy for all of his family to get it sold and get amount for his study.

He went through the way on which he wanted to go..he kept his effort for success this time and what he has now is the result of his hard work.

Now he is on the same playground with the expensive ball with expensive boots n the most comfort socks ever and waiting for other similar personalities to come and kick the ball toward the post.

"One More Time"