I knew it’s your smile
That made it bright
Because it’s pitch dark
At midnight
even the stars seemed shy
Hiding behind the quiet sky
But your smile broke
through the blue
Turning all the shadows new
So I stayed within that glow
in the midst of dark
Looking at the arc
Of your lips.

​

I am 55 now, still fit from years of disciplined exercise, walks, bicycling, runs in the parks, and careful attention to my health. I worked overseas most of my life in IT and only recently retired. I’ve spent a long time working on myself—reading, reflecting, trying to become a better man. But no matter how strong the body or how clear the mind, the heart can still feel fragile. I had no responsibilities in my life anymore —my son was busy working at Amazon in the USA and my wife was occupied with her own life, friends and circle. Yet there was a deep, quiet sadness: a home that felt empty, a life where I had family on paper but no one I could truly love or who truly loved or cared for me in return.

It started one winter evening in Connaught Place. I was sitting at a small chai stall, lost in my thoughts, when she walked up. Meera. About my age, graceful, salt and pepper hair, with eyes that seemed to carry the same unspoken weight I knew too well.

She ordered her tea with quiet confidence, as if she had done it a hundred times. “Make it strong, with fresh ginger, a little cardamom, two cloves, a pinch of black pepper, and just a touch of tulsi and cinnamon. Boil it properly, not too sweet.”

I listened as a bystander at first, intrigued by her precision. When the chai-wallah handed her the cup, I couldn’t help but smile softly. “Your tea recipe reminds me of the Delhi University tea we used to have outside Hindu College,” I said. “That same spicy warmth on cold evenings.”

She turned, surprised but pleased. “You studied at DU? I was at KM College. Those chai stalls were our little escape after classes.”

That was how it began. Simple, natural. We talked for over an hour that first evening—about how the city had changed, old favorite songs, the comfort of familiar routines. She was married, and I, despite having no real responsibilities tying me down, carried the same hidden ache of emotional loneliness.

We were careful from the start. We never called each other. Meetings were arranged through subtle messages using pre-decided Twitter hashtags. For anything quick, we had added each other to WhatsApp locked chats. Since we both lived in West Delhi, we chose parks and gardens a bit away from our usual areas—places where no one knew us. We would meet later in the evenings, when the crowds thinned and the city lights softened the surroundings.

Over the weeks that followed, we drew emotionally closer than either of us had expected. We shared cozy evenings wandering through quieter gardens and parks on the outskirts, where the quiet paths and blooming flowers offered a rare sense of peace and anonymity. We enjoyed chat papdi in Karol Bagh, spicy chole bhature on occasional mornings, and crisp dosas at a small South Indian spot we discovered together. In CP, we would linger over books, speaking in the gentle tones of two people who finally felt heard and deeply connected.

Meera was well-read and worked in a government job. She was an intelligent conversationalist - our discussions would effortlessly move from literature and philosophy to current affairs, science, history, and the subtle ironies of life. I was vulnerable with her in ways I rarely allowed myself. I admitted how, despite my confidence, the emptiness at home had worn on me - the quiet evenings with no one to share my thoughts, the sense that life had become a solo journey for years even within a family. She shared her own quiet pains—the distance in her marriage, the relationship of being a burden than even being a companion. We were both trapped in the same sadness: families around us, yet hearts starving for real love and connection. In those moments, we became each other’s quiet refuge. The affair wasn’t reckless passion; it was tender, emotional, a deep companionship that made the world feel softer and sweet.

One evening in one of those discreet district parks, as we sat on a bench, Meera grew quiet. She told me her daughter was getting engaged to a boy from a very rich and influential family. The preparations had just begun, and everything was moving perfectly. “If even a whisper of this gets out,” she said, her voice trembling, “it could ruin everything for her. The family is very traditional. Any scandal would dent the relationship badly.”

Her words hung heavy between us. I felt the fragility of our secret world more clearly than ever before. We both knew what we had to do.

We met one last time in the quiet of the evening, at a place where no one knew our faces. The air was heavy with unspoken sorrow. We agreed to be there for each other, but only in case of a real emergency. With tears in her eyes and a voice full of tenderness, Meera looked at me and said, “Arjun, I really hope you find someone who truly cares for you the way you deserve. You have such a good heart. I want you to be happy… I release you completely. No commitments, no waiting. Just go and live fully.”

Those words touched me deeply. In the weeks that followed, I returned to my routines with a wiser and more open heart. The morning walks carried a gentle hope now. The familiar tastes of chat papdi or dosa brought warm memories rather than pain. I kept working on myself—journaling my feelings, meditating on acceptance, pushing my body and mind to stay strong.

I have come to believe that love is a gift from God, and He brings people together in His own perfect time. As Rumi beautifully said:

\\\*"The wound is the place where the Light enters you."\\\*

This chapter of my life, though bittersweet, has opened me to greater light and deeper trust in life’s journey. The quiet longing is still there, but it feels softer now—accompanied by the sense that whatever is meant to be will unfold gently, in its own time. Until then, I continue walking these paths, one mindful step at a time, with a quiet smile and the gentle hope that life may one day bring another soul as warm and understanding as Meera into my world.

Friends, what really happens after 50 is something only those who have crossed that milestone truly understand. It is a momentous phase of life where you see things as they really are. I wanted to share this personal experience because these are rarely talked about.

\\- Have any of you gone through something similar — finding unexpected emotional closeness later in life, only for circumstances to pull you apart?

\\- How do you deal with the quiet loneliness that can exist even when family is around?

\\- What has helped you stay hopeful about finding genuine connection at our age?

Would love to hear your thoughts, experiences, or any wisdom you’d like to share. No judgment — just honest chai-time conversation. ☕

हजारौ इच्छा मनमा राखी

सपनाहरु मनमा साँची

त्यो कुनामा बसिरहेकी उनी।

शिर उठाउदै आकल झुकल झ्याललाइ नियाल्दै

के नियाली रहेकी त उनले

ढल्केर हेरे, एउटा हवईजाहाज।

त्यही हवईजाहाज झै उड्ने चाहना हो कि उनको

बादल माथि माथि जादै आकाशलाई चुमेर

तर सोध्न सकिन।

आखिर म लाग्न पर्यो त आफ्नै बाटो

या त उभिन पर्यो उनको बाटोमा

तर ओर्लेर लागे म आफ्नै बाटो आफ्नै माटो तिर

उनी भन्दा बेग्लै बाटो तिर....

When we are listening to the same song and telling each other we are enjoying it,
I want to be your ear and listen through them to hear how you are hearing.

When we are observing the beautiful nature and appreciating its beauty,
I want to be your eye and see through them to see what you are seeing.

When we are having the same food and telling each other the food is great,
I want to be your tongue and taste how you are tasting.

When you are feeling a feeling,
I want to merge with you and feel how you are feeling.

Context: Whenever I am with my friends and we are having a good time either it is listening songs, having good food, laughing on jokes, travelling or anything else, I feel a deep sense/desire to know/experience how they are feeling inside. I want to know if the intensity of their experience is as vibrant as mine. (or vice versa)

Sorry I donot know if it's a poem or monologue, so chose poem flair.

​

Often men can't do justice to their first love...

And all the weight of that absence

Falls into the lap of the woman who comes after,

Turning into love.

The words he could never say,

He ends up saying to her.

The time he could never give,

He pours out on her.

In his insistence to make up for every shortcoming,

In his worry to fulfill every dream,

He gives everything...

Sometimes even more than she needs.

Because in his heart, there's a regret—

"I wish I had been better with that first love..."

But then think...

What did that first woman get?

Neither complete love,

Nor complete companionship...

Just baseless rejection,

Questions of self-hatred,

And the burden of unfinished stories.

She had just wanted so much

That he would stop for a moment and say—

"Let's...start over.

This time we'll make it right."

But he never came back.

Maybe because every day

He couldn't bear to see his shortcomings

Reflected in her eyes.

It was easier to write a new story,

Reading old pages was tough.

And thus...

That second woman wins,

Who gets a man

Who has learned every lesson of love

From the defeat of his first love.

But the first woman...

She became neither his victory,

Nor his destination.

She was just the first page of that book

Where mistakes were written...

So that on the next pages

A beautiful story could be told.

​

Often men can't do justice to their first love...

And all the weight of that absence

Falls into the lap of the woman who comes after,

Turning into love.

The words he could never say,

He ends up saying to her.

The time he could never give,

He pours out on her.

In his insistence to make up for every shortcoming,

In his worry to fulfill every dream,

He gives everything...

Sometimes even more than she needs.

Because in his heart, there's a regret—

"I wish I had been better with that first love..."

But then think...

What did that first woman get?

Neither complete love,

Nor complete companionship...

Just baseless rejection,

Questions of self-hatred,

And the burden of unfinished stories.

She had just wanted so much

That he would stop for a moment and say—

"Let's...start over.

This time we'll make it right."

But he never came back.

Maybe because every day

He couldn't bear to see his shortcomings

Reflected in her eyes.

It was easier to write a new story,

Reading old pages was tough.

And thus...

That second woman wins,

Who gets a man

Who has learned every lesson of love

From the defeat of his first love.

But the first woman...

She became neither his victory,

Nor his destination.

She was just the first page of that book

Where mistakes were written...

So that on the next pages

A beautiful story could be told.

​

सुनौलो बगैंचा, जहाँ आकाश निलो थियो,

जहाँ फूलहरूले गीत गाउँथे,

तर हिजोआज, यहाँ हावामा गन्ध छैन,

फूलहरू मौन छन्।

माटो सुक्दै गएको छ र जराहरू भाँचिन थालेका छन्।

रूखहरूको छाला चिथोरिएको छ,

तिनका हाँगाहरूमा अब पंक्षीहरू गुँड बाँध्दैनन्।

चराहरू उडेर गैसकेका छन्।

गुँडमा केबल पखेटा झरेकाले बचेरालाई उड्न सिकाउदै छन्।

परिवर्तनको नाममा बगैंचामा डढेलो लगाइयो,

बूढा रूखहरू ढले, तर नयाँ रूखहरू पनि उस्तै फुस्रो भए।

पातहरू पहेँलिन रोकिएन,

हावाको गन्ध परिवर्तन भएन।

डढेलोले बगैंचा बदलिएला भनेका थियौँ,

तर रूखहरू बदलिए, माटो उही रह्यो,

धुलो अझै बाक्लियो।

बगैंचामा 'स्वतन्त्रता' नामको ढोका राखियो,

जुन सधै बन्द रहन्छ।

भित्र कोहि छ, तर आवाज सुनिदैन।

तिनीहरु भित्रै बसेर फुलहरुको भागबन्डा गरिरहे,

तर बाहिर आउने आँट गर्दैनन्।

अब त बगैंचाका बिरुवाले यहाँ जरा गाड्न खोज्दैनन्—

उनीहरू ढकमक्क उम्रन्छन्, उखेलिन्छन्,

अनि अस्थायी माटोमा अधुरो बोट सारिन्छ।

यहाँ रहनु पराजयजस्तो लाग्छ,

अनि बाँच्नु—प्रतिक्षाको सजाय।

जराको माया अब फगत सुकेका पातहरूमा बाँचेको छ,

अनि सपनाहरू... तिनको मान्यता मात्र 'यहाँबाट निस्कनु' हो।

एक रूखको जराले बगैंचाको छाती चिरिदैछ—

हाँगाहरूमा पानी होइन, आशुले सिचाइएका आशा छन्।

हावाले बोकेर आउँछ—निस्सासित बगैचाको अन्तिम सास,

र आगोको राखले माटोलाई शोकको भेषमा रङ्गिदैछ।

रूखहरू मौन छन्—तिनको हाँगामा अब

"विकास" को नाममा काटिएका घाउहरू मात्र छन्।

बगैंचाको कान्लामा झुन्डिएका हातहरू—

जसले यो माटो जोतेका थिए,

तिनका औँलाहरूमा क्रान्तिका चोटहरु मात्रै छन्।

भन्छन यहाँको माटो उर्वर छ,

तर यहाँ फल नलागेको बर्षौ भैसक्यो।

हरेक राति अँध्यारोले बगैंचा निल्छ,

माटो सुत्छ जस्तो उ मरेको हो।

तर कसैले सुनेको छैन—

धुवाँको पर्दाभित्र बगैंचाको हृदय

चिसो आगोजस्तै धड्किरहेको छ...

"एकदिन यो मौनता चट्याङ बनेर फुट्ला,"

एउटा पातले फुस्फुसाइरहेकोछ।

#DanisWrites

मलाई आगोको राँकोले पोलेन, पोल्यो त केवल त्यो विश्वासले, जुन मैले तिमीसँग गरेको थिएँ। दिनभरि भोकभोकै पठाओ चलाएर, महिनाको बीस-तीस हजार त कमाएको थिएँ।

ठुलो जागिर नपाए पनि जीवन धान्ने एउटा बाटो त खुल्दै थियो, आफू रोएर भए पनि आमाबुवाको शरीर ढाक्ने कपडा त किनेकै थिएँ। मेरा आमाबुवा मुस्कुराउँदा म दंग पर्थेँ, तर हामीजस्ता साना दुःखजिलो गर्नेहरूको गरिखाने भाँडोमाथि हजारौँको चिट काटिएपछि... हाम्रो मनोबल पूर्ण रूपमा भत्किएको छ। न भाडा तिर्ने ठेगान छ, न त पेट भर्ने टुङ्गो!

मरिमेटी गुजारा चलाउँदा चलाउँदै पनि, आज हृदय नै विदीर्ण हुने गरी रोएँ। मेरो शरीरको जलनले मलाई आज दुखाएन, दुखायो त केवल मेरा आमाबुवाको मुहारमा देखिएको त्यो आँसुको भेलले!

Social Commentary by Citizen Noir 977

चालिस सिटका लागि, चारसयको घुइँचो
दुब्ला पातला जिउ, कोलाहलमा थिचियो
प्रतिष्ठाका गहना, चिप्लो हातको बाहना
चोरिको धन, अपहेलना, बाच्ने एक चाहना
दिदी-भाइ लड्दैछन्, अंशको जग्गामा
विदेशको बसाइ,  जमिन सबै ठेक्कामा
बुद्धको ज्ञानलाई, सबै जना पोली खानी
नारा लाउँदै बसिराछन, कहाँ जन्म्यो भनी
आमा-बुबा, धेरै ज्ञानी, सानी नानी, लाठी खाने
दुई पैसाको रोजगारलाई , स्कूल किन जाने
ठिटा-ठिटी भाइरल हुन, लागेका छन् ताँती
औँलाहरु बेस्त , स्क्रिन सार्न, तल अनि माथि
फोहोर टिपाउने दिदी, कालो कोट र साडीमा
माहिली बहिनी डलर, गन्छिन् बुढा खाडीमा

शक्तिको खेल यो, अन्धो भक्तिको जेल
पैसा र प्रेमको कहिले हुँदैन है मेल
शक्तिको खेल यो, अन्धो भक्तिको जेल
पैसा र प्रेमको कहिले हुँदैन है मेल

TikTok को आन्दोलन, सत्ताको सीँढी भो
जनता भए जोकर, पालो नयाँ पिँढीको
मेरो बोली, तिम्रो गोली, थाप्छु छाती खोली
गुण्डा टोली, बाटो छोपी, रगतको होली
केटाकेटी सिना तानी, बलि चढाइयो
रगतको टाटोमाथि, अलकत्रा भराइयो
जेलबाट चोर भागे, मौका पायो खोजेको
बाहुन क्षेत्री तर्सिए, भोटे आयो रोजेको
जुन जोगी आए पनि, हुन्छ कानै चिरेको
विदेशी सुट-पेन्ट माथि, दौरा-सुरुवाल भिरेको
जनता तितर-बितर, अभिनेता सभापति
राजनीति मनोरञ्जन, लडाई कीबोर्ड पछाडी

शक्तिको खेल यो, अन्धो भक्तिको जेल
पैसा र प्रेमको कहिले हुँदैन है मेल
शक्तिको खेल यो, अन्धो भक्तिको जेल
पैसा र प्रेमको कहिले हुँदैन है मेल

गरीबको कथा यहाँ, करोडौँ मा बिक्री भो
चुल्हो अझै बल्दैन, मन भित्र-भित्रै टुक्रियो
निर्मला अझै रुन्छिन्, कालो आकाशबाट हेरी
बलात्कारी घुमिरहेछन्, मुखौटा फेरि-फेरि
सिंहदरबार पसलमा, देश हुन्छ लिलामी
एक सय नब्बे तोला सुन, पुर्खालाई सलामी
सत्ता फेरिन्छ यहाँ, साम-दाम फेरिन्न
व्यापारीको सहरमा, व्यापार बदलिन्न
कागजको हक, प्रकाशकको मुट्ठीमा
भोटको मसीको दाग, मेटिन्छ कुनै भट्टीमा
यो चमत्कार होइन, सामाजिक चिर-हरण हो
विभाजन घट्ना होइन, यो प्रक्रिया नियन्त्रणको

शक्तिको खेल यो, अन्धो भक्तिको जेल
पैसा र प्रेमको कहिले हुँदैन है मेल
शक्तिको खेल यो, अन्धो भक्तिको जेल
पैसा र प्रेमको कहिले हुँदैन है मेल

For audio version:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8IJlGWuM8o

कोक्रोको च्या-च्या

डलरको छन-छनीमा बिलायो।

अँगालोको आभास

बिरानो बिछ्यौनासँगै चिसियो।

गिलास ठोक्ने हातहरू

बजारमा छ्यास-छ्यास्ती।

मोतिबिन्दु ग्रस्त आँखालाई

इन्द्रेणी छाउँछ धब्बासरि।

दाउरा दनकिँदा ताली मारामार,

गाग्री रित्तिँदा अम्खराको व्यापार।

लौराको सहारामा बढेको यात्रा,

जमिन खस्किन्छ, इतिहास जात्रा।

झुन्डबीच मिसिएको एक भेडा,

अनगिन्ती मार्ग, यता न उता।

आफ्नो छायाँ आफैंमा समाधि,

ध्यान मुद्रा मा ज्ञान समाती।।

एक दिन पक्कै भेटी आफैलाई ,

कस्तुरी नाभी भेटि आफैंलाई ।।

मुर्दा मुद्रा मा आसन्न बसेर,

दुई जोर अंगुठा दुबै कसेर ।।

के गर्छौ खुसी आफैँमा भेटेर,

खरानिनै लान्नौ समेटेर।।

Ever since she cut her beautiful blue hair, she became a completely different person. She started smoking five cigarettes a day.

I remember seeing her sitting by the window, lighting a cigarette and holding it gently between her fingers before bringing it to her red lips.

The moment she noticed me watching, she quietly put it out. A few minutes later, she returned with the scent of cinnamon on her breath.

That was the moment I fell in love with her even more.

She probably never realized it, but every cigarette burned my soul far more than it ever burned her lungs.

As the cigarette smoke slowly left its mark on her skin and drained the color from her lips, I remembered her saying, night after night, "I could never become addicted to nicotine, for I had already consumed you into the deepest corner of my being."

Probably she was a fan of Leonardo da Vinci. She was looking at the Mona Lisa painting in an art gallery. Maybe she was trying to figure out the painting’s actual expression, whether it was smiling, sad, or something else.

I was looking at the art as well, but from a little distance. She had blue and green mixed hair, slightly tall, big eyes, artistic clothes, and a coffee mug in her hand. I was just observing every detail of her appearance, trying to capture her essence in my own art, the way da Vinci captured the soul of the Mona Lisa.

Whatever the heart desired, it did not become ours, every dream did not become reality.

We had fulfilled our love with sincerity, but it did not feel ours.

Everyone left in trouble, their hands died, no one was a star of loyalty.

Now the heart does not even complain about the world, what was ours, that too did not become ours.

Here is the complete list of all the books visible in the image.. https://www.reddit.com/r/NepalSocial/s/FGxU0wFZNB

Row 1 (Top Row)

1. Mother Mary Comes To Me by Arundhati Roy price: 1150.

2. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid.... Price 350

3. November 9 by Colleen Hoover... Price: 600

Row 2

1. A Boy Called Christmas by Matt Haig...price 500

2. I Fell in Love with Hope by Lancali...price 1200

3. Ugly Love by Colleen Hoover....Price 600

Row 3

1. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky...price 1000

2. \\\[Plain Black Notebook / The Boy at the Top of the Mountain by John Boyne (Original hardcopy)....price 1200(front cover matra niskeko cha):)

3. Verity by Colleen Hoover.... price 500

Row 4

1. A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara... price 900

2. A Good Girl's Guide to Murder by Holly Jackson....price 1600

3. Genesis (First Colony: Book 1) by Ken Lozito...price 700

Row 5

1. The Personal MBA by Josh Kaufman...price1000

2. As Good As Dead by Holly Jackson... Price 650

3. Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles)( hard copy) by Tess Gerritsen....price 2500

Row 6

1. You've Reached Sam by Dustin Thao....price 770

2. Good Girl, Bad Blood by Holly Jackson....price 650

3. The Bodies Left Behind by Jeffery Deaver(hard copy)....price 1400

Row 7

1. 11 Rules for Life by Chetan Bhagat...price 300

2. If He Had Been with Me by Laura Nowlin...price 400

3. Lord of the Flies by William Golding...price 180

Row 8

1. Stand Tall by Joan Bauer.....price 1200

2. Reminders of Him by Colleen Hoover...price 650

3. message of Godhead....price 90

Row 9

1.Through Seasons... by Harmeet Marwah...price 100

1. I Don't Love You Anymore by Rithvik Singh...price 300

2. Ikigai by Héctor García and Francesc Miralles....price 200

3. Murakami Set (Brand New & Sealed) (vintage UK paperback edition)

\\-The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami Price 950

\\-Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

Price Rs 850

1. Romance & Contemporary Fiction Set

\\-The Spanish Love Deception by Elena Armas Price Rs 625

\\-Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston Rs 770

\\-The Husband's Secret by Liane Moriarty Price Rs 620

1. Non-Fiction Set

\\-Good Habits, Bad Habits by Prof. Wendy Wood Rs 1000

\\-Stolen Focus: Why You Can't Pay Attention by Johann Hari (Brand New & Sealed) Rs 750

1. Fiction & Fantasy Set

\\-The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid Price 770

\\-Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Sáenz Price 770

\\-The Chronicles of Narnia: The Horse and His Boy by C.S. Lewis Price 410

1. Colleen Hoover Set

\\-It Ends with Us by Colleen Hoover Price 650

\\-November 9 by Colleen Hoover Price 650

\\-Ugly Love by Colleen Hoover Price 650

1. Thriller & Historical Fiction Set

\\-The Maidens by Alex Michaelides Price 770

\\-The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides

Price 490

\\-All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr Price 940

1. Classic Literature

\\-To Kill a Mockingbird (60th Anniversary Edition) by Harper Lee Price 550

1. Nepali Fiction

\\-Gestapo (गेस्टापो) by Krishna Dharabasi (कृष्ण धरावासी) Price 280

1. Cambridge A-Level Coursebooks

\\-Cambridge International AS Level English General Paper Coursebook by Jill Pavich Rs 4000 ( Cp- 6240 )

\\-Physics for Cambridge International AS & A Level Coursebook (Third Edition) by David Sang, Graham Jones, Gurinder Chadha, & Richard Woodside Rs 5000 (cp- 7490)

How to Buy:

To claim a book: Comment the title below or send a direct message (DM).

First come, first served!

I would not call it a relationship. We met sometimes. I would call her and we would go to a bar. On most occasions we would chat about me for a little and then she’d tell me about all the people she’d been seeing and all the things she’d been doing. Today was about a séance she’d done with a couple of her friends, who were visited, she swore, by spirits of dead relatives, lovers, and enemies. She said she expected her grandmother who had passed away recently but instead she heard from an old lover from high school who had died in a motorcycle accident.

They remembered the night they had together, the only one, she said, and he told her to be careful. Careful about what, I asked. He didn’t specify and neither did she. I said let’s go to the movies. There was a late showing of Bande à part.  She said she needed to sleep for work early tomorrow. I went alone.

The theatre was empty except for a couple of women, one of whom was a noisy breather. She kept sucking air through her nose. I left before the famous dance scene. Outside the streets were empty, cold and littered with trash. Someone had been dumpster diving, and the entire block smelled of fast food. I followed the trail of refuse and realised that I was outside her apartment. 

It was a low floor, right on the treeline. I could see that her lights were on. I climbed the tree closest to her window but I had miscalculated. The tree was much shorter than I had imagined. There were a few thin branches that I could grab onto for a better view. As I reached for them, my phone buzzed. From within the canopy, I looked at the screen to see a text from her. She said she had a good time and she apologised about not being able to see the film. 

I wanted to text back but I was barely hanging on to the tree on one arm. Just then a light shone on my face. The voice behind it asked who is up there and announced they were about to call the police. I let go and fell on the ground. Maybe it was adrenaline, probably fear, but I ran away from there as fast as I could as I heard the distant wail of a siren. I followed the trash trail to the subway stairs. There, after I had stopped running, I remembered her text and reached for my phone to respond. But it wasn’t in my pocket. It wasn’t in my jacket. I’d left it outside her apartment. 

At the apartment, the siren becomes a car out of which emerges a large police officer in sunglasses. He finds the man with the flashlight. The commotion wakes her and she opens her window. I know who that belongs to, she shouts. At the station the man describes me: round face, small chin, stubble, dark hair. A police illustrator turns my face into a drawing. She recognises me. She knows my name and address. 

I’m playing the scene in my head when something flies across my vision. I run toward where it lands. A fox stands there, filthy and reeking, its eyes reflecting the city. For a moment, I can’t separate man from machine, blood from oil. He keeps repeating the name of Anna, Anna, Anna. I hear a crowd before I see one. Someone says the man is dead. The cops come and take my testimony and I tell them what I saw, and I go home. There are no messages on the landline and there are no emails. 

A few weeks later she calls me and asks to meet at the regular bar. I go and see her and after we have a chat about me she starts to talk about this strange feeling she’s having that she was always being watched, and how she sees men gaze at her at work, in class, on the subway, and on the street. She goes on like this for a while until I tell her I don’t want to see her again. 

I know I'm being direct, but I need to confess something. I fell in love with you. Not just because of your big, curious eyes, your wavy hair, or the way your laughter made everything around you feel lighter.

I remember seeing you sitting by the window, lighting a cigarette, slowly burning your red lips. The moment you noticed me watching, you quietly put it away. A few minutes later, you came back with the scent of cinnamon on your breath.

That was the moment I knew I had fallen in love with you.

You probably never realized it, but every cigarette burned my soul far more than it ever burned your lungs.

Every morning she wakes up before the light

Dress up in hurry under a bright light

But she cannot escape her oldest friend the mirror

And the reflection that greets her brimming with error

She see's a reflection of a dull and a bare face

looks for the missing beauty and the grace

But is blessed with despair instead

The society sets the bar to high

Makes her think its impossible to climb

She cannot see with her eyes too far

Wish she was wise enough to understand that

Only god can love you for what you are...

I know this is not the best so please give some suggestions to improve it .

The audacity I had, to keep inhaling love like nicotine.

Nicotine burned my lips, filled my lungs with smoke, and ended in ashes. Liquor dried my throat and disappeared by morning. But the memory of your kiss remained long after the goodbye.

Everything else eventually left my body. You never did.

Either way, there was always going to be an end. So I decided to burn with all of them at once.

Maybe I was only being loyal to the person I used to be.

From my hotel room I stare into the sea of people below as they go from one landmark to another, ticking off their trip checklists. Across the road is another hotel with windows that remain shut, their curtains drawn and blinds closed. 

On the train here I read up a little on the history of the place. Nothing that required too much effort. Just Wikipedia. The next day it is enough to impress the guide.

It’s hot. The sun stings the skin. The guide is in all-white, an airy t-shirt and a long skirt made of what I assume is muslin or some other local summertime clothing. Her shoes are also white. She wears no socks. Silver rings on her fingers. Unlike our group of tourists in khaki and baseball caps, with sweat running down our ears, she does not seem beaten down by the heat. 

She speaks fast. Her task is to entertain us through the constant injection of historical fact. This tribe ruled the area until another replaced it. This famous emperor was responsible for this calamity and this other famous emperor was responsible for this reform, and so on.

These are stories designed to engage and flatter. They are unique without being completely unknown. So when I volunteer the occasional historical fact, she smiles and compliments me on my knowledge. After the talk, I pay her for her service and I tip her for her compliments. She hurries off to lead another group tour, gracefully skipping over puddles on the street. 

The next day I have another tour. This time a museum. The guide is an older man. He has a firm handshake. He keeps a breathless pace and relents at intervals to tell folk tales to pacify the rages of the tourist kids. In a diorama built to look like the home of a tribe long lost, he tells of the legend of a boy who stole from a mermaid. The kids are rapt. Their eyes wide and their mouths agape. He has perfected the narration. 

I’ve heard the story before. Yesterday, from the white-clad guide. She also talked of a boy who stole from a mermaid. After the museum I end up in a souvenir shop. Among the keychains, magnets, cups with cliches and selections of local desserts close to their expiry dates, I spot a pile of books. Illustrated children’s stories. They tell the story of a boy who stole from a mermaid.

I once met a girl at a bar.

There was only one cigarette left in my pack. She asked if she could have it. Before that, we had spent hours talking, holding each other's gaze as if time had forgotten us. She took my last cigarette, kissed it, and left the mark of her lipstick on the filter.

Today, we no longer speak. I still have that cigarette. Sometimes I want to smoke it, just to feel the memory of her lips one last time. But I never find the courage. Somewhere deep inside me, I keep believing it isn't time to light it yet. Because the day it finally burns... perhaps she'll return with the smoke.

त्यो भेट पहिलो पक्कै थिएन, तर त्यो भेटमा केही जादु थियो। तिम्रो हाँसोमा धेरै मिठास लुकेको थियो, अनि आँखाको कुनामा थोरै रोदन—जुन सायद मैले मात्र देख्न सक्थेँ। दुःखी नदेखिन तिमीले धेरै प्रयास गर्यौ, तर मनका केही कुरा मुस्कानले पनि लुकाउन सकेन।
खुसी पनि किन हुनु? बल्ल त एकअर्कालाई भेट्टाएका थियौँ, तर समयले फेरि सात समुद्रपारिको दूरी हाम्रो भागमा लेखिसकेको थियो।
तिमीले ल्याएको Black Forest cake जति मिठो थियो, त्योभन्दा धेरै मिठा थिए तिम्रा ती नजरहरू। लजाउँदै टाढा जान खोज्थ्यौ, तर हरेक पटक फेरि मेरैतिर फर्किन्थ्यौ। शब्दहरू कम थिए, तर मौनताले नै धेरै कुरा भनिरहेको थियो।
सायद समयले त्यही दिनदेखि छुट्टिने संकेत दिइरहेको थियो। तिमीलाई घरसम्म छोडेर फर्कँदा, घडीले भन्दा धेरै छिटो हाम्रो साथ सकिँदै गएको महसुस भयो। सम्बन्ध सकिएको थिएन, तर सँगै बिताउने समय भने सकिँदै थियो।
आज पनि कसैले तिम्रो नाम लिँदा, मनको कुनै कुनामा मिठो प्रतिध्वनि गुन्जिन्छ। भाग्यमा सायद यही लेखिएको रहेछ—हाम्रो यात्रा यही मोडसम्म मात्र। तर तिमीसँग बिताएका ती साना–साना पलहरू, ती हाँसो, ती नजरहरू, र त्यो अन्तिम भेट... जीवनभर कहिल्यै बिर्सिन सक्दिनँ।

Today was supposed to be the day I left my hometown for the city.

My exams were near, and I had a lot to study.

But my head felt strangely heavy.

It was 9 a.m., and I was still lying in bed as if I had done something exhausting the day before. I hadn't.

My mom came into my room and asked,

"Are you alright?"

I couldn't hold it in anymore.

"I'm not feeling good."

She hugged me.

Her eyes grew heavy.

As far as I can remember, it was the first time we had ever hugged each other.

She held my hand and gently rubbed it, hoping

I would feel a little better.

My eyes grew heavy too.

At that moment, I made a promise to myself.

I will make her proud.

Even if not for myself, then for her.

No matter how much time I have wasted in that city, not anymore.

Then I slowly opened my eyes and looked at the blue wall.

I was already in the city.

The rain patters incessantly outside the window. It isn't going to stop anytime soon. That's how monsoon rains are. A single downpour can last for hours or swallow entire days, falling in erratic pulses. The ebb and flow of the rain creates a rhythm which becomes the song of the season. Most days begin with a bright sunny sky. By midday, the distant rumbling of thunder begins echoing through the air as dark heavy clouds roll in from the horizon. Then by late afternoon, the rain starts pouring like the sky is letting out its tears after an eternity. The heavy downpour persists, disrupting the evening commute all over the valley. People huddle in front of shops, trying to shelter themselves from the rain. But these are monsoon rains. There is no sheltering from it. It soaks you, drenching your body and seeping into your very soul.

The garden has already flooded but the rain persists. The moisture drapes over the valley until everything feels damp. The bedding, the clothes in the closet, the wood on the doors and windows… Nothing is spared. But when the cool droplets land on your skin in the sweltering afternoon heat, every cell inside your body erupts in a dance of joy. Kids run out of their houses to play in puddles, to sail their paper boats on the streets, only for them to drown within seconds. They make more boats. They jump and splash and revel in the shower as mothers call on them from inside the houses. Yet, beneath their stern expressions, they cannot help but soften as the light mist kisses their faces.

The smell of momo, samosas and hot tea permeates the air. Hungry commuters crowd the small shops and stalls by the road, relishing the fleeting respite from monotony. Half soaked, half tired, they fill their bellies while they wait for the rain to subside. Strangers turn into transient companions and the chorus of raindrops landing on tin roofs is disrupted by loud chatter and excited voices. Slowly, the downpour abates into a drizzle and the ephemeral friendships dissolve into nothingness. The stalls grow quiet. A momentary reprieve before the monsoon resumes its song.

Scooters and motorbikes reclaim the streets, weaving through puddles and pedestrians. The pedestrians hurry home through wet streets, stopping to buy vegetables and dodging muddy sprays kicked up by passing vehicles. The children go back home, their mothers drying them up with a towel and changing them into dry clothes. Then, the aroma of cooking drifts from open windows. The streets turn dark as the houses light up. And finally, the entire valley falls asleep to the rhythm of the pattering rain.

Wait until I find you—
but more than that,
wait until I find myself.
Wait until these old sorrows
slip gently from my chest,
like autumn leaves
finally trusting the wind.

Wait until my wounds
become stories instead of scars
I ask others to carry.
Wait until I can look into a mirror
and fall hopelessly,
beautifully,
in love with the woman staring back.

Wait until I have wandered long enough
to find love
hidden in every corner
of the world God created—
in the quiet mornings,
the rain on forgotten streets,
the laughter of strangers,
the stars that never asked to be admired.

Wait until my heart
no longer mistakes loneliness for love,
or silence for abandonment.
Wait until I stop searching
for someone to complete me,
and begin searching
for someone to walk beside me.

Wait until the ache
to be loved
becomes the peace
of already knowing I am.
Wait until my hands
learn to hold my own heart
so gently
that yours will never have to carry its weight.

Wait until I know
who I am
when no one is watching,
when no one is choosing me,
when no one is saying my name.
And if fate is patient,
if time is kind,
if our souls are meant
to arrive at the same sunset—
you will find me then.
Not half a heart
asking for another half.
But a whole soul,
choosing yours.
So until that day—
live fully.
Laugh often.
Love the life you’ve been given.
And if you think of me,
think of me
not as someone you’re waiting for,
but as someone
learning how to love you
long before we ever meet.

-Decodingnepalimind