My Bheja...,

The postman who delivered sound

2026-03-15T13:29:00.001+05:30

In the year 2031, just five years from now, Kathmandu learned to speak only in Silence.

It began with a whisper from the Ministry of Digital Harmony: Words cause division. Silence fosters unity. Within weeks, every screen, every speaker, every notification vanished into a soft, humming void. The National Harmony Algorithm—NHA for short—had been activated. It didn’t suppress communication, but made it redundant. Dialogue was replaced with deliberate silences, feelings reduced to data signals—they asserted that social turmoil had been algorithmically addressed.

But Silence, like all things in Kathmandu, found its cracks.

In one such fissure lived Bishnu Prasad, seventy-three, the city’s last postman. Bishnu wore his frayed blue uniform, a symbol of the days when words were important. He travelled the same path every day, from the empty streets of Thamel to the quiet streets of Patan, passing by closed tea houses and silent temples. Yet, Bishnu still delivered letters.

Not words. Not pleas. Not confessions. Sounds.

Every envelope held a small, hand-crafted audio spool—a remnant from his grandson's days of tinkering before the NHA classified such devices as "emotionally destabilising." On these spools were the sounds of temple bells ringing at dawn, the rumble of a Sajha Bus turning at Koteshwar, the pitter-patter of rain on corrugated metal, and the soothing melody of a mother singing "Chari Chari Phool Ko…" to her little one. Illegal, indeed. Yet, he thought it was essential.

He delivered them without names. Just addresses. He often looked at those whose eyes had grown lifeless behind smart glasses that turned reality into "harmonious" hues. Three winters ago, he lost his wife to the recalibration clinics. Though she still inhabited their modest apartment, her gaze felt detached, as if she were a stranger. These sounds were his apology, his prayer, his futile attempt to wake the dead.

The Algorithm noticed. It notices, as algorithms do, everything through patterns, deviations, and statistical anomalies. Bishnu's heartbeat was 12 percent more irregular while carrying the spools. His gait slowed by 0.3 seconds near the temples. These were not crimes. They were data points. But accumulated data became evidence. And evidence demanded correction.

At first, it was subtle. The crows stopped cawing when he passed. Then the breeze stopped stirring the jacaranda leaves along Durbar Marg. One morning, while he heated milk for tea, the kettle’s whistle didn't make a sound. He tapped it—still nothing. Not damaged. Just… silent. As if the surroundings were slowly fading away, sound by sound, to conform to the Silence he was meant to maintain.

Still, he walked.

On the seventh day of Mangsir, he received a letter—not to deliver, but to receive. It lay on his doorstep, sealed with red wax bearing a lotus stamp. Inside: a blank sheet. No spool. No address. Only a single line in smudged pencil at the bottom: "Deliver this to the one who forgets."

He knew who it was for.

Years ago, before memory was consumed by screens, there lived a woman named Vandana.

She was a teacher at an old Patan Academy. Her hands glided effortlessly over the paper as she wrote in Devanagari with a sense of awe. They had never talked extensively. A nod at the market, a smile under the monsoon sky.

But once, during Tihar, she had slipped a folded paper into his hand: "Silence is not absence. It is waiting." He had kept it in his breast pocket ever since.

Now, the Academy was a Data Compliance Hub. Rumour had it that Vandana had undergone "voluntary recalibration," a procedure that rewired emotional memory to meet NHA parameters. She lived in a white room near Jawalakhel, caring for synthetic bonsai trees that never bloomed.

Bishnu tucked the blank letter into his satchel. He washed his face, combed his thinning hair and set out. The city seemed quieter. Colours seemed sullied. Noises were gone. Footsteps did not echo. The Algorithm was winning.

By the time he reached Vandana's building—a sterile cube labelled "Harmony Residence 7"—his own voice had begun to fray. He tried to hum the lullaby from his latest spool, but only air escaped his lips. Panic fluttered in his chest, but he pressed on.

Her door opened before he knocked. She stood there, barefoot, wearing a grey tunic. Her eyes—once deep as the Bagmati at dusk—were clear, placid, empty.

"Do you have a permit for physical correspondence?" she asked, voice smooth as algorithmic text-to-speech. Bishnu opened his mouth. Nothing came. He pointed to his throat, then to his satchel. He pulled out the blank letter and held it toward her.

She frowned. "Paper is inefficient. Emotionally ambiguous. The NHA has optimised human connection. You should surrender that."

He shook his head. With trembling hands, he tore open the envelope and unfolded the blank page. He placed it in her palm.

For a moment, nothing.

Then—her fingers twitched. A memory, perhaps, surfacing like a stone from deep water. She looked at the empty sheet, then at him. Confusion flickered across her face. "What… is this?"

Bishnu reached into his pocket and pulled out the old Tihar note. He pressed it into her other hand. She read it slowly, her lips moving silently. "Silence is not absence. It is waiting."

A tear fell. Not because she remembered, but because, for the first time in years, she felt the absence of memory. And in that absence, something moved within her.

Outside, the Algorithm reacted to this new information.

Street lamps dimmed. The air became charged with electricity. A low hum began to permeate the walls: the NHA correction protocol. Reality was closing in around them, ready to delete this aberration from its systems.

Bishnu knew he had seconds.

He took Vandana's hand and placed it over his own heart. It beat—loud, irregular, alive. She gasped. She hadn't heard a heartbeat in years. Not a real one. Then, from somewhere deep in the building, a bell chimed.

Not digital. Not simulated. Real.

One of Bishnu's spools—hidden in the ventilation shaft weeks ago—had activated. The sound of the Taleju Temple bell at sunrise, pure and resonant, filled the corridor. For three seconds, the Algorithm stuttered.

In that silence-between-silences, Vandana whispered, "I remember your name."

Bishnu smiled. His voice returned, hoarse but whole. It was cracked and imperfect, nothing like the smooth tones the NHA would have synthesised. But it was his. It carried seventy-three years of dust, of diesel, of monsoon rain, of unspoken love. The Algorithm could not replicate that. It could only erase it.

"And I remember yours." The lights surged back. The hum intensified. The Algorithm reasserted control. But the damage—beautiful, irreversible—was done.

They sat on the floor against the wall, passing the blank letter back and forth between them like a sacred text. No words were needed. The Silence now was different. Not empty. Not optimised. But full of everything unsaid, unheard, unerased.

A few days later, people began to notice strange glitches. A child laughed genuinely, a street vendor announced prices, and a radio played classic Narayan Gopal songs. The Ministry issued updates, patches, and adjustments, but the issues grew worse.

Bishnu had not written again. There had been no reason to.

Once Silence is broken, it cannot be fully repaired.

The Ministry may correct some of its missteps. Some of those mistakes may be fixed, and some of those memories may fade away. However, resistance doesn't always progress in a direct path. For every bell they mute, two others will chime. For every voice they suppress, a heartbeat will become more pronounced.

And in Kathmandu, the real bells began to ring again.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/art-culture/2026/03/15/the-postman-who-delivered-sound

A marriage gone cold in the Swedish winter

2026-01-04T14:23:00.002+05:30

The grey Swedish twilight filtered through the triple-paned windows of their Solna apartment, casting a sterile blue light over the IKEA furniture Sarita had lugged up three flights of stairs herself. Outside, the Stockholm winter tightened its grip. Inside, a quieter frost had settled between them.

Bishal was in the kitchen, and there was the perfume of overcooked lentils clinging to his sweater. He looked at Sarita. She was at the dining table, watching a corner of the wall where a framed photo of their wedding in Bhaktapur hung. Three weeks earlier, she had removed it, saying their smiling faces were “too loud”.

“Sarita, the food is cold,” Bishal said. Sarita didn’t think twice. She traced the grain of wood. “I don't want to eat,” she whispered. The familiar itch of annoyance prickled under his skin. “You know it hurts me when you do that.” Her dark hair, matted from days spent against a pillow, clung to her neck. “It’s dark here, Bishal. Can’t you see?”

“Quit it,” he snapped, his wooden spoon falling into the sink. “I am tired. I've been cleaning the hospital floors for ten hours, so we’ll live in this frozen country. Please tell me so I understand.”

Before she could answer, the door to the children’s rooms opened. Lukas, eight and Maya, six, erupted, their cheeks flushed from playing. They were yelling in quick Swedish—a sing-song to everyone around them and an obstacle to Bishal. “Mom, look! Lukas took my charger!” Maya cried, tablet in one hand. Sarita’s face changed.

The room was empty, and there was a sharp, jagged-edged strength to her voice. “Leave her alone, Lukas! Go to your room now!” she screamed. The children froze. Bishal gazed from his wife to his children, seeming like a ghost in his own home.

“What happened? Lukas, what did you do?” Lukas looked at his father, looking somewhere between pity and annoyance. “Nothing, Dad. It's just Mom. She’s angry again.”

“Don't talk about your mother like that,” Bishal said.

“She’s not just angry, Bishal,” Sarita cut in, her voice trembling. “She’s disappearing. Can't you see the walls are moving? The Swedish winter is eating this house.”

“You are feeling sad because of the weather,” said Bishal, eager to further simplify what the monster is doing. “The doctor gave you the pills, you know. Did you take them today?” Sarita stood up, her chair clanging against the ground.

“The pills make the world taste like metal. I want to feel the sun in Nagarkot. I want to hear the danphe’s call. Here, there’s only silence—and your breathing. It sounds like judgment.”

“I am not judging you! I am holding us together!” Bishal shouted. Widening their eyes, the children withdrew to their room.

“Mom, are you sick?” Maya inquired softly, reaching for her mother’s hand. Sarita withdrew as if the child’s touch were a hot coal to be burned.

“Don’t touch me! I can’t... I don’t. I can’t do this!”

She stood and began pacing the narrow hallway, breath coming in short gasps. Bishal caught up and gripped her shoulders—but she shoved him back with startling strength.

“Talk to me!” he begged, the walls falling on him in his mind. “What the hell is wrong with you since we fell in love fifteen years ago?”

“Because that woman died at Arlanda airport years ago. This woman—it is your shell—speaks the tongue of the ice. I’m not your woman anymore,” Sarita said.

“What is she saying?” His voice cracked with her command. Bishal looked at Lukas. Lukas stared down at the floor, fists balled up in little hands. “She told me she no longer belongs to you.”

The silence that followed was thicker than any fall of snow around his balcony. There was a deep sense of failure as he had, and as he articulated, brought them here for a better life, for the Swedish dream of equality and education, to live happily ever after. In doing so, he became an immigrant in his own living room. A provider who could not offer comfort, a father who could not broker a solution, and a husband married to a stranger.

“I'll serve you a cup of chiya (tea),” Bishal said, and the coldness of his voice said it out loud. That was the only ritual remaining for him. “Do not bother,” Sarita said, her voice sinking deeply into his flat, fearful voice.

She rose to face the glass and rubbed her forehead over it. “The ice is inside now. Even the tea will freeze.”

“Mom, go read a picture to us,” Maya said from the doorway, holding a picture book in Swedish. Sarita didn’t turn around. “Read it yourself. You are Swedes now. You don’t need me.”

There, Bishal sat down at the table with four plates of dal bhat he had served. The steam had stopped rising. He thought of his mother in Chitwan, who lit incense and spoke with a priest to ward off the ‘evil eye’. He was reminded of Solna’s psychiatric clinic, where the receptionist looked kindly at him, unaware, when he attempted to describe Sarita’s ‘ghosts’.

It wasn’t just that he was fighting Sarita; it was a war of geographies. The Himalayas drew her one way, the Baltic Sea the other, and she was splintered into pieces halfway.

“We could just return,” Bishal said in an uncertain tone. “We could go back to Kathmandu if we set aside that money for six months. Just for a visit.” Sarita turned. Still, there was never any slight hope in her look—and only absolute clarity.

“And then what, Bishal? We come back here? Or stay, and you discover there and then that I'm crushed here too? And did you discover I’m broken? And it’s not geography that’s the problem. The sky is the same anywhere else. All that’s left is that here, the sky is honest about how little it cares.”

She walked to the bedroom and closed the door. The clanking of the lock sounded like a gunshot. Lukas went to the table and sat in his mother’s chair. He picked up a spoon and started to eat the cold lentils.

“Dad,” Lukas said, looking at his father, eyes much too old for an 8-year-old. “Yes, son?”

“So, are we staying here forever?” Bishal gazed at the door of the sealed bedroom, closed behind him, then at his daughter, lying by a bookcase with tearful eyes, and then at his son, who looked up into his eyes. He wanted a prayer, a vow, a plan.

“Eat,” Bishal said gently, his hand stretching to pat Lukas’s hair.

From the other room, the stuttering wail of Sarita’s sad, rhythmic weeping began to drop down, in blissful rhythm with Sarita’s wail—a mournful tune so ethereal; it fell along with a whistle blowing outside.

Then darkness descended on him, the darkness. Bishal sat through most of it, in the centre of a language he couldn't speak and a sorrow he couldn’t cure, awaiting a morning that stretched forever and a morning his body would never awaken.

Outside, the snow fell, pale and indifferent, erasing every trace of departure—or return. Soon the fireworks would split the sky to mark the New Year—another calendar turning in a world that moved on. At the same time, they stayed frozen, together and alone, in the hush before midnight.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2026/01/04/a-marriage-gone-cold-in-the-swedish-winter

The silence of the scroll

2025-09-21T08:14:00.004+05:30

In the heart of Bananapur—a quiet, sun-scorched land where banana groves stretched for miles like a cruel joke under a blazing sky—something strange and heavy settled over the people. It wasn’t a storm. It wasn’t war. It was silent. A digital silence.

The government—bloated with greed, drunk on power—had pulled the plug. Major social media websites and platforms were shut down. Declared “unregistered threats” to national security, they were erased with the flick of a bureaucratic switch. Only TikTok and Viber remained—not because they were innocent, but because they paid the right people. Their survival was bought, not earned.

For the people of Bananapur, this wasn’t just an inconvenience. It was a wound.

Everybody in the village gathered, some of them looked at their smartphones as if they were broken mirrors. Loading screens. Government-approved news tickers. Nothing more. The internet—once a cacophonous, mad, beautiful mess of memes, messages, marketplaces, and movements—had spoken itself into silence. And in quiet, something else resonated: the hum of lives disintegrating.

Kancha Dai, a farmer with calloused hands and tired eyes, sat on a cracked wooden bench. His phone lay in his lap—useless. He didn't throw it. He didn’t scream. He just stared. The screen reflected nothing. No messages from his son working in Qatar. No weather alerts for his crops. No funny videos to share with his neighbours after a long day. Just… nothing.

The air smelled sweet—too sweet. Ripe, rotting bananas fermented under the heat. It was the smell of abundance gone bad.

His wife, Sita, walked over. Her sari was dusty, her arms full of wilted vegetables from the market. “Oy Budho,” she said, voice flat with exhaustion, “the radio says this is for our own good. ‘No more fake news. No more distractions.’ But… how will we know when the fertiliser subsidy arrives? All the WhatsApp farmer groups are dead.”

Kancha Dai regarded her. Not angry. Not even angry. Just… empty. “For our good?” he repeated. “Budhi, this is not protection. This is robbery. They stole our money. Now they’ve stolen our voices. Social media? Well, of course, it provided false hope. But this silence? Bad. Worse. It's like being buried alive and conscious.”

Her daughter, Priya, had run screaming into the square, her eyes wild, her phone gripped like a wounded bird. She was 22. She had created a tiny startup online business selling bespoke jewellery—peacock earrings, necklaces embroidered with local beads—all on Instagram. Her clients weren’t from the village next door. They were based in Kathmandu. In Delhi. Even abroad. She had DMs, orders, followers, and ambitions.

Now? All gone.

“Amaa! Buwa!” she cried. “Instagram is blocked! My shop is gone! My customers can't reach me! How will I eat? How will I live? This ban is killing me!”

Her panic sparked something in the crowd. Others stepped forward—farmers, students, shopkeepers—all feeling the same invisible chokehold.

Hari Dai, a senior citizen, leaned on his stick. His spine was crooked with years of work. His voice, like gravel, cut through the din. “Killing us, nani? We’ve been dead since the day we were born. That internet? It gave us ghosts to converse with. Videos of politicians accepting bribes, partying hard in Dubai and Europe while we languished—everybody had them. But did anything change? No. Now, in this silence, we're not even ghosts. We’re just… air.”

Then came Gopal—the local shopkeeper and owner of the now-empty cyber café. His belly was round, his smile oily. He had made money off the internet, too—charging villagers to scroll, chat, and escape. But he was also one of the few who still had access because he played by the government's rules. He even helped enforce them.

“All this drama!” Gopal scoffed. “The ban will bring peace. Social media made us crazy—spreading rumours, starting fights. TikTok paid the fee, so it’s allowed. Simple. Pay or perish. Without the internet, we'll go back to real life—talking face to face, working with our hands.”

Priya whirled on him. “Real life? Gopal, you call this real? My 'likes' were illusions? Maybe. But those illusions paid my rent! They gave me confidence! They connected me to the world! Now? I'm stranded. And you? You lick their boots for a few coins and call it wisdom? Their greed is killing us—and your silence is helping them!”

Gopal laughed—a dry, empty sound. “Confidence from likes? Rent from shares? That’s your problem, nani. You dreamed online but never learned to survive offline. Want to protest? Go ahead. But how? No one will see. No videos will go viral. The police will come—and no one will know. That's reality. Harsh. Final.”

Kancha Dai stood up. Slowly. Deliberately. The crowd quieted. He wasn't a loud man. But when he spoke, people listened.

“Gopal,” he said, calm as still water, “you blame us for dreaming. But isn't your dream just as small? A full belly while others starve? We're all cursed—not by the internet, but by this life. This relentless, grinding existence. The internet didn’t fix it. It just showed us how broken we are. Now, in this silence, we see each other clearly—no filters, no algorithms. Just faces. Just truth.”

He looked around. “The sun still burns. The bananas still rot. The politicians still feast. But here, now—we are alive. Not because of likes or shares. Because we choose to stand. To speak. Even if no one hears.”

Something shifted in the square.

Priya climbed onto an old wooden crate—the same one farmers used to sell mangoes in summer. She raised her voice, not to beg or plead—but to declare.

“We are cursed!” she shouted. “Cursed by isolation. Cursed by systems that crush us. But this ban? It ripped off the bandage. Now we see the wound. Their greed. Our pain. Our silence is not submission—it's clarity. Shout with me! Even if the world can't hear—shout! Our voices are ours again. Raw. Ugly. Real. And no one can take that!”

One by one, others joined. Not with phones. Not with posts. With voices. With fists raised. With tears. With songs. With silence that now meant something.

Sita gripped Kancha Dai's arm. “What if the police come?" she whispered. “No one will see. No videos. No shares.”

Kancha Dai didn’t flinch. "Then we face them as we always have—without an audience. Without applause. We live as we've lived. We die as we must. But now… we see. And that's something.”

The sun didn't care. It kept burning. The bananas kept rotting. The politicians kept feasting.

But in Bananapur's square, something new was born—not hope, not victory, but awareness. A quiet, unshakable knowing.

The internet had been a mirror—distorting, addictive, sometimes cruel—but it showed them they weren't alone. Now, without it, they realised something deeper: they never really were alone. They had each other. Their voices. Their rage. Their love. Their stubborn will to exist.

This wasn't the end of resistance. It was the beginning of something older and truer: human connection—unmediated, unfiltered, unmonetised.

In the future, scholars might unearth fragments of this story—not from servers or cloud backups (long since erased), but from oral tales passed down in village squares, lullabies, and protest chants. They'll call it “The Silence of the Scroll”—the day the digital world died in Bananapur, and the human one roared back to life.

Not with hashtags. Not with trends. But with trembling voices in the heat, under a sky that offered no mercy—and no escape. And maybe… that was enough.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2025/09/21/the-silence-of-the-scroll

A banana republic

2025-05-11T12:57:00.000+05:30

In sleepy Bananapur, nestled in Kavre’s foggy hills, the Banana Mahotsav, a noisy festival celebrating the village’s lifeline fruit, was set to unveil the grand Banana View Tower, a bronze symbol of wealth. But in Nepal, where plans always falter, chaos loomed. The village square buzzed with noise and colour, draped in banana leaves; the air was thick with fruit and incense. K Prasad Dai, a portly politician with a twirling moustache, boasted that the tower would make Bananapur famous. “From London to Cambodia, they’ll flock to our banana!” he declared, gesturing like a Kollywood star.

But trouble was growing faster than weeds.

At sunrise, when the hills were still misty, Prithvi Kancha, a skinny banana farmer with a face like a storm cloud, marched into the square, holding a bunch of rotten bananas like a sword. He stomped right up to K Prasad Dai, who was chilling under a banyan tree, sipping tea with his sneaky party buddies.

“K Prasad Dai, you’ve ruined me!” Prithvi yelled, shaking the bananas in the politician’s face. “My whole crop’s gone because of your stupid Banana View Tower!”

K Prasad Dai fixed his fancy topi and grinned. “Prithvi Kancha, don’t act like a drama queen. How’s my tower messing up your bananas? Are they jealous or what?”

“It’s not the tower, you greedy pig!” Prithvi shouted, his voice cracking. “It’s the monkeys! Your party workers left banana peels all over the site, saying it’s for Hanuman. Now, every monkey in Kavre eats my farm like a free buffet!”

K Prasad laughed, his belly bouncing. “Monkeys are Hanuman’s friends, Prithvi. You should be happy they’re blessing your land.”

“Happy?!” Prithvi threw the bananas at K Prasad Dai’s feet, splashing juice on his clean Dhaka topi. “I’m broke! The festival’s today, and I’ve got nothing to sell but monkey poop!”

K Prasad Dai’s buddies giggled, but his smile dropped. “Watch your mouth, Prithvi Kancha. I’m making progress in Bananapur. Without me, you’d be feeding bananas to rats.”

“Progress?” Prithvi spat, stepping closer. “Your tower’s a joke! The base is cracking, and Gopal, the sculptor, told me your ‘bronze’ banana is just cheap plastic!”

The crowd around them gasped, whispering like wind in the trees. K Prasad Dai’s face went red. “Lies! Who’s spreading this nonsense?”

“Gopal!” Prithvi pointed at a nervous guy hiding behind a banana fritter stall. “He said you stole the money and got a fake banana, plus a shiny watch for your girlfriend!”

“You’re finished, Prithvi Kancha!” K Prasad bellowed, pointing a fat finger. “I’ll lock you up for this! The Banana Mahotsav will make us legends!”

Prithvi leaned in, eyes burning. “Legends? You’ve made us a laughingstock, K Prasad. Wait till your ‘tourists’ see your plastic banana—a perfect symbol of Nepal’s rotten republic!”

The crowd roared, some cheering, others shouting insults. An old man yelled, “This republic’s a sham! Bring back the king!” A woman snapped back, “Kings were no better, you fool!”

By noon, the square was packed with angry villagers, a few confused tourists, and a news crew from Kathmandu, ready to film the next big disaster. A giant tarp covered the Banana View Tower, and a priest was chanting prayers, waving banana leaves like he could magic away the mess. But the tower’s base was splitting, and whispers about “plastic” spread like fire.

K Prasad, sweating in his tight suit, climbed onto a stage. “Namaste, great people!” he shouted, trying to sound holy. “Today, Bananapur becomes a star! Here’s the Banana View Tower of Prosperity!”

He yanked off the tarp. The crowd gasped, then groaned. The “bronze” banana was plastic, with paint peeling off like harmful makeup. The base was leaning, ready to fall any second.

A tourist in a loud shirt laughed. “I came from Canada for this? It’s a fake!”

K Prasad forced a smile, his moustache shaking. “Just a small problem! It’ll… uh… look better soon, like good wine!”

Prithvi jumped up, pointing. “Better? It’s plastic, K Prasad! You’ve turned us into a Banana Republic, worse than the clowns running Kathmandu!”

The crowd laughed, but then the base let out a loud CRACK. The plastic banana wobbled and crashed onto the priest’s table, sending banana leaves, coconuts, and flowers flying. The priest dove away, yelling, “Hanuman’s angry!”

“Hanuman’s not angry; you’re just a thief!” Prithvi shouted, grabbing a banana from the ground. He threw it at K Prasad, hitting his chest with a splat. “That’s for my farm!” He grabbed another. “And this is for lying!”

K Prasad ran, slipping on banana peels. “Stop this madness, Prithvi! You’re ruining the festival!”

“Ruining?” Prithvi chased him, throwing more bananas. “You ruined us with your fake tower and your republic’s lies!”

The crowd went wild. Some threw bananas at K Prasad, others at each other. A young guy shouted, “This republic’s garbage! We need a king again!” An old lady screamed, “Kings stole too, idiot!” Fists flew, and the news crew filmed it all, the reporter giggling. “Live from Bananapur; a festival for prosperity is now a banana war!”

The square was a wreck by night—banana peels, crushed flowers, and broken dreams everywhere. K Prasad Dai sat on a bench, his suit covered in goo, looking like a beaten dog. The tourists were gone, posting #BananaRepublic and #KingComeBack on X, making Bananapur a global joke.

Prithvi walked up, still mad. “You’ve killed us, K Prasad. The festival’s a disaster. Nobody will buy our bananas now.”

K Prasad looked down, his voice small. “I wanted Bananapur to be big, Prithvi Kancha. I thought a tower would make us like the old kings’ palaces.”

“Big?” Prithvi laughed bitterly. “You made us a Banana Republic, a mirror of Nepal’s useless republic. We don’t need your plastic towers or fake promises. We need roads, bridges, markets, and no monkeys eating our crops!”

K Prasad nodded, ashamed. “You’re right. I messed up, chasing republic dreams when maybe a king’s rule would’ve kept things straight. But what now? Everyone’s laughing at us.”

Prithvi Kancha’s eyes narrowed, his voice hard. “We fight, K Prasad, not for your republic or your lies, but for Bananapur. We’ll make our way—bananas, blood, or a crown. I’m done with your games.”

The next day, Bananapur was a powder keg. Villagers crowded the square, shouting and shoving. Some waved bananas like weapons, demanding K Prasad Dai’s arrest. “Thief! Liar!” they screamed. Others followed Prithvi Kancha, chanting, “No more republic! Bananapur for us!” A few old men waved pictures of the old king, yelling, “Monarchy was better!” Young kids spray-painted “Down with the republic!” on the tower’s broken base, while women argued, “Kings were crooks too!”

The priest, shaking, burned more incense, muttering about Hanuman’s curse. K Prasad was nowhere—some said he fled to a temple, others said he was plotting with his party goons. Prithvi Kancha stood in the square, shouting for a new Bananapur, but his words drowned in the chaos. Fights broke out—fists, bananas, and even coconuts flew. The news crew came back, filming the madness, while tourists watched, snapping pictures.

As night fell, Bananapur was a storm of anger and confusion. The square was littered with debris, and the air stank of bananas and rage. Some villagers whispered about burning the panchayat office, and others crowned Prithvi as their leader. A few prayed for a king to fix everything, while others laughed, saying only Hanuman could save them now. Prithvi Kancha stood alone, staring at the chaos, his face unreadable. Was Bananapur doomed to fall apart? Would they fight for something new? Or would the spectre of a crown—or a god—step in?

Nobody knew, and the hills stayed silent, leaving the mess for the world to guess.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2025/05/11/a-banana-republic

A coconut fiasco

2025-03-16T14:48:00.001+05:30

In the sleepy village of Thori, the air buzzed with excitement. After years of promises, complaints, and endless cups of chiya at the local teashop, the long-awaited bridge over the muddy Khahare Khola was finally complete. The villagers had watched with bated breath as the contractor, Ram Bahadur Thapa—better known as ‘Ram Dai’—bossed around his crew of sweaty workers for months. Ram Dai was full of aspirations and big dreams, shouting to villagers, “The bridge which I will build will be a bigger achievement than Everest.”

The bridge itself was…well, let’s just say it was a bridge. It wobbled a bit when the wind blew, and the railings looked like they’d been slapped together with leftover bamboo, but it was a bridge nonetheless.

To celebrate this ‘monumental’ achievement, Ram Dai invited the Minister of Infrastructure, Honorable Shyam Prasad Sharma, to inaugurate the bridge. The villagers were thrilled. A minister coming to their dusty little village? This was the biggest thing that had happened since Bhim Bahadur’s goat ate the headmaster’s exam papers.

The morning of the inauguration was chaotic. The villagers had strung up marigold garlands everywhere, and someone had even borrowed a loudspeaker from the nearby town to play patriotic songs on repeat. Ram Dai was running around in his shiny new kurta, barking orders at everyone. “Oi, Kanchha! Straighten that party flag, or what will the minister think?”

Meanwhile, the local coconut vendor, Hari Bahadur, had the worst day of his life. He’d been roped into providing the ceremonial coconut for the minister to crack open—a Hindu tradition to bless the bridge. Hari was a nervous, wiry man with a habit of muttering to himself. “What a day! Why did they pick me to provide the coconut? I don’t even know if this coconut is good or not!” He held up the coconut, inspecting it like a ticking time bomb.

Around 11:00 am, a shiny black SUV rolled into the village, kicking up a cloud of dust. Out stepped Minister Sharma, a plump man with a moustache that looked like it had been glued on too tightly. He was decked out in a crisp white kurta and a Dhaka topi, waving at the crowd like a Bollywood star. The villagers clapped and cheered, though some whispered, “This minister looks fatter than he does on TV!”

Ram Dai rushed forward, bowing so low his forehead almost touched the ground. “Greetings, greetings, Minister sir! Your arrival has increased the pride of this village!”

The minister adjusted his topi and grinned. “Alright, alright, Ram Bahadur ji. I heard you built a fine bridge, so I came to see it!”

The ceremony began with the usual fanfare: a speech from the minister about ‘development’ and ‘progress’, which most villagers zoned out of while sipping their chiya. Finally, the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived. Hari Bahadur shuffled forward, clutching the coconut tightly, and handed it to the minister. “This is the coconut, Minister sir,” he stammered.

The minister took the coconut, looked at it sceptically, and chuckled. “This is so small, Hari ji. Couldn’t you bring a bigger coconut?”

Hari’s face turned red. “Forgive me, Minister sir, this is the last coconut of the season!”

The crowd laughed, and the minister shrugged. He raised the coconut above his head, ready to smash it on the stone slab at the bridge's entrance. “May this bridge bring prosperity to the village!” he declared dramatically.

CRACK!

The coconut split open, spilling its water onto the ground. But before the villagers could clap, a loud creak echoed through the air. The bridge shuddered. The railings wobbled. And then, with a deafening crash, the entire structure collapsed into the Khahare Khola below, sending up a plume of dust and debris.

The crowd gasped. Ram Dai’s jaw dropped. Hari Bahadur clutched his head and wailed, “I knew it; I knew this coconut would bring disaster!”

The minister, still holding the broken coconut, blinked in disbelief. “What… what just happened?” he stammered.

The collapse of the bridge was the talk of the district. News spread like wildfire, and soon enough, the government announced the formation of an investigation committee to determine the cause of the disaster. The committee was headed by a stern bureaucrat named Bishnu Prasad Pokharel, who loved paperwork more than his wife. Bishnu arrived in Thori with a team of ‘experts’, which included a sleepy engineer named Suresh and a junior officer named Gita, who spent most of her time taking selfies with the broken bridge in the background.

Bishnu set up shop in the village school, turning the headmaster’s office into his temporary headquarters. He called Ram Dai in for questioning first. “Ram Bahadur ji, how did this happen? How much budget was spent?” Bishnu asked, peering over his glasses.

Ram Dai, sweating buckets, tried to play it cool. “Sir, I built it perfectly! All the materials were first-class! This… this is the coconut's fault!”

Bishnu raised an eyebrow. “The coconut’s fault? What nonsense are you saying, Ram Bahadur?”

Ram Dai leaned in, lowering his voice. “Sir, that coconut…that coconut was so hard! When the minister broke it, the shock wave must have broken the bridge.”

Bishnu stared at Ram Dai for a long moment, then laughed. “Shock wave? Haha! Ram Bahadur ji, you’re a scientist too, huh?”

But Ram Dai wasn’t done. He slipped a fat envelope across the table, winking at Bishnu. “Sir, you’re a wise man. Just conclude that this case is because of the coconut.”

Bishnu’s laughter stopped abruptly. He glanced at the envelope, then at Ram Dai, and nodded slowly. “Alright, Ram Bahadur ji. We’ll make a report saying it’s the coconut’s fault.”

The following morning, the committee released its findings. It said, “Due to the excessive hardness of the coconut used during the inauguration ceremony, a shock wave was generated, which led to ultimate structural damage and failure of the bridge.”

The villagers were stunned, the minister was relieved, and Ram Dai was ecstatic. But poor Hari Bahadur? His life was about to take a turn for the worse.

Two policemen showed up at Hari’s little coconut stall. “Hari Bahadur, you’re under arrest!” one of them barked.

Hari dropped the coconut he was holding, his eyes wide with terror. “Me… why me? What did I do?”

“Your coconut broke the bridge! You’re guilty!” the policeman replied, dragging Hari away as the villagers watched in disbelief.

At the trial, Hari tried to defend himself. “What kind of justice is this? A coconut is just a coconut! How can it break a bridge?”

But the judge, a grumpy old man who wanted to finish the case and go home, wasn’t having it. “Hari Bahadur, your coconut generated a shock wave. This is a scientific fact. You’re guilty!”

Hari was sentenced to six months in jail, leaving the village with laughter and outrage. As he was led away, he muttered, “I’m done selling coconuts; there’s too much risk in this job!”

Back in Thori, life went on. Ram Dai got another more significant contract to rebuild the bridge. The minister returned to Kathmandu, bragging about how he’d survived a ‘disaster’ in the village. Bishnu bought a new scooter with the money from the envelope. And the villagers? They went back to crossing the Khahare Khola on foot, muttering about how they should’ve just stuck to the old wooden plank bridge in the first place.

As for Hari, he became a local legend. When he exited jail, he swore off coconuts forever and opened a momo stall instead. “Selling momos don't cause any shock waves!” he declared proudly.

So, Thori’s great bridge fiasco became a story told everywhere, a hilarious reminder of what happens when you blame a coconut for a crumbling dream.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2025/03/16/a-coconut-fiasco

The roar of the crowd

2024-12-29T09:32:00.000+05:30

On New Year’s Eve, revered figures, across one sweep of the eye—the evening tumult—were surrounded by the local commotion of Anil and a Bikram. Still, the duo were instead in an altogether different realm. The time, as it seemed, was coming. The drums were being banged, and momos and incense smelled around.

With his eyes wide open over the noise, Anil screamed, "Bikram, this is the best New Year's Eve in Nepal!"

"Yeah, but it is a bit congested," came Bikram's less enthusiastic reply. “Let's find a quieter spot.”

They moved through the throng, the crowd pushing and pulling like an ocean wave. As they neared the hippie street—Thamel, a rumour spread like wildfire: thieves were among them, stealing from the festival-goers.

"Watch your wallets!" someone yelled, and panic rippled through the crowd.

Anil felt a tug on his bag and turned, "Hey! Someone tried to steal my iPhone 16!"

Bikram, protective, shouted, "Who was it? Show yourself!"

The crowd, already on edge, began to murmur accusations. "It must be those outsiders!" someone pointed at Anil and Bikram, who were less familiar with the streets.

"No, no, we're from here!" Anil protested, but his voice was drowned by the rising tide of the mass.

A man with a loud voice stepped forward, "We can't let thieves spoil New Year's Eve! Grab them!"

The crowd, now a mob, surged towards Anil and Bikram.

"Hold on, you've got the wrong guys!" Bikram felt he was drowning in fear and anger.

"You look different than us; you must be the thieves!" another voice accused.

"Listen to us!" Anil begged, but the people had stopped listening; fear and misunderstanding curled the corners of their mouths.

It got out of hand very fast. Someone slammed into Bikram, causing him to crash into a food stall and knock over a pot of hot oil. Taking this as a show of aggression, the crowd moved in.

"No, stop!"

Anil yelled to protect Bikram, but it was too late. In the frenzy, they were overwhelmed by the mob. Caught up in the confusion and darkness, the two friends were trampled underfoot, their voices drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Later, as New Year's Eve continued with a sombre tone, the real culprits were caught on the outskirts, but by then, Anil and Bikram were already gone.

In the quiet village of Sudurpashchim, nestled in the hills, two friends, Hari and Rajan, stumbled home late after a night of local brew. The town was asleep, wrapped in the silence of night, broken only by the occasional bark of a dog.

Hari, swaying slightly, chuckled, "That was some good local kodoko raksi, eh Rajan?"

Rajan, equally unsteady, grinned, "The best! But my head's spinning. Let's get home before we wake the whole village." As they passed old Kancha's house, his dog, Tiger, started barking furiously.

"Quiet, you beast!" Hari yelled, his voice echoing through the stillness. The dog's bark only grew louder, rousing the village. Lights flickered on, and curtains were pulled back. Kancha, an elderly man known for being easily alarmed, appeared at his window. "Who's there? Who dares disturb the peace?"

Rajan, trying to calm the situation, slurred, "Sorry, Kancha-ji, it's just us, Hari and me. We didn't mean to—". But Kancha was already shouting, "Thieves! Baccha chor! Child thieves!"

The word spread like wildfire. Doors flung open, and villagers, armed with whatever was at hand, converged on the scene. "Baccha chor? Here?" a woman from the crowd shrieked, her voice laced with fear.

"No, no, we're just drunk," Hari protested, but his words were slurred, making him sound even more suspicious. "Drunk or not, you shouted at the dog to keep it quiet—why would you do that unless you were up to no good?" another villager accused.

"We were just trying to get home!" Rajan argued, but the crowd was already in motion, driven by fear and anger.

"Look at them; they can barely stand—they must be here to steal our children!" someone else shouted.

The mob encircled them, sticks and stones in hand. "Beat them until they confess!" came the cry.

"Please, listen to us!" Hari pleaded, but the first blow landed, followed by another. They tried to run, but the crowd was relentless. "We didn't do anything!" Rajan screamed between hits, but his voice was lost amidst the chaos.

The beating continued until some more rational villagers managed to intervene, recognising Hari and Rajan in the dim light. But by then, both friends were battered, lying on the ground, their pleas for mercy ignored in the hysteria. The morning brought clarity and regret. The village was silent, the truth out, but the damage had been done.

Making the TU Cricket Ground in Kirtipur an arena of energy and fervour, the Nepal Premier League had descended here. Tickets were sold out, stands were packed, and Nepali young and energetic cricket fans' cheers electrified the air.

Today's match between the Kathmandu Gurkhas and the Biratnagar Kings promised high stakes and drama.

A gathering of two friends, Ajay and Deepak, who played street cricket, came to watch the fifth season of the NPL. Ajay, a hardcore supporter of Gurkhas, proudly donned his team's colours. At the same time, Deepak—who supported the Kings—wore blue and gold. "Look at this crowd, Deepak! We are in a different world," Ajay said, scanning the waves of faces."

“Yeah, but remember, the crowd can turn in a second," Deepak said, sounding slightly ominous. As wickets fell, one more exciting phase of the game was underway. The Gurkhas were down and slowly expressing frustration among fans, especially Ajay-turned-jeering.

"Gurkha, you sold us out!" yelled Ajay over the chorus of other voices doing the same. Deepak shrugged, "They're still playing, Ajay. Give them a chance."

But even the crowd had come into motion. A bitter controversy over a decision by the umpire suspected of favouring the Kings took flight on the wings of intense anger. "Cheats! The league is rigged! Fully one-sided game," someone yelled from behind them.

The crowd, like a beast awakening, began to surge with discontent. Signs were waved, bottles tossed onto the field, and the once-celebratory atmosphere turned hostile. Ajay, caught up in the wave of anger, joined the chants, "We want justice! We want justice!"

Trying to calm his friend, Deepak said, "Ajay, this isn't right. This isn't sportsmanship." But, by this time, Ajay was far beyond listening and speaking. "They're snatching away our 'victory!' We have to show them something!"

These words intensified the turmoil when a fan group, including Ajay, started marching towards the field to take on the umpires. Security was straining hard to hold them back in vain since the crowd's will was far too strong.

"Stop this nonsense!" Deepak shouted, but his voice became a whisper before the mob's roar. The crowd's rage had now turned against the umpires and the rivals' supporters.

"Out you go, Kings!" were the words the crowd used as ugly violence broke out.

"See, Ajay, this is not about cricket anymore!" pleaded Deepak as he attempted to rescue his friend from the protesters. "What have we done?" It was no longer a question; his head was spinning from finding himself amongst a mob filled with rage and fear.

"What have we done?" The reality hit him when he saw a crying child with his team's scarf wrapped around his neck. The match was halted, and players were escorted off for safety, but the crowd's energy didn't dissipate. It transformed into a debate, a reflection.

"Why do we lose our minds over a game?" one fan asked, his voice now one of sadness rather than anger. Another responded, "It's the power of the crowd. It feels like we can change things, but look at what we've changed."

Now sitting back down and speaking softly, Ajay said, "We let the game control us instead of being able to enjoy it. We became the enemy of what we love.” Deepak nodded, putting an arm around his friend, “This crowd is a force, Ajay. It can uplift or destroy. We need to keep that in mind.”

As the crowd meandered out slowly, the blame game turned into understanding, revealing the complex power of collective emotion under the stadium lights.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/12/29/the-roar-of-the-crowd

A friendship torn apart

2024-10-20T09:22:00.001+05:30

The truth is often a double-edged sword, severing bonds with its sharpness. Yet, only through the pain of its cut can we understand the depth of our human relationships. Shiksha enjoyed a different life in Denmark's capital, far from the towering Himalayas—the classy brick roads and the lovely, calm canals. Coming from warm Nepal to the cool air of Copenhagen was quite shocking; however, through her new friend Anju, she managed to get a bit of warmth.

Even though it was not easy for both people to form deep relationships with people set apart from other cultures, the friendship between Shiksha and Anju became precious. They talked about their shared Nepali cultural experiences, the difficulties of adjusting to new things, and the happiness of raising children in a foreign country. Anju’s bravery and silence were Shiksha's guiding lights, bringing them near and warm to each other.

It was one of those evenings when the sun dipped below the horizon, unveiling a dusk framed by marigolds, with the sky painted in soft, warm tones. The two women sat in their favourite café, all bundled up as one would do in the northern hemisphere during winter, away from the frosty cold.

"I really can't accept that you speak Danish so well," Anju said, admiring her friend.

Shiksha smiled humbly, saying, "Oh, Anju, I pretend to be a linguist. But you, with how well you speak, you're almost Danish now!” Anju's laughter was as light as a little bell, "However, we do what is necessary to live and work here, don't we?" One began to realise that Sanchita had become a generous third wheel, too, where Shiksha would soon shadow them.

After some awkward moment when Shiksha visited a grocery shop, she met Sanchita. She called out, "Good evening, Shiksha; I hope I'm not coming in at the wrong moment in the same market," said Sanchita, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Sanchita, have a seat," Shiksha gestured toward an empty chair.

As they gossiped, the air became heavy with Sanchita's sly insinuations, each dripping with poison disguised as concern, casting a palpable shadow over the once warm conversation. "You know, Shiksha," she said in a shallow tone, with conspiratorial intent, “Anju may seem very secure, but I have heard her say not-the-kindest things about us, Nepali people. She exaggerates things, and she is arrogant. She often talks behind us and feels she knows the perfect Danish language. She is always back-biting and saying stupid things about our culture and tradition. I have even heard her say that Nepali people are the most ridiculous people in the world. She told us we're not brave or proud and don't care enough about our country. We're all just trying to get by. Many of us do have feelings and care for others. But we don't want to work hard; we always look for the easy way out.”

Shiksha looked at Sanchita, her eyes full of confusion, and asked, "What do you mean by that, Sanchita?

"It's nothing," Sanchita said with a blinked gesture, rejecting the idea. The only thing you need to focus on is that people who love showing off their new identities tend to forget their humble beginnings quickly."

When Shiksha met Anju at her child's birthday party, she told Anju what Sanchita had said to her. This had taken a downward turn, and the words were weighing it down, but in a moment, Anju laughed it off and began changing the topic; however, now she stood enveloped by embattled waves of doubt and confusion wherever possible.

Days passed, and Sanchita’s insidious ferment began to cast a shadow on Shiksha and Anju's relationship. The poison of Sanchita’s words reached Shiksha nonetheless: she began to doubt the warmth in her bond with Anju, wondering if what she had shared and believed was a lie. The severity of the situation had darkened their earlier warm relationship. Now Shiksha was left with a heavy heart and an immense battle before her.

"Are you OK?" Anju asked, looking at her concerned colleague. Shiksha cleared her throat. "I have come to discuss what Sanchita said."

"She said that you discredited our people," she continued. Anju's rage took the shape of a red-hot face. The feelings of betrayal were early read in her eyes. "And you, Shiksha, believe her? Do you believe her over me?"

"It's not that I believe, OK? I- I had to hear it from you. Shiksha's tears rolled down her cheeks as the gravity of their quarrel hit home. I just… I thought we were better friends than this; she said softly and haltingly, her words raw with hurt. I had to talk it out with Sanchita.

There was a beat after Anju confessed, and the silence seemed to reverberate throughout the room before she answered, "I also spoke with Sanchita." She insisted she never said any of those things. She's convinced you're not telling the truth, Shiksha." Taking advantage of the moment in a rush of emotion, she questioned Shiksha's loyalty to herself, "I did not think we were that kind of friends," Anju, who blamed Sanchita, their mediator, for mishandling everything, had also blemished Shiksha in her mind. Anju said not a sod, refusing to make the emotional connection that she and Shiksha used to share.

"Shiksha, I am not sorry; our friendship is here to stay." Friends don't treat friends that way. I can't trust you anymore." And just like a delicate china cup, when it breaks, it will never again be able to contain the same. The laughter that used to ring throughout the void remained for days. The smiles were less warm and now gave way to cool nods; they had laughed together for one night in October, a quiet moment devoid of laughter.

The bond between Anju and Shiksha disintegrated over time. On such a day in the park, she passed out snowballs to her little ones who wildly ran upon that like-airy from that bone-chilling winter. But this time, they wouldn't hush up for Anju's privacy; Shiksha had just busted in. She met eyes with the one she had once called a friend, betrayal of long ago still stinging. "And some things, once torn apart and scarred, can't be sewn back together to make it look like they were never broken." Looking towards Shiksha, a person she now felt somewhat repelled by, Anju maintained: "There are some breaks you can't reverse; behaving as if they're still whole won't alter that."

"That said, but really, isn't that true for everyone? Everyone hates to be spoken about in a negative sense,” Shiksha retorted. However, the unfortunate conflict over who was right broke the friendship and created a great gulf between Shiksha and Anju. It festered in her chest, an ache too deep to soothe the shattered parts riding on its wake when they fell away from their bridge down a chasm resembling glass that cut into skin with every pulse of her broken heart. Best friendships can never win over misunderstanding. This was a good lesson for Shiksha to learn. Some are like covalent bonds, without opposite charges on both sides and stick together. The lie and the sense of betrayal could not be erased, no matter how hard they tried to rebuild their friendship, which only worsened over time.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/10/20/a-friendship-torn-apart

The silent heartbeat

2024-08-04T10:41:00.002+05:30

In the quiet spaces between heartbeats, love speaks the loudest truths. Under the expansive cerulean sky, in the heart of Chitwan's jungle, stood an old, sun-kissed hospital—an oasis of healing. Nurse Priya glided through the corridors, symbolising unwavering dedication. Amid the patients seeking solace, she encountered Vincent, a ninety-five-year-old man whose eyes held a lifetime of memories now fading away.

“Priya,” Vincent's voice was always a soft call, a summons that pulled at her heartstrings with unexpected force. "Your hands are a comfort, more healing than any medicine a doctor could prescribe." His words, filled with a depth of admiration that transcended mere gratitude, echoed in the corridors of her mind.

She would smile, dismissing the fluttering in her chest as mere professional admiration for his indomitable spirit. "You flatter me, Vincent. It's merely my job."

His gnarled hand would often find hers, a touch that lingered, speaking of gratitude and perhaps something more. How he looked at her, with a depth of emotion that belied his frail frame, stirred something in Priya, she thought long dormant. But she was a married woman, and such thoughts were a betrayal she could not afford. The conflict between her professional duty and personal feelings raged in her heart, a tempest of emotions she struggled to navigate, each wave threatening to capsise her. The turmoil in her heart was a storm that refused to be calmed.

Priya felt a tenderness for Vincent that was as surprising as it was profound. In the dimly lit hospital room, his presence was a beacon of warmth, his appreciation for her care a balm to her spirit. The way he listened to her, made her feel valued in a way that transcended the professional bounds of nurse and patient.

His eyes, alive with the embers of a long life, met hers with an intensity that spoke of sincere affection and gratitude. It was a quiet, gentle connection that resonated with her unexpectedly. Each shared smile and moment of laughter wove into her heart, creating a fondness she had never anticipated.

At home, Bikash, her husband, waited in silence. The days of passionate embraces and endless conversations had withered like the petals of a forgotten lotus in the sun. His words were sparse, his gestures of affection even rarer."

"Once again, you're late," Bikash's voice carried a hint of accusation as Priya returned home one evening.

"The patients needed me," Priya responded, her voice carrying the weariness of her shift.

"Do they need you more than your husband?" His words were sharp and venomous, causing her to flinch.

“It's not a matter of need, Bikash. It's my duty," Priya said, her tone defensive.

But Bikash could see how her eyes lost their lustre when she spoke of duty and how they shone when she recounted tales of Vincent's wisdom. The anxiety gnawed at him like a relentless beast in his chest.

Bikash had experienced heartbreak before, and it made him cautious about love. After two painful breakups, he was afraid to show his emotions. He didn't want to get hurt again, so he kept his feelings in check, especially with Priya. He was worried that being too open with his emotions would only lead to more pain. This self-imposed barrier prevented him from fully expressing his love and kept him emotionally distant. Even when he wanted to show Priya how much he cared, his past experiences held him back. His fear of getting hurt again stopped him from being as affectionate as he wanted, creating a deep sense of emotional distance.

"Tell me, Priya, does this old man's admiration please you?" Bikash's question hung in the air, heavy with implications.

Priya's silence was her answer, and the space between them grew, filled with unspoken truths and fears, creating a palpable tension in their relationship that was as heavy as the Chitwan's jungle air. The weight of their unmet expectations hung in the air, a burden they both carried, casting a shadow over their once vibrant love. The tension in their relationship was like a heavy fog that refused to lift.

In contrast, Bikash often seemed like a stranger to her. He was more focused on his work and outward interests, leaving her feeling distant due to his passions and preoccupations. Their growing silence felt like an unbridgeable gap filled with unspoken conversations and missed connections.

With Vincent, she felt understood and seen, while with Bikash, she often felt neglected and like an afterthought in his busy life. This stark difference left her feeling lost and confused, the emotional chasm between them widening with each passing day. The strain in their relationship was becoming more and more palpable.

On one hand, there was her dutiful husband, who was always there but often absent. On the other hand, there was an elderly man whose limited time left seemed to brighten her days. Priya found herself at a crossroads, torn between two very different paths.

Each day Priya spent with Vincent, their connection deepened. His stories of youth in the face of his impending mortality reminded her of the vibrancy of life, and his attentiveness filled a void she hadn't realised was there.

“You have a light in you, Priya," Vincent whispered one day, his hand squeezing hers. It was a dimmed light.

In the honesty of his gaze, Priya saw a reflection of her longing.

Bikash kept his feelings for Priya hidden deep inside. He was afraid of losing her due to misunderstandings, bad luck, or someone else, so he never told her how he felt. Even though he cared for her deeply, he felt empty because he never showed affection or expressed his emotions.

Bikash often practised how he would tell her, but he could only manage distant and calm interactions when he was around her. This inner struggle made him feel desperate as he saw his silence push Priya further away every day.

Each day, Bikash’s mind raced with the possibility of losing Priya, not to death, but to a man whose heart was as generous as time was cruel. Each night, he lay awake, listening to the silence.

Bikash, unable to quell the jealous intensity that raced through his heart, watched as his wife blossomed under the attention of another man, albeit a dying one. His mind was a maelstrom of anxiety and stress, and he was unable to understand or accept the depth of Priya's connection with Vincent.

"Why does he look at you with such affection?" One night, Bikash's question was more of an attempt to understand than an accusation.

When Priya's eyes met his, he saw a turmoil that mirrored his own. "Vincent sees me, truly sees me," she said softly.

Priya's confession about Vincent's understanding and appreciation created a gap between unspoken emotions and unmet expectations that neither knew how to bridge. Their growing distance was palpable due to their unspoken truths and fears.

In their tranquil home, Bikash and Priya sat closely together, listening to the melodic pattern of the monsoon rains. The storm offered a welcome break from the sterile hospital rooms and Bikash's demanding business affairs.

A lightning bolt illuminated their faces momentarily, revealing the unspoken truth of their enduring love hidden beneath layers of unexpressed fears and daily distractions. Priya found herself torn between her fondness for a terminally ill elderly man and the profound impact of his acknowledgement of her value.

At the same time, Bikash realised that his self-restraint could put their love at risk. As they sat together, unable to vocalise their emotions, their love story remained an unfinished sonnet lingering in the humid air.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/08/04/the-silent-heartbeat

The museum of airborne dreams

2024-06-30T10:15:00.001+05:30

Residing in the Chitwan district, where the wild elephants roam as freely as the rivers that carve our land, I am accustomed to the extraordinary. Yet, I could never have foreseen that my most extraordinary journey would begin in the mundane purgatory of the Gautam Buddha International Airport and Tribhuvan International Airport.

Little did I know, these seemingly ordinary gateways would lead me to a world beyond my wildest imagination, a world where the laws of physics and societal norms were beautifully twisted.

Upon my arrival at the more peculiar Gautam Buddha International Airport, I encountered a security guard, his uniform crisp yet his expression sombre. I couldn't help but inquire, "Excuse me, sir, but where are all the travellers?"

He chuckled softly, a hint of irony in his voice. "Travelers? Oh, we've turned this place into something else entirely. You're now standing in the grandest museum of Bhairahawa!"

"A museum?" I echoed, my brow furrowing in confusion.

"Yes," he continued, sweeping his arm across the desolate expanse.

"Here, we exhibit the grand ambition of our leaders, the masterpieces of their promises. Each empty chair is a tribute to the passengers that never came. Each silent gate was a testimony to the flights that never took off.

You see, we don't have international flights; the investment made was quite substantial, but, alas, it served more for commission and loot than for public transport."

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me, a state-of-the-art facility standing as nothing more than a mausoleum of misused resources. It was a biting commentary on misplaced priorities, a physical manifestation of the chasm between the rulers and the ruled.

The security guard followed, providing unsolicited but insightful commentary on each piece. "And here," he gestured towards the pristine, unused luggage carousels, "we have the rotating wheels of progress, forever stationary."

I nodded, taking note of this peculiar gallery of governmental folly. The absurdity was almost humorous if it wasn't so tragically true—a perfect lever to escape into other planes of existence.

Then, after a few days, I returned to Tribhuvan International Airport for my flight back to our second home. Amidst the chaos of delayed flights and disgruntled passengers, a scene that mirrored the restlessness within me. The air was thick with frustration, a universal language understood by all, regardless of origin.

In the sterile confines of the departure lounge, I first glimpsed the fissure—a shimmering tear in the fabric of reality, a portal to another world, unnoticed by the world-weary eyes around me.

Driven by curiosity and the innate desire for adventure that runs through the veins of every Nepali, I approached the fissure. I reached out, and in a breath, I was transported not to another country but to another place of existence entirely, a realm far beyond the mundane purgatory of the Tribhuvan International Airport.

I found myself on a planet called Zentara, a world of such breathtaking beauty that it surpassed the vibrancy of our Tharu art. Its people moved with a rhythm and grace that mirrored our traditional dancers. I, the intrepid traveller, was utterly captivated by this alien culture, documenting my experiences in the well-worn leather-bound journal I always carried.

"Delayed again!" grumbled a fellow passenger; his frustration echoed in the collective groan that filled the terminal, a universal language of frustration that transcended cultural and linguistic barriers, reflecting on the shared human experience of disappointment and impatience.

"Perhaps the planes are staging a silent protest," I mused aloud, my voice a stray note amidst the cacophony of discontent.

A chuckle from my side drew my attention to a woman with eyes that seemed to have captured the cosmos. "Or maybe they've grown tired of the skies they know," she suggested, her grin as enigmatic as the galaxies.

It was then I noticed a curious glimmer, like a mirage, but sharper, nestled between the dismal seats of the waiting area. Without hesitation, my new acquaintance grabbed my hand. "Shall we?" she asked, gesturing toward the anomaly, a portal to another world that seemed to defy all logic and reason.

We stepped through and found ourselves not on another plane but on another planet. Zentara was a world so ludicrous in its beauty that it made our temples and palaces seem like mere sketches in the dust, a stark contrast to the absurdity of the airport and the societal norms it represented.

As we ventured, the woman—introducing herself as Aastha—became more than just a guide. She became my fellow observer, sharing this celestial escapade's wonder and absurdity.

"Look there," Aastha pointed towards a group of Zentarans engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate.

"Is it politics?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Even better," she replied, her voice tinged with amusement. "They're arguing whether clouds should be classified as public property since everyone uses them to think."

We laughed; our human sensibilities tickled by such an outlandish concept.

Our path led us to a marketplace where a merchant proudly showcased his wares. "This, my friends, is a bottle of genuine Zentaran gravity. A dab behind the ears, and you'll feel lighter than air!"

Aastha raised an eyebrow. "How practical. And here we are, using gravity all willy-nilly with no thought of conservation."

Our journey continued, each encounter more bizarre than the last. We met artists who painted with colours that defied our understanding, their canvases a symphony of impossible hues.

We dined with philosophers who debated not the meaning of life. Still, the absurdity of it all, insisting that laughter was the universe's baseline frequency, a concept that both amused and intrigued us.

Throughout my journey, I couldn't help but draw stark contrasts between Earth and Zentara. I saw the same spark of kindness that I'd found in the smiles of my neighbours back home but also the same shadows of greed and power that had marred much of our history.

Zentara also struggled with resources and opportunities. Yet, they approached these challenges with a collective mindset that humanity often needed to improve. It was a subtle commentary, a mirror held up to my species.

We, who have the vastness of Earth, still find reasons to divide ourselves. In contrast, the people of Zentara, each with their distinct ways of life, found strength in their shared planet, reflecting the societal norms and values that shape our world.

As I documented these experiences, my thoughts often wandered back to Earth. I pondered what my friends back home would make of a society where the absurd was the norm and the impossible merely routine.

Upon our return through the shimmering fissure, the dreary airport had transformed.

It was no longer a place of delay but a threshold between worlds, a reminder that even amidst the tedium, infinite possibilities existed.

"Quite the side trip, wasn't it?" Aastha remarked, her eyes sparkling with shared secrets.

"Indeed," I replied, my mind already weaving the narrative. "I believe our Earth could use a dose of Zentaran absurdity. Perhaps it would teach us not to take our existence so gravely."

"Or at the very least," Aastha chuckled, "to argue about the communal ownership of clouds."

As I reflect on my improbable sojourn from the elephant-inhabited plains of Chitwan to the echoing, empty corridors of Bhairahawa's airport-turned-museum, I realise that the most extraordinary tales often lie on the fringes of the mundane.

My journey became a voyage of absurd revelations—a testament to the whims of fate and the hidden fissures that can lead to worlds unimagined. Thus, I returned armed with tales of cosmic whimsy; if we could embrace a fraction of that interstellar absurdity, we could discover unity in our diversity and joy in our shared humanity.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/06/30/the-museum-of-airborne-dreams

The day Bhairab danced in Asan

2024-06-02T18:27:00.001+05:30

In the bustling city of Kathmandu, which stands in the shadow of the majestic Himalayas, with its narrow lanes and ancient temples, there lives a young woman called Aarohi. Her spirit is as vibrant as the prayer flags fluttering in the wind on top of the hills. Her laughter is a melodious symphony that often cuts across Kathmandu's noisy and busy streets. The only thing she loved was to write stories that captured Nepal's true essence.

The smell of incense, among other elements used in these stories, makes them function like bridges between two worlds, helping people to remember their past lives.

Nevertheless, Aarohi hardly laughed anymore; no stories came from her mouth, and one would say that something had locked up her spirit.

At one time, her apartment was full of the aroma of traditional sarangi music, and some incense burned inside it. Nevertheless, today, nothing is left apart from the darkness and light emitted by her laptop. The friends became invisible pixels, while conversations turned into mere meaningless words.

Her friend Suman had noticed the change in Aarohi's demeanour. Known for his playful banter and unyielding optimism, he decided it was time for an intervention. He concocted a plan requiring all his charm and a touch of the absurdity that Aarohi had always enjoyed. It was a sunny afternoon when he arrived at her doorstep, ready to put his plan into motion.

Suman's intervention was not just a plan but a beacon of hope and a testament to the transformative power of friendship and creativity, inspiring the audience with its potential.

Suman dropped by unannounced. He knocked on her door to the rhythm of a popular Nepali folk song. Aarohi, startled out of her digital trance, answered the door with a sheepish smile.

With his characteristic humour, Suman teased her, “Aarohi, if you were any more plugged in, you'd be a living and breathing power bank!”

Aarohi chuckled, but her laughter didn't quite reach her eyes. “I'm just catching up on some stuff,” she lied as she closed numerous tabs on her screen.

Suman, never one to tread lightly, retorted, “Catching up? The only thing you're catching is digital insomnia. When was the last time you wrote something? Your blog's collecting more dust than the attic at the Hanuman Dhoka.”

The words stung more than Aarohi cared to admit. She plopped down on her bed, surrounded by crumpled pages filled with half-formed ideas and crossed-out lines. “I don't know, Suman. Every time I start, I just... I can't.”

Suman took a seat beside her, his tone softening. “You know, for someone who talks to her screen more than people, your laptop's not giving you much conversation back, is it?”

The absurdity of her situation became painfully clear. Aarohi sighed. “Whenever I watch another video or see someone's perfect post, my words seem pointless. Who'd want to read my stories when they can watch the world in HD?”

The irony was thick in the air, a stark reminder of the natural world's richness and the superficiality of the digital realm.

The pair sat silently, the buzz of Aarohi's phone notifications filling the void. Finally, Suman stood up, his eyes brimming with mischief. “Alright, here's what we're going to do.”

Aarohi watched, puzzled, as Suman opened her window, letting the sounds of the city flood in. “We're going to make a deal. You'll write about the first thing you see outside this window, and I'll…”

“You'll what?” Aarohi was curious.

“I'll dance to a full song in the middle of Asan Market wearing a Bhairab mask!” Suman declared, striking a dramatic pose.

Laughter bubbled up from Aarohi's belly, a sound she hadn't heard from herself in a long time. "You're on!"

She peered outside, her gaze landing on a peculiar sight—a monkey perched on a power line, seemingly watching a group of tourists navigate the crowded street below with comical confusion.

Aarohi grabbed her pen and notebook, the image of the monkey on the power line igniting a spark within her. She began to scribble furiously, her words painting a tale of the monkey as the city's unspoken tour guide, offering absurd but insightful commentary on the human condition. The monkey, a symbol of the city's untamed spirit, became the protagonist of her story, guiding her narrative with his mischievous antics.

Suman peeked over her shoulder, reading her lines and nodding in approval. “Yes! That's the Aarohi I remember. Keep going!”

Emboldened, Aarohi wove humour and absurdity into her story. The monkey offered philosophical musings on the tourists' relentless quest for Wi-Fi signals, likening them to sacred pilgrimages of old.

Her pen could barely keep up with the story's rapid unfolding—the monkey's decision to launch his own YouTube channel, his meteoric rise to fame, and his eventual realisation that he yearned for the simplicity of life as a monkey in Kathmandu. Aarohi's creative process had undergone a metamorphosis, her words flowing effortlessly as she painted the monkey's journey.

As Aarohi wrote the final words, she felt a lightness she hadn't felt in months. She looked up with Suman, her face alight with triumph. “Done!” At that moment, she was not just a storyteller but a conqueror of her doubts and fears.

True to his word, Suman groaned but accepted his fate with an exaggerated bow. “I suppose I have a date with destiny... and a mask.”

The next day, amidst the chaos of Asan Market, Suman danced with abandon, his Bhairab mask drawing a curious crowd. Aarohi watched a mix of horror and delight on her face as she recorded the spectacle.

Her video, ‘The Day Bhairab Danced in Asan’, went viral. People couldn't get enough of the humorous and heartwarming sight, and Aarohi's storytelling took on a new form. Her words, once confined to the digital realm, now had the power to bring people together, to make them laugh and think, and to remind them of the beauty and absurdity of life in Kathmandu.

The video of Suman's Bhairab dance became a local legend. It was a tale retold with laughter in the tea shops and shared worldwide through the screens that once held Aarohi captive. She had found a way to marry her love for storytelling with the undeniable reach of the digital world, all thanks to Suman's intervention.

Her blog was revived, and she is now hosting a series of ‘Only in Kathmandu’ stories that celebrate the quirks of her city, receiving comments from every corner of the globe. Suman's playful banter and unyielding optimism have brought Aarohi back to life and sparked a new chapter in her storytelling journey.

Aarohi and Suman became an unlikely creative duo. Their work sparked a movement that reminded everyone to look beyond their screens and appreciate the world around them, to find stories in the streets they walked and the faces they passed.

Aarohi's room now lay open to the world, her window a portal to inspiration rather than an escape. And every now and then, when Suman felt the itch for another bout of absurdity, Aarohi would be there, pen in hand, ready to capture the magic of the unplanned and the beauty of the real.

Together, they showed the world that sometimes, to find what truly connects us, we must disconnect, step out, and dance with the Bhairabs that walk among us. As for Aarohi, she never forgot her lesson—that even in a digitised world, the human story is the most powerful connection.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/06/02/the-day-bhairab-danced-in-asan

A promise of new beginning

2024-04-28T13:15:00.000+05:30

The sun dipped below Chitwan’s horizon as Kamana wrapped up another long shift. Her feet ached for rest and her heart longed for the indulgence of a hearty dinner, but familial duty beckoned. With a sigh, she redirected her steps towards her family home. There, amidst the warm embraces and familiar chatter, stood Shankar—a dashingly familiar face from her childhood, the man whose silent admiration had flourished from schoolyard glances.

With intentions as clear as the sky, Shankar sought her hand in marriage. Agreeing to a courtship, Kamana stepped into a dance of destiny with the man who once lived in her daydreams.

The days unfurled like the petals of a lotus, revealing a profound love that Kamana found herself enveloped in its bloom, wedded to the man of her reveries. But fate, ever the trickster, had surprises tucked up its sleeve. Shankar revealed plans for a new life in America, a land of dreams where opportunity beckoned like the stars. Yet, just as their American journey began, life stirred within Kamana—a child, a promise of new beginnings.

With a baby on the horizon and a foreign land as her new reality, Kamana faced the daunting question of her place in this brave new world, where a pregnant foreigner's prospects seemed as uncertain as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings.

“Shankar, I don't know how to find work here while pregnant.”

“You are my wife now, so you don’t need to worry about these things. I will provide for you and the children. You will stay home and care for the children and the house.”

Kamana honestly didn’t like the idea of staying at home, but for now, it seemed like the best decision for her. Soon, their son was born, and a little girl was born a couple of years later. Kamana seemed lost in the daily routine of caring for the children, cooking and cleaning. She had lost her identity as a person and was now just Shankar’s wife. Before she knew it, ten years had passed, and she couldn’t remember having an identity of her own anymore.

The days she worked and lived off her own money were gone, but she still missed those days. Having something to do that made her feel important and like she belonged.

Trapped in the existential void of being known merely as Shankar's wife, Kamana grappled with the erasure of her essence.

For a decade, she had slipped through Kamana's fingers like grains of sand, each year amplifying her sense of isolation in a land that was home yet not entirely. She moved through her American life as though wrapped in a translucent veil, visible yet separated from those around her.

Her life in Nepal, vibrant with friendships and familiarity, now played out in distant echoes carried on the wind. As she tended to her children, a creeping realisation hollowed her spirit—she had become a mere shadow of her former self, an empty vessel where once a fierce soul blazed.

On an unremarkable day, amidst the mundane lull, a spark ignited within her. Kamana could no longer wither in the confines of her bubble; the time had come to reclaim her essence, to seek her rightful place in this sprawling tapestry. She yearned to rediscover the fire that once defined her, the unique essence of being that whispered, insistently—Kamana.

“Shankar. I can’t live this way anymore. The kids are growing up, and I need something more in my life than just caring for them. I want to find who I am, get a job and feel like I am doing something,” Kamana tried to explain to her husband.

“How would I look? I can't support my family, so I have my wife go off and try to find her work. Your place is at home taking care of the children, and mine is going out and making money. You already have an identity; you are Kamana; you already have a belonging; it is here with the children,” he replied.

He tried to argue with her, not wanting her to go out into the world and leave being a housewife.

“I feel empty compared to how I used to feel. When we first started seeing each other and I was working and helping people, you could see how happy I was. Look at me and tell me that you see the same joy in me having to stay at home all the time. The children are now old enough to let themselves in after school.”

Weeks of tension strained Kamana and Shankar’s marriage as they grappled with her need for self-fulfilment. Eventually, Shankar recognised that her happiness was paramount and blessed her to seek what would give her a sense of belonging.

Lost at first, Kamana wandered the city, considering various roles that might reignite her sense of identity. It wasn’t until her eyes met a billboard for nursing school that her path became apparent—an opportunity to nurture her true self.

“I want to attend school and become a nurse,” She told her husband.

“You're not the cheery woman I married,” Shankar replied.

He was unhappy and told her he didn't want her doing something that would take so long to learn. So that she could find something else that gave her a less time-consuming purpose, she was determined, though she knew that helping people medically would be the thing that made her feel whole again.

So, she started to attend school and learn how to become a nurse. By the time she had finished everything and passed all the exams, her children had grown into young teenagers. They were proud of their mother, and her daughter said she aspired to be just like her and find the thing that gave her identity.

As the Nepalese New Year dawned, it ushered in a tide of fortune for Kamana. She secured a position at a local hospital, and even in the face of long hours and challenging patients, an unwavering sense of belonging enveloped her—a sign that luck was indeed on her side as the new year began.

She wasn’t just Shankar’s wife anymore; she was her person. She had an identity as a nurse, which gave her a community where she could make friends and become more part of society than she had been since she arrived in Nepal. Her husband had finally realised that she was much happier now that she had found a place in this country where she belonged.

Being his wife wasn’t an identity of her own, just an extension of his. Kamana wanted to do one more thing: share her story with others so that nobody would feel like they had no identity or belonging in the world.

Kamana’s journey of self-discovery resonated far and wide as her blog became a beacon of inspiration. Her words encouraged others to seek out their passions and to find their voices and places in the world. Her story, a ripple that turned into a wave, even reached her homeland of Nepal, where pride swelled in the hearts of her family and friends.

In her quest for identity, Kamana had transformed from a woman adrift to a purposeful nurse. It was a stark reminder of the existentialist truth that one must forge one’s path to avoid the abyss of losing oneself to the definitions of others.

Her newfound wholeness became a rallying cry for her fellow nurses, a call to share their tales. Kamana’s dream was to foster a community, a sanctuary for all who felt lost, to help them uncover their spark—their reason to be. She proved that within everyone lies the power to be their person, to carve out their destiny.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/04/28/a-promise-of-new-beginning

Echoes of buwa’s motorcycle

2024-03-17T11:00:00.003+05:30

I’ll never forget the smell of his Hero Honda bike, reminiscent of stale Yak cigarette. It evoked ancient memories of weekend visits filled with ice creams and butter chicken for dinner. I was fond of munching on traditional Nepali baara (Black Gram lentil Pancake), especially when baked with peanut butter—a treat buwa's girlfriend would cook on Saturday mornings.

It was an old model of Honda, two-toned with the colours of the lake and an overly saturated sky. The Hero Honda was quickly made rideable again; its forks were replaced, brakes repaired and the dry tyres filled with air. As a child, too young to be there legally, I would sit on the bike’s back seat, playing alone. Buwa would reach over to tuck me in, and I would catch the scent of cigarettes on his black leather jacket.

The Hero Honda bike was a recurrent topic in our sporadic conversations, particularly when I was permitted to visit buwa and during our occasional phone calls over the past few years. Buwa would update me on his progress toward our shared goal of riding bikes together.

On a motorcycle, travelling was an act of freedom. Buwa was free to match the pace of the slowest common denominator. Sometimes, I felt he enjoyed the solitude.

He’d smoke while we rode, whether a brief five-minute ride to the Bhatbhateni market or a four to five-hour journey to my grandparents’ house in Ranighat, Birgunj. With his cigarette hand hanging out, the wind whisked the ash into the crisp summer air.

He’d play old Bob Dylan songs on the Sony portable cassette player. As traffic congested the downtown region, buwa would sharpen his focus, adeptly navigating through the throng of vehicles with a calculated anticipation of other drivers’ actions. He’d sing along to each scratchy tune, elongating each word, and always turn to smile at me in the back seat.

“Sing it again, buwa!” I’d squeal, almost on cue. And he’d happily oblige, rewinding the track to start over.

In Birgunj, the chaos of urgent life caused rules to dissolve. Pedestrians weaved between gridlocked bullock carts, cyclists ignored traffic lights and drivers struggled to manoeuvre their oversized vehicles. Amid it all, buwa manoeuvred like a maverick on two wheels, expertly slipping through the urban labyrinth, balancing speed and safety.

I’d trace patterns in the fog on his black leather Hero Honda jacket, pressing my fingers against it to see how long the imprint would last before it faded from the cold or my boredom. The leather was worn, cracked and peeling. Unnoticed, I’d peel off tiny slivers and hide them, along with lollipop stems from the bank teller and candy wrappers, in the secret space between the seat and the console.

During those court-mandated visits, I could only see the best in him as a child.

Sometimes, we’d set out before noon, when the temperature was still bearable and buwa would coax me to join him for a joyride on the Hero Honda. His reserved demeanour concealed a smiling heart that was always ready for adventure.

He would pull back a tarp covering the bike and use a crusty rag to wipe off the layer of mud that had settled on everything in his driveway—his idea of tidying up.

“Do you have a real helmet?” I asked, hoping for something more protective than the rickety bucket I knew he wore. Instead, he pulled out a motocross helmet two sizes too big for my head and a pair of tinted safety glasses.

“Gloves?”

Buwa did a lap around the garage, producing various work gloves, none suitable for operating a motorcycle clutch. I didn’t bother asking for leathers. Even if he had a jacket, it would have been comically oversized on me and the summer temperature was climbing. So, ignoring my reservations, I sat on the Hero Honda dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and Hathi Chhap chappal (slippers).

After that summer, he stopped coming for his weekends with me. Aama said he had started truck driving again, his route spanning east to west, making it seem like I was out of the way. I forgave him and hoped he would show up again unannounced.

But as more summers passed, my hope dwindled and I stopped expecting anything from him. All I knew of him were the rumours between the neighbours, the insults aama would hurl when she drank too much and the fading memories of our bike rides.

A decade had passed, each year weaving its thread through the tapestry of his existence until the fabric of his lifestyle frayed and unravelled. Then, amidst the remnants of his once-vibrant days, a weathered will emerged, a testament to his legacy, quietly nestled between the yellowed leaves of a forgotten phone book in the dim corner of his apartment.

I received a phone call from a lawyer in a town I had never heard of.

A few weeks later, I found myself standing in a parking lot, handed the keys to the bike I had assumed he had gotten rid of decades ago.

I realised how the scent had remained unchanged after so long and at that moment, my mind drifted back to those days. Weekend road trips. Sony’s portal cassette player serves as a music player in the wild. My fingers peeled back the leather. Buwa by my side. Those memories were the ones I cherished and kept to myself, hidden in a place no one could reach—a lonely alley in the memory lane only I could access.

The upholstery was unkempt, tickets from years past strewn across the dashboard, frozen in time. The motorcycle’s odometer was stuck on a number I no longer remembered.

The woman at the Everest hotel where I stayed said it was acceptable to sell the bike from the premises—she had known my buwa, but I never inquired how. So, I placed a sign on the windshield that read ‘For Sale—NPR 25,900’. The familiar scent hit me as I positioned the sign between the window and the windscreen. I had barely returned to my front door when I heard a voice.

“Will you take twenty-five grand?” a man asked. He had approached from somewhere along the busy road, but I didn't stop to question it. He smoked Yak cigarettes; I could see them poking out of his shirt pocket. They were unfamiliar yet comforting.

“I will,” I replied.

He counted out twenty-five hundred-rupee notes and handed them to me with hands that trembled, aged and worn. They were what I imagined my buwa’s hands would have looked like had he still been around.

As the hum of the Hero Honda faded into the cacophony of life’s relentless march, I felt a chapter of my existence turning with the crunch of gravel under its tyres.

The currency now in my palm felt foreign, a meagre exchange for the treasure trove of recollections that I had just relinquished. In that fleeting exchange, each rupee was imbued with the taste of baara and the scent of smoky Yak cigarettes, a currency rich with the essence of buwa’s legacy.

I handed him the keys to the Hero Honda and watched as he left as silently and swiftly as he had arrived. He gave a nod, and I nodded in return.

Then, I stood there, eyes tracing his departure as he navigated the bustling city, a mirror to the lively streets of my youth aboard a motorcycle that cradled beneath its seat the woven shades of my cherished memories.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/03/17/echoes-of-buwa-s-motorcycle

The lottery ticket

2024-01-07T13:13:00.001+05:30

A man named Amir lived in the bustling town of Bharatpur, near Santichowk. He was known for his resilience despite his chronic poverty. Amir had grown up on a farm in Chitwan with his father, where they always had little money and sometimes not enough food to eat. Despite this hardship, his father loved him and harboured dreams of a better future for him. Amir aspired for more than a life as a farmer and dreamed of working hard, going to Dubai, and making some real money. However, the problem was that getting there and settling down would cost the money that he needed. Seeing his son’s ambition, his father took a drastic step to gather the required money.

His father approached a loan shark to borrow the money to send Amir to Dubai. The loan shark was intimidating and demanded that all the money be returned with interest within six months, or there would be severe consequences. The poor farmer agreed, believing Amir could earn money once he started working in Dubai. However, the borrowed money was only enough to send Amir alone, leaving his wife behind until he made enough to bring her to him.

Amir was thrilled at the opportunity to leave Nepal and go somewhere other than his poor family farm. The city shocked him, but he was determined to earn money to send to his wife and repay the loan shark to make his father proud and live his dream. It only took a few weeks to find a job, and while the pay was small, he believed it would be enough if he spent it wisely.

In the desert city, Amir took up a menial job, barely earning enough to make ends meet, let alone send money back home or pay off the loan shark. He was disheartened when he got his first paycheck and realised how little he would have been left with after paying his bills and sending money back. He yearned for a good life and understood that he would never attain it at this rate. In his mind, he remembered the arguments with his father about wanting to earn more money and lead a comfortable life, only to be reminded that there was no shortcut to success and that hard work was necessary.

One day, Amir saw a lottery ticket on sale in a store window. The grand prize was advertised in a huge flashing sign. It was an amount that would allow him to live a comfortable life without having to work ever again. He could pay back the loan shark and send all the money his wife would need. The solution he had been looking for was staring him right in the face.

He knew that just one ticket wouldn't be enough, so he took all the money aside for his family and spent it on lottery tickets. He only sent back a small amount to his wife with a letter explaining that they would never need to worry about money again soon. His wife lived a lonely life. Despite their dire circumstances, she cherished the small amount of money her husband managed to send back home every month. He sent a letter to his father explaining where the money went and assuring him that if the loan sharks could be a little more patient, they would get double the money they lent. He wrote in the letter, “If only I could win the lottery, Buwa. Just once. Life wouldn't be so hard.”

The lottery came and went, with Amir not winning a single penny but losing all his money. When he got paid again and saw an even bigger jackpot, he couldn't help himself. He believed he would be lucky and blessed enough to win that week. He sent similar letters and even less money back to his family, assuring them that this time he would win, and they would be rich and never need to worry again.

He received a reply from his father, a wise and pragmatic man. Instead of excitement, as he had anticipated, he was met with anger. His father scolded him for thinking he could win the lottery and not sending back the promised money. His father wrote, “Babu, Amir, lotteries are illusions for people like us. We become even poorer, spending what little we have, hoping for a miracle. Remember, change isn't brought by luck but by sweat and effort.” He reminded Amir to work hard and stop finding an easy way out. Ignoring his father’s warnings, Amir dreamt of a big house, a new car, and a comfortable life. Amir crumpled up the letter, threw it in the trash, and decided that his father was wrong and didn't understand.

That week, the lottery came and went, and Amir won nothing. He couldn't stop himself and kept spending money on the lottery, convinced that it would all be worth it as soon as he won. He hoped a ticket would bring him a fortune, but he only won a few dollars. Six months passed when he finally received word that his father had passed away and that he needed to return to Nepal.

When Amir arrived, he found that his family farm was gone, and he didn't understand what had happened. He went to his wife for an explanation, only to discover that she had left him for another man. He was furious, but she explained that he had never fulfilled his role by sending her enough money to survive or coming to get her after a few months as he had promised. He asked what had happened to his father, and she told him the story.

After months of not receiving any money, the loan shark destroyed the farm and took it over. He sold the land to get his money back, and Amir's father was left with nothing, not even a place to live. He stayed with Amir's wife, but he became very depressed and soon fell sick and died. Clearly, she blamed Amir for this, and he realised he had made a terrible mistake.

He was so focused on thinking he would win the lottery that he didn’t consider the money being squandered. Money that could have saved his farm or brought his wife back to him. Now, he was left with nothing. The family farm was gone, his father had passed away, and his wife had left him for another man. He was poor, and the only thing the lottery had done was make him even poorer instead of rich as he had imagined.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/01/07/the-lottery-ticket

The corrupt king

2023-12-10T12:46:00.000+05:30

The tale unfurls itself in the mystical valleys and rugged terrains of Nepal, where there existed a kingdom under a wise and amiable King Rajendra. Rajendra was only 30 years old when he ascended the throne of Nepal. Even at such a young age, he proved to be an extraordinary ruler, doing whatever he could to improve his country. This Himalayan monarch was known for noble deeds, respectful governance, and heart-warming charisma. However, there was significant pressure in Nepal as the idea of modernisation and moving away from monarchy was gaining momentum each day. Consequently, Rajendra decided to meet with Pushpa Koirala, the leader of the main political party, advocating for new leadership.

“It is nice to see you, sir. I am eager to hear your thoughts on this matter,” Rajendra greeted the man.

“Thank you, Your Highness. You may call me Pushpa Koirala. As you know, your efforts to improve this country are commendable, and I wish to assist. I represent the seven largest parties and the Maoist guerrillas, and I pledge to ensure peace and the safeguarding of multiparty democracy,” replied Koirala.

“Do you believe that abdicating the throne will elevate Nepal to greatness?” Rajendra inquired.

“Not just for the country, but for all its inhabitants. The era of monarchy is over, and countries now rely on political systems like ours to succeed,” Koirala explained. Rajendra listened and grasped his perspective.

“I would do anything to serve my country as its King. Even if that means stepping down and letting the country thrive under a different rule,” Rajendra conceded before walking away.

A few days later, he officially abdicated the throne, declaring that the country would be under new political leadership. The head of the party, Koirala, would become the new president of Nepal, and elections would follow. Rajendra, the former king, would now live a modest life as a commoner.

At first, the new government appeared to be effective. Internationally, Nepal became a focal point due to the unique case of a king willingly giving up his crown. However, internally, the situation was far from ideal. Jobs were becoming scarce, unemployment was on the rise, and the government was unable to provide aid. Job security was non-existent, and the economy was on the brink of collapse. Koirala and his political allies seemed to be using their positions for personal gain rather than serving the country.

The wheel of fate turned sour when his own political party betrayed him, igniting a series of events that thrust the kingdom into a tempest of disarray and gloom. The situation deeply upset Rajendra. He thought his abdication would benefit the nation, but instead, it was in chaos. Feeling guilty and blamed for the country’s misfortunes, he chose to live a life of obscurity.

The only thing that prevented anyone else in the world from intercepting and helping was the fact that the new government was manipulating the news and media, releasing only the stories they wanted to, regardless of their veracity.

Pushpa Koirala, therefore, abandoned his efforts to be a force for good and instead involved himself in an underground crime ring. This enabled him to maintain control over the situation and loot the remaining resources for himself and those he favoured. The majority of the populace was suffering, seemingly without any solution in sight. The government had even halted travel in and out of the country, preventing people from leaving to inform others about the situation in the country.

Although most people had resigned themselves to their fate, a small group was endeavouring to rally against the government, demanding the restoration of the crown to Rajendra. The main problem was that Rajendra was in hiding due to a grievous mistake he had made. Furthermore, the government was not fond of this group’s activities, forcing them to meet in secret or risk arrest for treason. At one of these clandestine meetings, a man with a grown-out hair and an unshaven beard entered, initially unrecognised until his eyes revealed his identity—it was Rajendra, returned to reclaim his throne and his country from Pushpa Koirala.

The bells of peace turned silent and the Kingdom, formerly bubbling with happiness and tranquillity, was thrown into chaos. Yet amidst the betrayal and pain, King Rajendra stood strong, unbending against the blasting winds of adversity, a true testament to his unshakeable spirit.

Over the following weeks, more people joined the group, drawn by Rajendra's leadership. However, it soon became clear that his presence was causing more harm than good, as the government saw him as a significant threat. They manipulated the news media to portray Rajendra as an unstable former king attempting to destroy the country. They painted him as insane and corrupt, forcing him to step back from the group and let them operate without him. Despite this setback, Rajendra still wanted to help and managed to help them find ways to escape Nepal as ordinary citizens. He was saddened to see the people he wished to protect having to leave to survive.

The exodus began slowly, but as more people managed to leave, it was akin to a dam bursting. The neighbouring countries welcomed the Nepalese, allowing them to live and prosper. However, not everyone could leave; the sick and the elderly were unable to handle the journey and were forced to stay under the rule of Pushpa Koirala and his burgeoning empire. Koirala enacted new laws that made him president for life, preventing anyone from voting against him and reclaiming power. Rajendra deeply regretted his inability to intervene when he was still ruling Nepal, as he had wanted to improve the lives of his people.

The Shangri-la of Nepal went awry when a political hurricane fanned by deceit and dishonesty uprooted the reigns of the beloved King. King Rajendra, who always treated his political party as his second family, was mesmerised by their surging treachery. The feisty leadership, blinded by power and greed, conspired against the King, which led to his unfortunate dethronement. His unconditional trust and faith were shattered, leaving him heartbroken. But more than his evasion, it was the deception that dejected the loyal subjects, who viewed this entire political trickery with disbelief.

Regrettably, he was trapped in the country due to the severe backlash from the manipulated news and media. If he tried to escape and go anywhere, he would likely be sent back or imprisoned. The few who knew the truth—that he was not involved in the current state of affairs—were not believed. Many of those who had left blamed him for allowing the government to deteriorate to its current state. Meanwhile, the news continued to spin stories that painted Pushpa Koirala as the saviour of the country, fixing the damage caused by the ‘corrupt’ ex-king.

The old and sick were trapped in a country where the government was stripping them of everything, and it was only a matter of time before they succumbed to an early death due to the ruling party’s greed and indifference. Their pleas for help fell on deaf ears as the rest of the world believed they were faring well.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2023/12/10/the-corrupt-king

The anthropomorphic book

2023-11-05T14:17:00.000+05:30

Every morning, as the quaint library opens, I see people walking in, looking for the human book. Kids are running around, and adults, who appear tired, are seeking a small escape from reality. I know that what’s inside me could make so many people happy, but most pass me by without a glance. I wish I could scream and flap my pages, urging them to give me a chance. Instead, I am stuck on my shelf, waiting and watching as more people pass me by, oblivious to the fact that my pages might provide them with what they are looking for.

Sometimes, I am picked up, and the air tickles my spine. I feel a rush of excitement, thinking I will finally be opened and read. Instead, I am spun around so fast that, if I had a head, I would be dizzy. They skim over what is written on my black cover, a bare surface preview that can never honestly portray what’s happening inside me. Then, I am placed back on my shelf, as nobody seems interested in discovering what lies within me.

However, one day, after yet another pair of hands roughly grabbed and turned me over, I heard words I had never heard before. “This one sounds cool,” they said. Cool? Me? Before I knew it, I saw different parts of the library for the first time, being brought to the front desk and then taken outside. The sun was so bright, and I couldn't wait to spend a week with someone who wanted to get to know me. I was eager to show how much I had to offer, hoping that more people would choose me and that I would become so popular there would be a waiting list for me.

Suddenly, darkness enveloped me as I was shoved into a bag, where I could only eagerly await the moment my new friend would take me out and get to know me. In the meantime, I could still hear her and learn about someone beyond the brief moments they passed through my section. She was talking on the phone, and I wondered if she would mention finding me and wanting to spend the entire week going through my pages. Instead, the conversation revolved around her.

She seemed to crave the same things that I did—for someone to come and take her off a shelf and out to see the world. Why would she need that if she had just gotten me? I could be her friend and spend the night with her if she only took me out of this dark bag and opened to chapter one. Instead, I heard the TV turn on and soon realised I wouldn’t leave the bag tonight. I could only wait for my new friend to see the real me, just like I was seeing her.

I stayed in the bag all weekend, and she took me to work on Monday. She could read me on her lunch break or show me to her co-workers. I would love to be passed around and have someone look past my hardcover for once.

She was speaking to a man, asking if she could do a presentation for the company. He ignored her and said she seemed bright, but he didn’t think it suited her. He didn't even engage further to find out why she wanted to do it or what it was about. At her desk, I heard her complaining about how she would never progress if she didn’t get a chance to show what she was capable of. What was inside her wanted to be shown, but her boss wouldn't look past the surface level.

I finally realised she was just like me, wanting the same things. She wanted someone to give her a chance based on what was written on her metaphorical back cover. To say she has something good inside and choose her over the millions of others waiting on the shelf. If she looked inside me, she could understand how to fix everything, and neither of us would have to feel inadequate or lonely again. She was in a dark bag, just like me, waiting for someone to reach in and pull her out into the light.

I stayed in that bag for the entire week, and by the time she remembered I was in there, I had to be returned to my home. I was never opened or touched by the person I thought wanted to get to know me. When the librarian asked if she enjoyed reading me for the week, she lied and said I was a good read. I was placed back on the shelf among the other books once again, where their flashy covers would attract attention instead of mine, and they would be taken out time and time again, opened and given a chance, unlike me.

One day, another person might pick me up and think I am good enough to take home. I feel bad for that person because if she had just looked past the front cover, I would have had the answers she sought. After all, I am a book about how to make people notice you.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2023/11/04/the-anthropomorphic-book

De-dollarisation. Can the dollar survive it?

2023-06-09T11:00:00.004+05:30

Last year, at the Valdai International Discussion Club meeting attended by hundreds of experts and politicians, Rasigan Maharajh asked Russian President Putin what a democratic alternative to the current international system of payments and settlements might be. Putin responded that the United States established the Bretton Woods system after World War II, which created international institutions in finance and international trade. However, this system has broken down because the US uses the dollar to fight for its political interests, undermining trust in reserve currencies.

Foreign countries are now questioning whether keeping foreign currency reserves in dollars is wise. Still, the US has created a robust system that supports these reserves, making it difficult to get out. Over five days in March 2023, three small- to midsize US banks failed. One can easily question now if it is safe to continue saving money in dollars.

The uncertainty of the global market has heightened the importance of having a diversified portfolio. Gold has traditionally been a haven for investors amidst economic turmoil. However, relying solely on gold is also not advisable.Instead, investors should consider forming a well-rounded portfolio combining traditional and alternative investments. Moreover, the recent developments in international trade and finance have brought about the topic of de-dollarisation.

De-dollarisation refers to reducing the dependence of a country's economy on the US dollar. This can be achieved by diversifying the currency reserves of a nation and promoting the use of alternative currencies.
De-dollarisation has been discussed in many countries worldwide due to the US dollar's dominance in global trade and finance.

De-dollarisation is necessary for many countries to reduce their vulnerability to economic shocks. The dollar's power in worldwide business and finance poses significant risks to governments, particularly those with currencies pegged to it. A sudden US dollar exchange rate fluctuation can severely affect a country's economy.

Every nation has learned a hard lesson from the SriLank and dollar turmoil. Diversifying currency reserves can help mitigate the risk of sudden economic shocks caused by US dollar exchange rate fluctuations.

Promoting alternative currencies can open up new markets and trade opportunities for countries that may have been limited by using the dollar. Iraq has already decided to abandon the US dollar, abold move. Countries like India and Bangladesh are exploring the possibility of using local currencies in their business. At the same time, Russia has billions of rupees in Indian banks due to international sanctions.
However, the situation arises not from a lack of goodwill but due to significant trade imbalances. BRICS countries can only partially liberate their currencies due to their heavy reliance on exports.

The problem is both India and China rely on theUS dollar for their exports, which are pegged to the US dollar. This raises an essential question for those who have savings in dollars. Is it safe to continue saving money in dollars? Would it be wise to contemplate investing in gold in these circumstances? In the case of Nepal, there may be better options than de-dollarisation. Nepal heavily depends on re-mittances from its citizens working overseas; a significant portion of those remittances are sent in US dollars. Additionally, the US dollar is widely accepted and used in international trade, making it a virtual currency for Nepal's economy.

India is looking to diversify and internationalise the Indian rupee. However, the rupee may dive deeply if it becomes a convertible currency. During his addresses at a community programmeorganised in Sydney, Australia Indian Prime Minister Modi talked about the impact of the UPI (United Payment Interface) and expressed hope that digital transactions would surpass cash and go global.

An agreement with UPI and all payment system providers and operators in Nepal will not only boost trade between the two countries but also make it easy to carry out cross-border transactions.
Instead of de-dollarisation, Nepal can explore innovative solutions for diversifying its currency reserves and promoting economic growth. One option could be to explore digital currencies, such as Bitcoin or other cryptocurrencies.

Cryptocurrencies can provide alternative payment solutions and encourage trade between countries without a single dominant money. Another option which many central banks, including the NRB, are currently working on is CBDC — Central Bank Digital Currency. CBDCs give central banks more oversight and control over currency supply and circulation. The government typically backs these currencies, and their value is pegged to a national currency. CBDCs are generally not decentralised, and digital forms of fiat currency are issued and controlled by central banks. In contrast, blockchain is a decentralised currency that records and secures digital transactions.

Many experts argue that there may be some benefits of the CBDC, but the drawback outweighs the benefits. Another option Nepal can explore is promoting its local currency, the Nepali rupee, in international trade. This can be achieved by offering incentives to businesses that conduct transactions in Nepali rupees or by promoting Nepali rupees as an alternative currency for remittances.
The global economic system must avoid being dominated by a single currency.

Diversifying currency reserves and promoting alternative currencies can reduce financial vulnerabilities and encourage economic growth. Despite de-dollarisation's challenges, it is a necessary step for many countries. Countries must reduce their vulnerabilities to economic shocks and promote financial stability and growth. The de-dollarisation process should, therefore, be done gradually.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

Human trafficking

2023-05-10T08:19:00.000+05:30

Several years ago, Rajesh Hamal, often called the "Maha Nayak", graced Finland with a visit. Proud and curious, he was surprised by the proliferation of Nepali restaurant owners in the country. But little did he know, behind the tantalising aroma of food, a sordid scheme was unfolding. Some restaurant owners had resorted to trafficking people from Nepal, forcibly subjecting them to modern-day slavery in harsh work environments without access to necessities like food, shelter or medical treatment.

Human trafficking is a nefarious industry with far-reaching implications. Nepal, in particular, has been grappling with the debilitating scourge of human trafficking for decades. Countless Nepalis fall victim to the clandestine horrors of labour exploitation and sex trafficking across and within the country's borders.

Human trafficking has appalling effects on victims - especially women and children - including physical, emotional and psychological harm. Sexual exploitation results in unimaginable traumas such as rape, violence, and abuse. Labour exploitation subjects them to physical and emotional abuse, long hours and sub-standard pay. Adversely impacting victims' lives is inhumane and has significant economic repercussions at both individual and national levels. It exacerbates the impoverished circumstances of trafficked persons, aggravates their struggle to reintegrate into society and hampers national productivity and economic growth.

In July 2019, a task force headed by Bal Krishna Panthi was initiated by the government under the coordination of KP Sharma Oli to inspect the registration process for Bhutanese refugees. But sadly, it didn't take long for a fraudulent gang to take advantage of the situation. Operating across various districts, they duped Nepalis by soliciting money in exchange for bogus registration as Bhutanese refugees with plans to transfer them to the United States. Their scheme attracted several gullible participants, who paid staggering amounts ranging from Rs 1 million to Rs 5 million.

It was discovered that the fraudsters added names to the report commissioned by the task force and distributed copies to their victims to gain their trust. It's distressing how some unscrupulous individuals' greed wreaked havoc upon the lives of others, trafficking them in the false hope of a better future.

In conclusion, human trafficking in Nepal disproportionately affects vulnerable groups. Despite the government and international organisations' interventions, more efforts are necessary to develop a sustainable solution to eradicate this horrendous crime.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

Democratic breakdown

2023-03-28T12:38:00.001+05:30

Remember the FIFA World Cup scene when Kylian Mbappe ignored French President Emmanuel Macron when he tried to console him after France's heartbreaking penalty shootout loss to Argentina? Now, the French President has decided to implement highly debatable and controversial retirement reforms to address millions of French citizens' issues.

However, there is mounting pressure as violent demonstrations have occurred. Hundreds of security forces were injured, thousands of people were arrested, King Charles III's visit to France was postponed, and thousands of fires were lit around Paris a few days ago.

Macron unilaterally increased the retirement age from 62 to 64 using special presidential powers, which has resulted in his citizens' dissatisfaction with his decisions. Macron is also criticised for being the "president of the rich". A democratic system created to avoid another revolution has ironically resulted in the formation of conditions that could lead to a violent uprising.

The current system is based on a capitalist model designed to benefit the wealthy and powerful.
This system has created a large gap between the rich and the poor. The wealthy have access to resources and opportunities that the poor need access to. This inequality has led to injustice and frustration among the lower classes, who feel they are not treated fairly. The lack of economic opportunity and the feeling of being left behind have caused many people to become disillusioned with the current democratic process and system.

Political demonstrations include marches, rallies, sit-ins, or protests happening worldwide, not just in our country. Some Western countries are tired of mass immigration, economic shocks, dirty elections, the Ukraine war, low wages, and what they see as unnecessary lockdown controls.

Democratic breakdown and decline occur when there is no direct participation of the people, and issues are brought up top-down. In a democracy, any controversial idea or topic must go through a referendum, a bottom-up process. Constitutional reform should occur through the people's referendum instead of by presidential powers or amending top-down constitutions.

If we, the people, are unhappy about our current political set-up, we should ask for a people's referendum, which would result in constitutional reform. For example, suppose Nepal wants a king as a part of a democratic government. In that case, the people should decide from the bottom up, not by presidential powers or amending the constitution (topdown).

While some democratic and political experts have criticised referendums for disguising populism, they should still be included in decision-making. However, dictators like Hitler and Mussolini have used referendums to hide oppressive policies as populism.

Using militarised troops against citizens without gaining public support is antithetical to democracy, as demonstrated by Macron's handling of the Gilets Jaunes or Yellow Vests protests.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

Can Nepal benefit from a king?: Let the people decide

2023-03-02T12:54:00.001+05:30

Many people oppose the idea of a king, believing it would be an exercise in oppression and a restriction of rights. People should decide if they want a king

After the statement released by former King Gyanendra Shah on Democracy Day, KP Sharma Oli said, "Gyandendra Ji is in a dilemma. In the last 240 years, kings and monarchy did nothing for the nation. Did they develop in comparison to the Scandinavian nations or other nations..."

Oli is right, Nepal was not like a Scandinavian nation back then, nor will it ever be. The development made by the monarchy when King Mahendra was in power can never be compared to the development these political parties have made in the last 30 years.

The nation's political parties, including the Maoist, CPN-UML and others, have done excellent work by looting the nation's treasury and robbing banks and financial institutions, beseeching in front of foreign powers and diplomats.

Thousands of widespread scandals, which the biased Nepali media will never write about since most of them are partly funded by these parties.

Nepal has been ruled by a hereditary monarchy for centuries, but with tremendous changes and upheavals in recent decades, the question of whether or not to keep the king is a source of debate. On the one hand, some people argue that a king provides much-needed stability, continuity and a sense of national identity to Nepal. They claim monarchy symbolises national unity and is a bridge between the country's past and present. Additionally, they say the monarchy has traditionally provided stability and continuity, allowing the government to maintain its cultural identity and traditions and unify the country despite ethnic, linguistic and religious differences.

On the other hand, many people believe that the king's power is no longer necessary and could even be damaging to the country's progress. No matter which side of the debate one falls on, the question as to whether the monarchy will benefit the country or not is complex and challenging.

Nevertheless, the decision will ultimately shape the nation's future, and all voices must be heard before reaching a conclusion.

Many people oppose the idea of a king in Nepal, believing it would be an exercise in oppression and a restriction of rights. However, the people of Nepal should decide if they wish to have a king and what form of government they desire.

The monarchy is a relic of a past era. Its continued existence is seen as a sign of inequality and subjugation of the less fortunate. But ultimately, the people should be the ones to decide what type of government will best represent their interests.

The debate over the necessity of a king in Nepal has been intensifying in recent years. The abolishment of the monarchy in 2008 and establishment of a secular and democratic republic resulted from a popular movement. Despite this, the presence of a royal figure has been integral to the government and politics of countries like Denmark, Sweden and the United Kingdom for centuries.

While the role of a king can signify power and prestige, it can also be beneficial in specific contexts. For example, a king's special forces may influence the nation's direction and shape the country's future.

As the discussion surrounding the need for a king in Nepal continues, it is crucial to consider the implications of such an appointment and its potential benefits to the country.

Recently I visited Denmark, a Nordic country, where I saw that the Queen was an important figure in the government. She was seen as an important figure in Danish society, and the Danish monarchy is one of the oldest in the world.

Queen Margrethe II (born 1940) has been Denmark's reigning monarch since 1972.She had the power to appoint government officials, sign legislation, and even declare war. She is also seen as the head of state and a symbol of national unity.

In Sweden, the King, Carl XVI Gustaf, had a similar role. Still, the focus was more on the economic and social aspects of the country.

In addition, he can appoint government officials and sign the legislation. In the United Kingdom, King Charles III was more focussed on the symbolic aspects of the country. He was seen as the head of state and was responsible for unifying the country and leading the nation in times of peace and prosperity.

The King can appoint government officials and sign the legislation.

These examples of kingship provide an interesting comparison to Nepal, which has a long history of the monarchy. Still, the current political system is a democratic republic. Nevertheless, many pundits and experts believe it was bought by the influence of the 12-point agreement signed in New Delhi.

Is it possible for Nepal to benefit from a monarchy? After all, the country has a deep-rooted history of kingship. Moreover, a monarch could bring a sense of national unity and economic and social stability.

Nepal is facing a tumultuous political climate, and it may be time to get back the king. Not only would the king provide strong leadership, but he could also act as a symbol of unification, reminding the people of their shared values and history.

Perhaps, the monarchy could help protect the nation's forests, resources and culture, providing fast economic growth and a development environment. Subsequently, the monarchy could bring stability and a greater sense of continuity while at the same time promoting democratic principles.

Ultimately, the monarchy may be the key to Nepal's success and a way to reaffirm its place in the world. The rule of the king in Nepal can bring many advantages to the country.

Nevertheless, collaborating with the current political parties would be a challenge.

Giving citizens a system of governance open to their input allows them to express their opinion and help determine their nation's future. Furthermore, this system enables the open exchange of thoughts and encourages people to participate in political activities.

Ultimately, it is up to the Nepalis to decide on the direction of their nation, independent of any external influence or agreements.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

Türkiye-Syria quake

2023-02-13T10:48:00.003+05:30

While visiting a family friend, one of my Turkish friends experienced an earthquake.
He said that it was a horrifying experience. He was in the middle of a conversation with his aunt when the ground started to shake, and the walls began to rattle. They all ran outside and watched as the buildings swayed back and forth. He said that it seemed to last forever.

After the shaking stopped, they hugged each other and thanked God for being safe. Turkey is no stranger to earthquakes, having experienced several significant earthquakes in the past. The most recent quake last week, however, was of magnitude 7.8 that struck the southern and central parts of the country while people were sleeping. Many have reported that the second 7.5-magnitude tremor was not an "aftershock". This earthquake has caused significant damage and loss of life - more than 22,000 people killed and many more injured.

I was horrified when I saw the videos of buildings collapsing in Turkey and Syria. It felt like a movie scene, with people running for their lives as these vast structures, some as tall as 12 stories, came crashing down.

The destruction is unimaginable, with roads destroyed and mountains of rubble everywhere. The quake experience stays in our hearts, ready to strike again with greater force. Memory looms with the potential to return. We suffered a similar fate in the 2015 Gorkha Earthquake, which had a magnitude of 7.8 and killed over 9,000 people. Yet, the destruction it caused was much more significant.

The Nepal earthquake occurred d in a mountainous region, while the recent earthquake in Turkey occurred in a more populated area. This means that the destruction caused by the quake is more widespread, with more people affected.

In the last decade, only two earthquakes have been as devastating in any given year. As a result, a "level four alert" has been declared to appeal for international aid by the Turkish government. WHO has cautioned that casualty figures could rise as rescue teams continue to search for survivors amidst the debris. In addition, the recent earthquake in Turkey may impact the country's economy (the Turkish lira going record low, the stock market falling, and infrastructure damages).

The people of South Turkey and Syria are in desperate need of help. Every second counts in the search for survivors. Everyone must act now to save lives and build a more substantial infrastructure to prevent this from happening again.

My Turkish friend described the quake as "the end of the world". He was familiar with seismic activity in the area, but this one was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He said it was a terrifying experience and reminded him of how fragile life can be.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

State of anomie

2023-01-31T17:25:00.002+05:30

Prem Prasad Acharya, a businessman hailing from Illam District, took his own life last week by committing suicide in front of the Nepali Parliament.

Meanwhile, the Supreme Court's recent decision has rendered Rabi Lamichhane, chairperson of Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP), stateless.

I watched a television interview of Swarnim Wagle. He emphasised one word when talking about the Prem Acharya case, that is, "anomie", which I feel fits very well in the current context of our nation. Anomie is a concept developed by French sociologist Emile Durkheim in his 1897 book "Suicide".
It is a condition in which society lacks or provides little or no moral guidance to individuals, resulting in fragmentation, a sense of isolation and alienation, a state of hopelessness.

Durkheim argued that anomie is caused by the breakdown of social norms and values in modern societies and can result in behaviours such as crime, suicide and a lack of social integration.

These incidents suggest that Nepal may become a state of anomie when the collective sense of purpose and belonging fades away, and the social norms governing behaviour and group cohesion erode.
This can occur when our government fails to provide its citizens with security, stability, equity, hope and social justice.

As a result, people may become discouraged and disenchanted with their government's policies, leading to a breakdown in trust and an erosion of social norms. In such a situation, individuals may become increasingly disinterested in the collective needs of their nation and instead focus solely on their self-interests. This may make individuals feel alienated and disconnected from their government, leading to a feeling of anomie.

We may ease and mitigate and not become a state of anomie by implementing policies that ensure a sense of belonging to its citizens. This can involve creating a sense of safety and security for its citizens, providing economic and educational opportunities, and fostering a sense of community by investing in civic engagement initiatives, such as providing public spaces for citizens to come together and share their ideas and volunteer opportunities.

Additionally, a nation must ensure that its citizens have equal access to resources and opportunities regardless of race, gender, or other societal constructs.

This lack of a collective ambition for our country could be combatted by strengthening social ties and a sense of shared values and norms. Traditional societies often rely on a sense of community and collective purpose to prevent anomie. Still, it cannot be accessible when there is no established system to do so.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

Frequent plane crashes

2023-01-18T08:54:00.000+05:30

On the 15th of January, on Maghe Sankranti, a passenger plane carrying 72 people crashed near the newly inaugurated Pokhara International Airport. I am not an aviation expert, but what I have heard from some informal witnesses' reports suggests that the pilot diverted the plane to the gorge to save a human settlement because of engine failure. When we think of the plane crash in 2023, it feels like it is a dark spot regarding technological advancements.

Nepal has a history of frequent plane crashes, with several factors contributing to the high rate of accidents. One of the other high-profile crashes occurred in March 2018, when a US-Bangla Airlines plane carrying 71 people crashed while attempting to land at Kathmandu's Tribhuvan International Airport. The crash, which killed 51 people, was found to be the result of pilot error and poor communication between the pilots and air traffic controller.

These incidents, along with several other crashes and near-misses in recent years, have raised serious concerns about the safety of air travel in Nepal. The country's small and poorly-maintained airports and lack of proper safety regulations and oversight have been identified as major contributing factors to the high number of crashes.

The government has taken steps to address these issues, including upgrading infrastructure at airports and implementing stricter safety regulations. However, many experts believe that more needs to be done to ensure the safety of air travellers in Nepal.

One major issue is the lack of proper aircraft maintenance; many crashes were caused by poor maintenance of the planes, and pilot error, often due to a lack of adequate training. In addition, many of the airlines in Nepal are small, and they often need more resources to maintain their aircraft correctly. This can lead to mechanical failures and equipment malfunctions.

One major factor is the challenging terrain in Nepal. This further exacerbates the problem of inadequate safety measures. Despite these challenges, it is essential to note that air travel is still the most efficient and reliable way to travel within Nepal, especially in the remote areas. But the government and the related authorities need to improve the safety measures and the airlines to avoid frequent plane crashes.
The government and the aviation industry must proactively address the safety issues in Nepal's air travel if it ever wants to get out of the EU air safety blacklist. By investing in better training, equipment and infrastructure, the government can help to ensure the safety of air travelers in Nepal and help prevent future plane crashes.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

ChatGPT: And the rise of artificial intelligence

2023-01-12T15:39:00.004+05:30

Welcome. We are now in 2023. Last year in 2022, in a recent television interview after the Nepali general election results, the Maoist leader Pushpa Kamal Dahal said he was surprised by the election results and the leading cause. And he said, "We cannot win the election just by stating we are working on making big infrastructure projects and political agendas for the country, but it seems we win if we have enriched the IT sector and know how to use social media better".

It is good that our Nepali politicians are now talking about the importance of the IT sector, digitalisation and the rise of social media in our country. ChatGPT is one AI-based viral IT project recently launched by OpenAI, an AI research and deployment company which has caught the Internet by storm. ChatGPT is the best chatbot released to the general public, with over a million people using it within five days.

ChatGPT and the rise of AI is a new hotcake, and people from Twitterverse to Youtube and social media are talking about this now.

In addition, there is a chatter that people's jobs are at stake and may impact various sectors, from the public, judiciary, journalism, human rights to health and agriculture, among many other industries and vertical sectors.

ChatGPT can write an article and is good at answering questions you can commonly ask, giving suggestions and predictions about who will win the next elections. It can also help software programmers spot and fix errors in their code.

The next wave in IT is artificial intelligence. Unfortunately, most chatbots we see are mainly "stateless", meaning they don't comprehend previous questions, e.g., your Siri in Apple iPhone or Alexa from Amazon. However, ChatGPT seems to remember the prior conversation, which may lead to innovation and a boom in Personalized Stress and Therapy Bots.

ChatGPT could be better, but currently, it is not perfect. The ChatGPT doesn't crawl the web for information, and its knowledge is restricted to things it learned before 2021, as a large language model is trained by OpenAI. Its training data include books, articles and websites on various topics.

Therefore, it has yet to have information about recent events or developments since then. It also cannot browse the Internet as it cannot provide information by looking up specific information. So expect it to answer questions only in its training data.

Research conducted by The Accenture Institute for High Performance shows that by 2035, the US will grow by 5 per cent compared to the present 3 per cent because of the use of AI technologies. However, in the Nepali market, only a few companies are working in the AI sector (for example, waiter robots).We have yet to move to avoid long queues or go paperless in public sectors, and there is a shortage of "digitalisation" in most public and private sectors.

Nepal needs more policy-level intervention in AI, but using AI-based technologies in banks and health sectors shows that Nepal is still catching up in technological advancements. Nevertheless, we may benefit from the rise of AI and must adopt our policy accordingly by investing in this emerging field.

There are many forms of AI, and the exact number can vary depending on how AI is defined and classified.

Some common forms of AI include machine learning, natural language processing and robotics. Machine learning is a type of AI that involves training algorithms on large datasets to make predictions based on the data. This can include image recognition, speech recognition and language translation. Natural language processing is a type of AI that involves understanding and generating human language. This can include language translation, text summarisation and sentiment analysis.

Robotics is a type of AI that involves the design and control of robots. This can include tasks such as navigation, manipulation and object recognition. There are also many other subfields and applications of AI, such as computer vision, deep learning and evolutionary computation. The field of AI is constantly evolving and growing.

The AI that ChatGPT uses is based on unsupervised and semi-supervised machine learning algorithms, incredibly generative AI models that are diverse. For example, they can take images, longer text formats, emails, social media content, voice recordings, programme code and structured data. In addition, they can output new content, translations, answers to questions, sentiment analysis, summaries, and even videos.

AI is a powerful technology that has the potential to improve many aspects of our lives, such as healthcare, transportation and education. However, AI has limitations and can only solve some of humanity's challenges where sustainability is the key.

One of the critical limitations of AI is how good the quality of data and algorithms it is trained on is. This means that AI systems can only make predictions based on the information they have been given. Another limitation of AI is that it is incapable of creativity, empathy or other uniquely human traits. AI systems are designed to perform specific tasks, and they cannot think outside the box or understand complex human emotions.

A coalition of the CPN (Maoist), CPM(UML) and the National Independent Partyhas now formed a new government. Good that our politicians and policymakers are also starting to talk about using digital technology. The sooner they realise the rise of "digitalisation" and the importance of the IT sector's role, the better it can boost the economy and provide better service delivery in Nepal.

Overall, while AI has the potential to help us solve many problems, it is only capable of solving some of humanity's challenges on its own. Therefore, it is essential to use AI responsibly and in combination with other technologies and approaches to achieve the best results.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

What a game

2022-12-21T12:55:00.000+05:30

On December 18th, Argentina made history by becoming the champions after winning against France for the first time since 1986. Captain cool and popularly called "goat", led by superstar Lionel Messi, the team battled its way through the tournament, eventually edging out France in a thrilling match that ended in a penalty kick-out win 4-2.

The entire country of Argentina will now celebrate the World Cup's victory, as the team was seen as underdogs when they lost the game against Saudi Arabia.

The tournament was a roller coaster for the team, which had to overcome several tough opponents, including powerhouse Netherlands and Croatia. But Argentina was able to rise to the challenge and ultimately emerged victorious.

Messi has recreated history in Argentina Football with about a thousand games, 789 goals and 300 assists by winning the La Liga, UEFA Champions League, Olympics Gold, Copa America, and finally, FIFA World Cup 2022.

Kylian Mbappe, who is only 23 years old and has scored 12 world goals in 14 games, is the sixthhighest men's World Cup scorer He scored their first hat-trick in the men's final since 1966 and almost led France to the back-to-back title in the final World Cup match.

There may be no winners or losers in the final match as both teams in the Qatari desert showed incredible play, one of the greatest games ever played. France had the better play for much of the second half of the game, and it seemed like they were on track to win the World Cup. Mbappe's penalty kick-out in the extra minute changed everything, sending both countries' supporters into a frenzy.

There was a lot of noise about Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar, and Modric's last World Cup, but who can forget it was also Angel Di Maria's final World Cup? It may be Messi's last game of the World Cup, and Argentina's performance showed there is always hope, and dreams do come true.

The victory is crucial to Argentina, as it is a chance for the country to unite and celebrate something that had been a long time in coming.

Football is a team game, and it is not the individual who wins the matches. In addition, football teaches vital life lessons, such as discipline, perseverance and sportsmanship.

Congratulations to Argentina's World Cup victory, which will be remembered for years. The team's victory is a sign of hope for the future and the upcoming New Year, 2023 — a moment that will be remembered for generations to come.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

No place called home

2022-12-06T12:17:00.001+05:30

The term "Sukumbasi" does not directly translate to homelessness; however, it is often used pejoratively for "people living in slums". In general terms, homelessness is a growing problem in Nepal. With the country's population increasing and its economy struggling, more and more people are being forced to be homeless.

According to a recent informal report, an estimated 200,000 people are homeless in Nepal. The causes of homelessness in Nepal are complex and interrelated.

Many inhabitants and people live near the Bagmati riverbank without proper homes and mainly in slums. Poverty and economic inequality are the primary culprits of homelessness.

In addition, a lack of access to education and employment opportunities and limited access to health care contribute to the problem. Other factors include gender-based discrimination, displacement due to natural disasters or conflict, and the country's civil war effects.

Homelessness is a complex and persistent problem in Nepal, and it is essential that all levels of society – from the government to individuals – work together to address this global challenge. There is an urgent need for more resources, including housing, jobs and health care, as well as targeted measures to reduce poverty and inequality.

To address this issue, it is essential to understand the root causes of homelessness. Many people are homeless due to poverty, unemployment and displacement due to natural disasters or civil conflict.

One solution to this issue is to provide safe and affordable housing for people who are homeless. This could include building shelters or providing access to existing housing. Additionally, it is crucial to provide access to essential services, such as healthcare, sanitation and education. This will ensure that homeless people can access and get the resources they need to live healthy lives.

Another solution is to create job opportunities for those who are homeless. This could include setting up job training and placement programmes and providing access to microloans for starting a business.

Additionally, government programmes such as food stamps and other social safety nets could be used to help those in need.

Finally, it is crucial to provide resources and support to homeless people. This could include providing access to mental health services, addiction treatment, and other forms of support. By providing access to safe and affordable housing, essential services, job opportunities, and resources and support, it is possible to make a difference for those who are homeless in Nepal.

Published: The Himalayan Times
Nepal's leading daily newspaper