Zuberi and I

I asked: Do heartbreaks hurt less as we age? 

You said: I think as you get older - the current heartbreak is not as intense, but the collective weight of all your previous heartbreaks also add little bits of their frail selves. 

And together maybe it gets a little heavier in weight. The pain is not as sharp but more blunt and more like it breaks your ribs. Or maybe we just like to feel sorry for ourselves more - so it never truly goes away…?

Inking with the blue

 Today,

for some reason

I happened to think about ink. 

Yesterday, I was talking to my friend about how special it used to be write with a fountain pen. At the time I was in school, there was something called Flame pen. They were thick pens, I suppose the size of a cigar, although I barely know what size a cigar is, and much less to hold one. Those pens didn't last too long for my generation as they were quickly replaced by Chinese fountain pens. 

Flame, was an India product. They came in maroon, green, blue. Most of mine were maroon and blue. I never wanted a green one. I have no clue why. 

The pen operated like a syringe. It had the nib, the body that extended into a barrel that had a piston one had to pull to refill the barrel with ink. You had to dip the tip into the ink bottle, just so the nib touched the surface, and then draw ink into the pen. If you pressed the piston quickly while the barrel was full, the ink would spray out and you would have blue (or whichever coloured) chaos right there. And so, it was also called a fountain pen, I like to think. Although I'm sure the person who designed the pen, Lewis Edson in 1883, had other thoughts about it at the time. 

While refilling, you had to be accurate in what section of the nib you dipped in the bottle of ink. It was likely to smudge the pages, otherwise. And stain your fingers. During the time I fractured an arm, I used to use my teeth to draw ink. Lean down into the bottle with the back of the plunger, or the piston caught between the teeth, dip the nib in the bottle of ink, just enough, and then draw the plunger towards yourself with the teeth and focus half an eye on the barrel to watch it fill with ink. 

The Flame pens were soon replaced by the Chinese fountain pens, which were easier to refill. You only had to dip them in ink and press the dropper that sucked the ink into the barrel. But they needed more frequent refilling. And that meant your friends had to sometimes lend you ink. A few drops. And you would return the favour the next day. The Chinese pens didn't leak as much and were slimer and easier to hold. I had earned a huge corn on my middle finger from holding the Flame pen, using the Chinese one might have eased that a little bit. But that didn't keep me from missing the Flame ones. There was great satisfaction in filling my maroon and my blue ones every night to place them in my pencil case for the next day's use. It meant I would not run out of ink the rest of the day. 

The nibs would go awry sometimes as they became worn. And you could buy new ones. Unscrew the head of the pen, place the new nib behind the feeder that provides support to the nib and also supplies ink, and screw it back again. 

(We eventually moved to Pilot pens, Japanese ones. I still missed Flame)

Punta is in class six this week and now he uses a pen to write his schoolwork now. Loons bought him pens and I was surprised to see they are no longer fountain pens that require refilling. The refill are cartriges one has to screw on to the body of the pen. No more ink bottles. 

And so it makes me think of how much a bottle of ink meant in those days. I think a bottle of Chelpark ink cost Rs.35 in those days and lasted a month, or less. A pen was Rs.16, I think, or Rs.25. And every time you had to buy a new pen, you felt excited about what colour you would be able to buy. Sometimes, you could buy pretty floral ones, but they were never as good as the ones that looked modest. Sometimes, you made a small collection of pretty pens. But ink was still a luxury that I had to ask Baa to get it on his way back from work. He used to buy it from a stationery store in Chabel, I imagine. And I think my Baa was always very surprised by how often he had to buy me a new bottle of Chelpark (Chelpark, BTW, is what became when Parker collaborated with Chellaram in India to produce a local brand suitable for the sub-continent). 

I used to love watching the ink flow out of the nib as I filled the pages with homework and classwork. I loved to see my own handwriting and to try and make it look neat.

But no ink bottles and fountain pens shenanigans for my Punta.

He will use blue pens with cartriges. All of them looking the same. And no need for him to reserve a space in his desk or on his bookshelf at home to store a bottle of ink, or to take it out every time his nib starts to stagger a little in the want of ink, so he can refill. And maybe no stained fingers and no stained pages and no stained shirts when you had to jerk the pen a little so the ink travelled to the tip of the nib.

P.S. I stole this image from Google as I don't as an image of Chelpark ink bottle.

The girl who taught me to masturbate

I guess I wasn't surprised when you passed away. The last few days of your life at the hospice had been excruciating and we knew it was only a matter of time. It felt like we were waiting for you to leave. And quietly, I might have hoped you passed away sooner than you did.

It's a year since your passing now. Almost, by the Gregorian calendar and already by the tithi count. And it has been an eventful year. There were birthdays, anniversaries, travels, nakhtyas. In most of them, no one really remembered to talk about you. We didn't even talk about you on your dakila to mark one year of your passing. It was as though we were all in a hurry to get past the rituals. 

Poonam di asked me to bring the khasali to Gurju four times, even though she could see I had already placed one before him. She asked the same questions multiple times--as though it was her way of not mentioning you. Kamla Maley just sat on the bench in the terrace watching Gurju perform the rituals, the midday sun shining bright over her, casting a halo formed by the smog of a polluted city sky in the background. She sat. Without saying a word. 

The rest of us chattered. About things of no consequence. About travel plans, about people abroad, about politics, the government securing monopoly of state adverts for Gorkhapatra Sansthan. It was a day like any other. It was not very different from when we did the pooja to mark 45 days of your passing. Except, people didn't weep this time. No one.

Before leaving, I went to the Dhukti room to say hi to your photograph. I stood there and teased you for a bit and then those tears came. I felt embarrassed. I didn't want to be the only person crying that day, so I went down the stairs quickly and out the house. I left.

Today, I was trying to masturbate. I had to stop because you showed up in my mind's eye. When we were pre-teenagers, you had told me: Have you ever tried rubbing your thighs together? It's so much pleasure. 

And just like that, you had taught me how to masturbate. 

But today, I had to stop because the 11-year-old you appeared in my head and tried to teach me how to do it and it was like I could no longer remember all the other times I'd known to pleasure myself. I sat on my bed and wept. 

No longer unmoored

The day was warm and blue, like the sky above us. Warmed by the sunshine and blue like calmness, trust and serenity Google talks about and not the kind that makes you sad. My heart felt so full of gratitude for the day and for you.  

I watched you walk into dappled light and look some pictures of you on my phone. It's how I want to think of us for the rest of my life. Walking with me towards open spaces, your big, soft hand holding mine in it. You cribbing about how I have no peripheral vision and how inattentive I am when walking on the road. And yet, and yet, smiling, holding my hand.

People often tell me I've been so unlucky in life. Then I think of the clarity you have brought me and I know they can't be correct. With you, I sit moored. 

We never talk about tight chests

Grief can hold you captive for days and weeks and months, years. 

I feel as though Preeti's passing has now become stuck in my chest. It's always tight. I haven't looked up the phone to check our chats from the past. What is the point in doing that when I know she will no longer be looking? But there's a part of me that seems to think she's still in London. It's also like I'm trying to trick my mind into believing she's not quite gone. Like I had tricked myself into believing she would come back to Kathmandu for good and we would grow old together. But this was not the place she chose for herself.

Home, then, is probably where we're able to spread our wings, even if we don't always fly. Home isn't always where we were born. And so Preeti Didi chose her home-- so far away from us. And every detail about her life, so lost on us. I worry I will never be able to gather all the bits of her to make a full memory. 

Fragments will have to do.

girls standing on the lawn

The spine of the chair shadowing mine, my arms stretched across the desk, my feet dangling before me sometimes, sometimes perched on the floor-- I'm the happiest person when I'm seated at my desk. Nothing else matters while I get to be here.

Until last week, I still had Y's Sanepa desk. And it felt like a special gift. I think I might have walked from room to room admiring Y's apartment and her courage to set up her own place, the entire time I was there. 

I'm yet to find that for myself. But I've taken comfort in knowing it is possible for a Newa girl to step out of her sheltered life and live a life that's her own, even in Kathmandu. 

I read Y's books most nights. She has a really rare collection. None of them are books I've seen before. And most of them are poetry. Y is a poet and you can see it in how she lives. 

One evening, I took a book about girls standing on the lawn and placed it by her bedside because I felt she should wake up to it when she returns home. Then I put it back again where Y had placed it. 

Maybe she wanted the girls on the lawn to be sat on the shelf now.

 

a eulogy for Preeti Shakya

 Dear Preeti Shakya,

Today is seven days since we laid you to rest.

The send off was magical-- your swan friends showed up, did their dance as you met the river and danced some more before flying away in a flock. It was so beautiful and a fitting tribute to you, the girl who loved nature.

Here's the eulogy I wrote that Tenzi kindly read out at the prayer service:

Today you passed through a crematorium

and we were given palu-baji to eat—

ginger and flattened rice, 

a reminder that this is grief

and grief comes with a taste

that is both bland and potent

I spread out my palms 

balancing my plate that held

a fistful of baji, a lump of ginger,

and vegetables cooked without 

turmeric or spices. 

no colour 

grief has no colour—

food was served as grief today 

as you passed through a machine 

at a crematorium.

I could only stare at the plate 

resting on my palms, spread out wide 

Today, 

a year and two months 

since I held your face in sight

and just as long 

since we took that walk together around 

khastee

Let’s go, kora, I said

and you said you would 

if I promised to hold your hand

all the way.

we walked very very slowly,

we managed only one kora

I asked if you would come home 

and be with me forever.

we can grow old together, I said.

you said yes at first

and then you said, 

maybe it’s too late

you said London was now your home and you had to go home

at that moment, 

my mind must have been too dense

to fathom what you meant by home.

you meant

London was where you would go home

to yourself

Tomorrow,

you will be the dust that flies over

the surface of the ripples 

at a certain bend along the Thames,

and then in many hours 

find a new destination to rest forever

that's what you had meant 

when you said that was your home.

London, 

now your home forever.

and we, who grieve your absence,

we are the ones in transit. 

So long, Preeti didi...

My dearest Preeti,

I wanted to write you a note while you’re still with us physically. You’re still here in body with us, but at 3pm today, you will be gone. You will be enveloped in flames and they will return you to earth, and the Thames will carry you home. You will be taken to the Thames on Friday.

Tomorrow, I will become a year older. For another year, you’re still a year older than me. And next year onward, I will keep getting older than you. You, forever, will remain 48.

Right now, I feel wounded by your absence. But I’m also grateful to you for all the love you have always given me. Thank you!

You are so beautiful and you will be beautiful and kind always. And wise.

Until 3pm today, I am still allowed to speak of you in present tense. So, yes, you are one of my best childhood gifts. Thank you for always looking out for me. I love you. I love you so much. Rest easy and rest peacefully always.  

And here are some stolen lillies for a May girl.

 

a letter to my sister, who is slipping away

My dearest Preeti,

I’ve spent the last seven days crying round the clock and wishing for your peaceful departure.

What kind of sister wishes for her sister to die? What does that make me? A monster. But it is true. For a week now, ever since I heard, I’ve been praying for you to slip away peacefully, quietly. It would be a reflection of your life in a way, you know?

 

I cry as I write this and crying seems to have become my coping mechanism to deal with your going away. I wanted to write to you while you’re still here so I can talk to you in my head, even if you are already slipping into a coma and can no longer read. So, here I am.

Maybe I will ask Pratish to read this to you while you sleep.

Yesterday, on the video call, I watched him pat your forehead, ask you if you want water, rub your legs. You lay there unaware of us. Or maybe you were listening. We will never know.

I put my lips to the image of you on my phone and kissed my phone several times, knowing it was my phone I was kissing and you were out there in the hospice, just waiting. I can never kiss or hold you again.

 

From across this great physical distance between us, I do not know what any of us can do to bring you comfort. But here we are, fighting among ourselves over what’s good for you and what isn’t. As if we know what you want. We talk about what should have been. As though that would change anything about your illness.

When you came home in 2023, I had told you to come back. I had said we would live our lives together as two old, single ladies and you had said you would, for a moment, and then said it was too late. You had built a world for yourself in London. You said London was home.

 

I wonder who is part of your London home. Who is in that world of yours, I will never know. All these years of sketchy conversations, I’ve wondered who your friends are. I can barely remember you talking about your friends. I remember your cats though. Five of them. Your babies.

It is only now that I know why you had to give them up. It wasn’t because you were moving. It was because cancer had started gnawing at you and you could no longer care for them. And yet, you loved them. Like you had loved Jimmy, all the way until it was time to put him down.

I know that pain, you know? Coz I had to put my Goose down too. Again, what kind of mothers put their babies down? I guess mothers who are left with no choice but to let go. Love is also letting go, my friend Priti says.

Ever since I found out you have been at the hospice, I’ve been playing scenes from our childhood in my head. I see you in your school uniform, mostly. Neatly ironed white shirt and the grey skirt wrapped around her thin waist. What a looker you have always been!

And your hair! You have the blackest, silkiest, shiniest hair I ever saw. It was your beauty! And then you came home to us in 2023 in a wig. Your head, like a mowed lawn. I asked what happened and you said you had been on radiation therapy for bone TB. You lied. You didn’t say it was cancer. You didn’t tell me you had undergone mastectomy when you opened your suitcase and showed me a bunch of 36D bras for me to take. They’re your size, I said, not mine.

How was I to know your bras no longer serve the same function for you? That they’re now a sign of something that has been lost.

You didn’t tell me you had been sick. I know now that you were trying to protect me from grief that was hurtling our way.

I know nothing about you, Preeti.

Poonamdi still tells me you have jaundice. How am I to make sense of anything?

Last night, after our call, I started hyperventilating. Seeing you lay there wan-looking , bleary-eyed, has been really hard. Every call, I see you grow more distant. And something has been breaking in me these days as I think of how you’re no longer going to be around. The sister who calls me baby, gypsy, darling, Pabhi. No one has such names for me in this world. No one.

With you, I’ve always felt unconditionally loved and understood, even if we didn’t talk so often. I don’t think anyone’s understood me like that, you know?

I sat up till 3am last night, reading our chats. Every time I asked you how you were doing, you said you had many challenges but you were coping well. And you always had nice things to say. You were proud of me.

I don’t know, this letter is incoherent too, like my emotions these days.

One moment, I’m crying, another moment, I’m thinking of the boys who crushed on you. I’m thinking of the poems you used to know by heart. Some of them, I still know from hearing you say them aloud.

The Yak by Hilaire Belloc.

The time you went to Pokhara, I was so envious and I hated you for not taking me with you. You were ten then and it was probably the only time you ever went to Pokhara. I wish now that I could share all my Pokhara lone trips with you-- over two dozen of them.

I’m thinking of the silly things you used to say. You’re the girl who first talked to me about masturbation. And yet, when we spoke in 2023, you said it was hard to believe life had passed you by without a lover. How is it, you asked me, that you had never had a lover? I still have no experience of sex, you said.

Preeti. 

 

I always thought you and I would grow old together. 

I saw you come and live here in KTM. I saw us grow old together. But those are images I was conjuring inside my head. I know you will never grow old now. You will always be 48. You turned 48 today. Happy Birthday, Preeti! I love you so much.

Yours,

Gypsy  

P.S. Had I been in London, I would have brought you some flowers. Here, I've stolen these online.
 

Thank you 2024

2024 has been an eventful year, starting with walking on eggshells around someone I love deeply, to getting Covid again to flaring up into rosacea. It turns out I have had to measure my life based on medical events. But there's also been a fair share of good times in 2024.

I think this year has started me off on a new journey of self-discovery. It brought me closer to myself as I set off to India, trying to reconnect with myself again. And that is what has been the most important thing I did for myself this year. 

Each one of us owes that to ourselves. The time and the patience to be with ourselves so that we nourish ourselves. The person who understands us best is ourself and the most important relationship is right there too-- with the self. 

As the year ends, for me, it is a start as I embark on this journey of valuing myself. I set people in my life free to go find me when they are ready. Meanwhile, the focus is on me so that I find the happiness that is mine-- the one I bring myself.

Sanepa daal-bhat forever

There's a boy who likes to feed people. 

He feeds those who are in need of nutrition, in need of learning to eat, in need of nourishment, in need of gentle loving and in that healing. He feeds anyone who shows up at his doorstep. There's always warm rice, hot daal, all kinds of vegetables. And mutton for those who like their meat.

For me, it's mostly daal-bhat and vegetables. And ever since I first stepped into the boy's kitchen, I have been going back for second helpings. Several. This is the daal-bhat I want to always get to eat. I don't even mind being put on this earth again if I get to eat the boy's cooking again. And again. 

And again.

 

Yenyaa Punhi girl forever...

 I was watching Shantinin make her way through the Nanichayau crowd yesterday, and the thought that occurred to me was: you can take the girl away from the old city, but you can't take Yenyaa out of the girl. Even though she is no longer her agile self and has to walk slowly now on implant for knees, she isn't afraid to be in the crowd. She raises her arms to take pictures of the world before her, filling the canvas of her phone with images of people and deities and chariots, and when she does that, she's still the girl she used to be.

When I was a little girl, I would follow her, Baa, Mamu and others in the family to Laayku. It's what all residents of Thaaney and Kowney did-- as did the rest of of Kathmandu.

I've often though that I live from Yenyaa to Yenyaa.   

(Yaasin is the pole in the image above)

As of now, I don't even know if it should be Yenyaa or Yeinyaa. Growing up, we called it Yenyaa Punhi. As in, the full moon that celebrates Kathmandu. These days, it is popularly known as Yein-yaa Punhi, Kathmandu's full-moon. 

Seeing it indicated as Indra Jatra on Nepali calendars always surprised me as a kid. I understood as I grew older that there's the Indra element to it and there's the story of how Daagin, the mother, comes to fetch her son back and that's why we have Pulukishi too, the Erawat elephant. But all of these stories come spooled and entangled and I've hardly ever been able to make sense of them. Stories crossing into each others' boundaries, just like regimes did into people's lives, trying to reimagine and reorient them.

What remains of these stories are what got passed down in repeat in oral history. Rest is left to the imagination and to be read between missing lines.

And so, my favorite of all the Yenyaa stories has always been the one about Majipa Lakhey (the Redhair seen in this image). He seems to have become the most popular deity now and I noticed this time, he has a big fan-following. I suppose, social media, etc.. There's beauty in what's fierce. For me, Majipa tugs at my heart's strings just because. I think of how intensely he must have loved to have stayed back here in the Swoniga for the sake of the woman he loved. When in love, I hope I'm always like him, too-- devoted, loyal and fierce.

And every time I go to Laayku during Yenyaa, it's Majipa Lakhey I first run into! 

It always sets the stage for the rest of the festival. 

And.

And.

Not a good image, but here's our Aju (ancestor), Baka Dayaa, also known as Yalambar. If you speak to the keepers of Bakadyaa, they will tell you they're descendants of the Kirant people. Those who stayed back despite the numerous conquests of the Swoniga, mingled with many layers of conquerors and eventually became who are now, the Newah people-- bound together by one language.

The more I think of Indra Jatra/Yenyaa, the more intrigued I am. I wish I could spend years talking about it. I think of it as a festival that is forever been in motion. And so I see the need for this part of Yenyaa to evolve. 

Children must no longer be isolated for the sake of a festival. Yes, changes have happened over the years but they aren't enough. Their seating arrangements need to change, the chariots need an upgrade. And if we must take the children around the city, the crowd needs to be better-behaved and monitored so the procession can be wrapped-up within an hour. And perhaps we don't need the children to do the rounds several days during the week. If the festival could be redesigned for Nanicha, so should it be it for the sake of the children themselves, who step into the roles of Kumari, Bhairav and Ganesh, for the sake of the people of this valley. 

The children have to play the role just so that the Newah people are able to keep their sanity and have something to hold on to from year to year-- it's an important story of hope. And so it seems fair that life be made easier for the children, too, so they too can hope for a better future of the likes of them? If Newah people don't think of making these changes, who will?

 ...

This Yenyaa, I've also made a new friend, who's actually and old friend. So, during my visit to the UK in 2004-05, I was introduced to Ojesh Singh by someone. I no longer remember by who. And we would chat on MSN messenger. I was kind of lost and lonely then. He seemed to know a lot about things and so we would chat. Once, he invited me to London during Mhapuja. But I didn't go, of course. I had my Mhapuja with family, at 27 Fearnheard. 

Ojesh has a book called London Lakhey that just came out. I became a sad person when I read it, because I loved the illustrations and the fact that here's a story about an imagination so close to my heart, and in such beautiful fonts and good illustrations. Sadness can come from appreciation, as well as disappointment. I felt sad because I could not read the Newah text easily. I had to read the English first to get to the Newah. One should never have to read another language as an interpretation of one's mother tongue. And so I'm grateful to Ojesh for the awakening. 

Like it is

Annie says I should be writing about myself for five minutes on the clock, daily.

I wonder what that would read like. It would probably be narcissistic or just insular. All my writing is both, anyway. And I feel like I don't know what else to write about at this point.

So, a friend pointed out the impact of mercury retrograde. It is expected to be pretty challenging in many ways, including travels. But I'm determined not to let it interfere with my travels. It won't be easy for sure because I have backaches that stall my breathing some moments, and the foot hasn't healed completely. But as long as flights are in order and minus turbulence, I will be alright. 

In fact, I'm sort of looking forward to being back in Hangzhou and experiencing the quiet. I think I have needed it. I haven't had time to myself at all, so it might actually be good for me. 

So, writing about myself is like writing my journal and maybe this is not the space to do it, even though I've always used my blog as my journal. 

There were years in my life, when I was so terrified about a certain man finding out about my blog, I had to hide it. And now, I don't really care. I can't believe I lived in such great fear of the men in my life in the past and there is no way I'm going to allow that to happen anymore. No more space here for men who do not love or care.

My friend M sent me something to that effect early today. Here it is!

Dear Germie,

I'm coming here after reading your blog. Yes, it's still a place I visit.

Since we always promise to make calls and don't, it has become a good way for me to get updates on your life. I like it that you're still on your blog instead of Instagram and other spaces. I want to take inspiration.

So, updates on my end:

1. I'm still recovering from ligament injury on my left foot. It's Day 12 today and I'm so restless. I miss walking. I've spent my time reading, working, lolling in bed. 

I'm finally able to sit at my desk today and I'm suddenly a happier person. Do you feel that way, too? Completely lit, the moment you sit on your desk, before your computer, the possibilities suddenly open before you and you feel like it's not so bad to be alive, after all?

2. We found Babubagh. It was Nhooja who spotted him, sitting on the 12 feet wall where he had first climbed the day he fled from the vet's, three days ago. Bandana and I rode on her scooter as soon as Nhooja called. I rode behind her, despite my leg injury. As we rode, she said the road from home to Chapali main has never felt so long to her. 

When we got there, Babu was on the wall, going Ma ma... and Nhooja was standing below, talking to him from the road. 

Nhooja, Bandana and Baa had been going back several times every day to search for Babu and had spoken to residents in the hood and requested that they call us if he appeared in sight. But the night he was found, Nhooja said he had a strange intuition that Babu would be there  at the wall and while returning home from an event, he went to the wall directly, instead of riding home.

The ginger cat, who we had asked during our search days to keep an eye on Babu was present, as though she had understood exactly what was asked of her. And I think she did. For, the whole time, she stayed with us following us around, cajoling Babu to climb down the wall. 

Getting him to climb down became impossible and he was probably famished from three days of being marooned on a high wall in torrential, incessant rain. He would not climb down. So, Bandana, my new superhero, used an unfinished column against the high wall to climb up to to rescue Babu. How she climbed it, is still beyond me. She's an almost 5ft tall woman. But when she climbed, she suddenly became tall, in spirit. Nhooja gave her foot backing and pushed her up and there she was standing precariously on a wall three times her height, coaxing Babu to come to her.

He refused at first, then came when she put some pellets before him. He was starving. She eventually grabbed him but he wailed and fought and scratched her all over her shoulders and it tore her jacket. But she would not give up. She picked him by the neck, pressed him to herself and eventually passed her down to me, during which time, she almost fell off the wall and I died for a second right there, worried she would be hurt.

I managed to grab Babu and now pressed him to myself. He protested first, scratched my arms. Then I talked to him, said it's okay and he relaxed and then we put him in his basket, while the ginger cat watched, concerned and now suddenly unsure if she might have led her fellow being from being stranded to being trapped. But we left her some treats and she talked to us in meows for a bit and seemed alright.

We rode home with Babu. It was 10:40ishPM when we got home. 

Babu ate, purred and purred and purred.

(My foot had started to hurt more than ever and was swollen quite a bit from dragging it around to help Babu.)

Babu, the moment he arrived home after the rescue.

I'm not a cat person, Germie. I connect with dogs and am in my element around them. I find cats clingy. Or at least Babu is. He can't stop touching me and calling out to me and I'm not used to that kind of attention. I guess I've always found show a affection a little bit cringe. My love language is taking care of practical needs of those I love. For instance, I would die if someone sent me flowers. But I'd be happy if someone helped clean up my phone. 

It's starting to rain as I type this note to you. It has rained the year, more than it did past monsoons. And while it's pretty, sitting at my desk and just watching the clouds morph into a thousand things, I am filled with a deep sadness over all the people who have died because of landslides and flooding brought on by rains. It's one of the reasons I no longer wanted to work as a reporter. I was writing about events I could not prevent. Does it make sense? I guess no. But it's true.

Talk to me soon. This is the year we shall meet. As witches in our own right, we have to manifest it.

Love,

Prateeish

Dog chase

 

One of the nicest things I saw last month was this dog who was sauntering though Nepal Literature Festival stalls in Pokhara. He would show up with his Papa and just walk around the place, sniffing, booping, sprinkling, sprinting and leave when his Pa was leaving, following him out just as he had followed him in. Dogs are all heart! Silliest people!

In the background, Suzana Thapa's exhibition on Gurkha Women at NLF

we could talk about depression

Andre and I talk sometimes about our respective states of mind. I call it depression. He calls it his lows. Today, he said he tried for a number of years to "drown in wine and women" to get out of that state of mind, until he finally woke up one morning and realized that hurting others wasn't going to help him. He needed to sort his mind out first. And so he did that.
I'm curious which side of the bed one has to wake up on to just wake up to a resolution like that.
Anyway.
When we were having this conversation today, he was talking to me between baking stuffed croissants and shallow-frying meat-balls, and nursing his son, who's down with flu.
When we were having this conversation, I was sitting at home, like I do most Sundays, feeling bloated and allowing the weighing machine to make me feel worse about myself.
The only similarity between his state and mine was that we were both home today. Him, taking care of his children. And me, hanging with my dog and my nephew, and my ageing parents...all children in a sense.
I don't know if this is what it means to arrive at middle-age. You fret over your graying hair, the changing measurement of your waist-line and worry about a mind that doesn't seem as hip as the rest of the world on social media does.
Andre always tries to make me feel better when I'm feeling 'low'. He tells me I'm one of the most intelligent and attractive women he's ever met. And I feel like he's merely being generous with his use of adjectives because he feels like I need help.  There goes my cynicism!
For me, the core struggle comes from having to face the world. I have no courage. And it takes everything out of me to try everyday. I could only begin to think of who I am, once I've managed to get myself out there. 
This has always been my everyday.
  

dearest

you have me reminded of who we used to be. i went to your blog today and was pleasantly surprised by how you have managed to stay intact. i've been away, far too long, i think. i forget what it is like to be a girl. i forget how it feels to spread our my arms wide and soak it all in. but you're still out there doing that. taking it all in. be it sleeplessness or other things. you've stayed beautiful through it all, Sumi.

Tea time

When it rains relentlessly, you want to stay tucked under warm things and dream. And read. And drink a warm cup of tea. Tea. I never thought about how tea is sort of been the transition, in my life. Most mornings, I wake up to my parents' fights over tea. The sugar is not right some mornings, sometimes it's the milk and sometimes, it's just not strong enough.

"I like my tea strong," I told a friend over chat today. She said she likes hers strong, too. A little bit of sugar and some milk.
"I drink tea three times a day," says she. And i say, same same.
Often, the only thing that can salvage me from my near-paralyzed stupor in bed every morning, is a cup of tea. Baa puts no sugar in my morning tea. Only milk and tea leaves. Tea is my incentive to abandon the dreams and hallucinations I have conjured up in bed.

Then it's tea time at two, just before I leave for work. It's been a ritual. While Ajee was alive, I made tea for her and Baajya. Tea and biscuits or cookies. They still feel like a treat, just before work, although I no longer have a cup for Ajee. Afternoon teas come filled with memories of Ajee's humming and Bajyaa's demand for a sweetner. What is tea if it isn't sweet? he still says.

Every evening at 6 pm, I break for tea. I have done that for last 12 years or longer. This one comes with office gossip. But over the years, my companions have changed. Some saw me through whatever was haunting me at different times. There were colleagues, who wanted a one-on-one across the table-- a longing to be elsewhere, they made up for by gulping down several glasses of tea served in glasses rinsed in a hurry. Some tea sessions occurred with girl friends, whose sole priority in life was to open their hearts up to some loving.

Some teas, have been quiet teas, as I drank alone and just tried to get over the day.
Tea. Tea. Tea.

I think I'll call myself Tea. Because I read today that there's no heartbreak a good cup of tea cannot cure. Just drink tea and stay calm :)

To your friendship

When summer stumbles
out of my closet
and winter finds a corner
to tuck itself in

you peep at me in bold prints,
bright shades
of skirts and t-shirts,
and in the form of a scarf
stowed away in the shelf
to re-appear
the day my slumping shoulders
need some warmth

what will be these roads
with the heartbeats
leading us to where the miles run off?

-we will think of
our tears mingling
and soaking into
one another's chest
-we will dream
of laughter
that spilled
out of souls
that will never be afraid to love
and perhaps hurt


what will these days be
without or without,
when we've already found
a place
in each other,
to stay?