Human life is a museum of imperfections. Decay comes naturally to us, and we spend our lives fighting it. Brush our teeth everyday. Twice. Shower. Spray perfume. Comb our hair, pulling together the strands that are hell bent on going awry. Yet, these are just the external symbols of the fight. We are powerless against the greater decay occurring inside. We can’t stop the DNA from mutating, or the fat from embedding the walls of our arteries. We know nothing about the withering of the cells— until it’s too late. And even then, we don’t know exactly what is happening. We are privy only to the painful symptoms given charitably to us. Perhaps the biggest imperfection, the cruelest trick, is that we have been denied access to what is happening inside us. In fact, I’ll tell you what you should do. Pin up human beings as an object in a museum, and add an x-ray machine for the viewers. Make an exhibit of the decay that occurs— the only certainty. Other than, of course, death.

Of course, life isn’t perfect. Ink bleeds through the paper. The heavenly rain that falls from the sky turns into a muddy puddle. The wheeze of asthma weakens your lungs. Your lungs— shiny and whole when you were born— now exhausted, fragmented. Your thoughts no longer make sense. The roof leaks— except it isn’t the roof of the house but the metaphorical roof of your soul that was supposed to shield you from all things dreary. You are ignorant of the sickness in your stomach, your liver, your gall bladder. Yet, it is this sickness that was written in the stars eons before you were born. It couldn’t have been any other way. You have run out of tea. And sugar and salt. And coffee too, even though you don’t even like it that much. You have begun to fade from their memories. Only death remembers you unfailingly, and you’re not sure if you should be relieved or terrified.

That day, towards the tail end of summer, she decided would be a good day to go to Swayambhunath, one of the two major stupas in the city. Only a twenty-minute drive from her house, she hadn’t been there in years.

Of course she knew about it. She had even played with models of Swayambhunath as a child. First, she would insert the white, half-spherical disc into a rod. Then, she would place the square with Buddha eyes above the disc. Finally, she would fill the rod with thin, colorful discs-- pink, green, blue, yellow-- that peaked to form a triangle leading to the zenith. She would disassemble it, and assemble it again, until she got tired of it. Then, it would stay there atop the bookshelf, alongside her stuffed animals, dolls, wooden blocks and storybooks.

That evening, she, her mother and father hopped into the car and drove to Swayambhu. Sunset was approaching— the sun having imperceptibly reached the western horizon. The stupa was on top of a hill. They climbed a long stairway of dark, gray, cement blocks. She couldn’t see the end of the stairs from the bottom, or even from the middle. With every step, she was retreating from the ground, inching closer to the sky.

At the top, she was silent for a moment looking at the stupa and the pensive, knowing eyes. The setting sun highlighted the stupa, as though deliberately stationed— like in a photo studio— to highlight the subject. Definitely different from her miniature model set, the real Swayambhunath was regal, silent, all knowing. Atop the sphere base was the golden square with Buddha’s eyes, topped with circular slices of golden, metallic discs that culminated at the peak. Colorful, square prayer flags swooped down from the stupa’s peak to the smaller, peripheral temples. The sprawling houses of the city far below were tiny, colorful blocks. Everything was small, other than the stupa.

She circled the stupa three times, rotating the prayer wheels with her hands. Her mother bought two ceramic butter lamps. She lit them up and placed them, each with a single thread of fire at its center, on a stand in front of the stupa with other lamps.

That moment in Swayambhunath was a moment of peace as she looked up at the golden, knowing eyes which looked back at her. They knew that by the next day, she would forget that serenity.

It was during my childhood that stories were woven into the fabric of my daily life. Even before I could read or write, my father introduced me to the magic of stories through the tales he told me at bedtime. These were often folktales that he had picked up in his own childhood— stories of hardworking villagers and magical deities embarking on an adventure. Just as he finished one story, I would immediately ask for another, testing the boundaries of his repository of tales.

My writing journey also began in my childhood when my parents tasked me with writing a journal each day. I still have the notebook from 2007 where, each day, I had to jot down five point summaries of my days. The fifth point, each day, was unfailingly, “I had a sweet dream”. Now, it seems ironic that I should capture the idea of having a sweet dream even before going to bed, but I credit that thought to the innocence of childhood.

Years later, it was diary-writing that brought me back to writing. On New Year’s Day in 2012, my mother had tasked me with writing a page of handwriting. In Nepal, in those days, good handwriting was a prerequisite of what made a good student, and my Ama, a stay-at-home mom, was devoted to ensuring that I met this criterion. That day, I decided that writing about my day would be much more interesting than copying off a passage from a book, and so, serendipitously, I became a diarist.

Since 2012, I have continued writing in my diary— on and off, but always coming back to it. Now, I lovingly curate a drawer filled with notebooks about my life, and they serve as visual emblems of my identity as a writer. When I occasionally flip through those pages now, I encounter a young girl with so much raw vulnerability that it scares me. When I’m older, I will be perhaps more prepared to sift through those memories, but for now, I let them stay in my drawers as reminders of the arduous teenage years that I made through.

Even though diary writing was my connection to writing in my teenage years, I was never a good storyteller. I could never devise an engaging plot, or create complex, fascinating characters. Yet, I never stopped believing that I had an artistic vision that deserved to be developed. Now, in my third decade living this world, I finally feel that I have matured enough to bring my artistic vision to life.

Buwa

My father, who I addressed as Buwa, was a towering figure in my life. He had grown up in a village in Eastern Nepal, dreamt of pursuing politics, but, he never found his footing in Nepal’s unscrupulous political landscape. Yet, as I grew up, my father instilled in me an unwavering belief that I needed to do something in my life for the development of my country. Years later, this is still the value that keeps me going.

Beyond a love for my country, I believe that my father also passed on to me an artistic vision, which allows me to find solace in raindrops and splendor in the orange hues of the sun setting behind the Himalayas. When I was born, he named me Prakriti, which means nature in Nepali. He approached the world with a sense of curiosity which feels unreal, as though nature held secrets waiting for him to uncover. It is this curiosity that I cherish now, and the same curiosity fuels my artistic practice— for to write is to constantly be in wonder of the world around you. And what a privilege it is to be able to live this way.

The Creative Path

In my junior year in college, I remember talking to Buwa over the phone, panicking about what my career path may be.

“Don’t worry too much. Even if you become a writer— that’ll be enough,” he had responded in a tranquil, solemn voice.

And so, I will become—am already becoming— a writer. Since losing my father, I have thought about writing a memoir, firstly, because I found so few genuine resources tackling grief back then, and secondly, because I believe that my bond with him was truly special. I have also conceptualized a novel titled, Past, Present and Future. I imagine this to be a fictionalized family history over three generations— my grandmother, father and me. I will continue to write short stories, and one day, I hope to be able to travel more across Nepal for inspiration for my stories.

Explore A Triad, three thematically linked short stories exploring grief, family and memory:

Nayan’s Visions

Lyrical

75%

Catch up on Part I and Part II

The next day, I stopped by the pharmacy after school. It was within walking distance. Everything was— that was the entire masterplan after the protective barrier was installed. Creating self-sufficient walkable communities to completely eliminate the need for motorized vehicles.

Even though it was spring, a storm was brewing. In fact, I’d noticed that spring, which was often described in poems as an idyllic time with blossoming flowers, was abound with storms. Dark clouds swelled in the sky, as rumbles of thunder roared in-between flashes of crackling light. I’d have to be quick. I had to reach home before the storm could truly arrive.

I walked through the sliding glass doors of the immaculate pharmacy. It’s white tiles, blue ceiling and artificial light made it appear to be an extension of a hospital waiting room. It was sound-proof too, for I could no longer hear budding storm outside. I presented my prescription to the pharmacist. Deftly, she withdrew the asthma inhaler caplets from a corner of the shelf.

“Three months’ supply, right?”

I nodded. She moved to the computer to prepare the bill.

“So, your total is Rs. 1200.”

I was stumped. There must have been a mistake.

“1200? Are you sure? The unit price is 100, right? So wouldn’t the total be Rs. 300? That was what I always bought it for before.”

“Let me double check,” she said. A name tag on her white coat revealed her name in clinical, uppercase letters: Sabina. Even though there were other customers inside the pharmacy, a silence rang through the room, as though all sounds had been muted.

“So, looks like there’s been an update on your medication. The total retail price is Rs. 2000. Until last month, the company provided a discount of Rs. 1500. Your insurance covered the remaining 80%, so the price came down to Rs. 100,” she said, looking at the monitor.

“But now,” she continued, turning towards me, “the company has revoked its discount. Insurance still covers 80%, so that’s Rs. 1600. So the cost for the patient, now, comes down to Rs. 400 per unit.”

I had no response. Nor did I have enough money to pay for my medication.

“I’ll come back later. I’d thought the price was still the same as before,” I said, retrieving the medications out from my bag, and sliding the three bottles back on the counter.

“Sure, I’ll keep these separate for you,” the pharmacist said, trying to help. Promptly, she picked up a paper bag, and slid the three bottles inside. “Your name? The bag’ll be ready when you come tomorrow.”

“Um, Sh- Shuvam,” I softly said, before walking out of the pharmacy. If only I’d taken my medicines regularly, I would have run out last month, and would’ve had a chance to replenish my supply before the company discount ended.

Outside, the storm had gotten closer. Trees, their branches flailing in hurried motion, were swayed by the sweeping wind. With a deep breath in, I began my walk home. Half-way through, drops of prickly rainfall met my skin before transforming into a downpour.

I sped up, hoping to outpace the rain. Yet, with the oxygen mask cupping the lower half of my face, and my glasses fogging up above, I only felt the world spin around me as I ran. I had to slow down, gasping. By the time I reached home, I was drenched.

***

At night, I lay quietly on my bed, staring at the beige ceiling of my room. My breathing had gotten better; the wheeze was now just a whisper. My medications, now neatly arranged atop the dresser, were a flash of color in an otherwise monochrome room.

My mind wandered to my History lesson from the previous day. The number that I had read in my assigned article lay heavy upon my chest. I couldn’t help but dwell on it. Just regular citizens going about their daily lives, without the awareness that each breath was death’s accomplice.

Five years ago— that’s when grandfather had died.

If it wasn’t for the years of toxic air he breathed, would he still be alive today?

Just then, a deafening blast from outside shook the house. I got up. Outside the window, the protective barrier’s green glow transformed into a neon red. I jumped out of bed, and rushed to shut my windows. I grabbed the oxygen mask, and put it on, before drifting off to a fitful bout of sleep.

Catch up on Part I here

That day, History class was first period. The class was buzzing with excitement when our teacher, Shambhu sir, walked in.

“Did you see the military helicopters, sir?” Shailee asked.

“And what happened to the protective layer last night anyway?” Anubhav chimed in from the corner by the wide glass windows. He was the only other kid wearing an oxygen mask.

“Yes, yes. I saw the helicopters,” he replied, setting his book and board markers atop the teacher’s desk. “This is the perfect time to review some of our valley’s modern history.”

According to him, just thirty years ago, the valley looked completely different. Cars choked the streets, emitting harmful particles that poisoned the air. Dust was so bad that it formed a permanent layer atop house roofs and street railings. An epidemic of respiratory illnesses plagued the country. Children began dying in bulk.

“That’s when the government decided to change everything. It was an international movement across the world’s most polluted cities,” he concluded.

The room was silent. For us, who were born just a decade and a half ago, the idea of a valley before the protective barrier felt like it was right out of a storybook.

“Ok, I’ve got some work for you all. I’m going to provide each of you with a historical news article. Each about the valley before the protective layer and subsequent changes. You read the article, extract the key points and share it with the person next to you,” Shambhu sir said, distributing the bundle of paper he had brought with him, each containing uniform printed letters. When I got my news article, the title read, “Polluted Air in Nepal Reducing up to 7 Years of Citizens’ Lives”.

The article was based off a research report, where scientists had analyzed the levels of PM 2.5 in the air. PM 2.5— atmospheric particulate matter so minuscule that it could penetrate the lungs and even enter the bloodstream. Nepalis were exposed to such high levels of pollutants that it was literally killing them.

Seven years. Almost half of my lifespan.

***

It was no surprise that it was after my grandfather’s death that I had to start taking the psychiatric medications. My grandfather—withered by age, but young in spirit, had been my childhood best friend— reading stories out loud to me below the mellow glow of the afternoon sunlight, holding my hand during long, tranquil walks to the park, watching cartoons beside me with an unabashed interest and gleam in his eyes.

I had always had an affinity to melancholy— since I was a child. Withdrawn in classes, quiet at home. Always the kid with the hoarse breath who couldn’t keep up with his friends during the daily hide-and-seek games or the annual hikes. Besides, who had thought it to be a good idea to design depression medications to be such bright shades of yellow and pink?

I don’t know what it is about taking my medications that bothers me so much. It’s not even that complicated. Pop in a few pills and flush them down with water. The inhaler takes slightly more time, but even that is less than a minute.

Yet, I was committed to defying doctor’s orders. On days that I felt fine, I skipped those two minutes of taking medicine altogether.

After a few days, when the guilt of having skipped my medications began to gnaw at me, I spontaneously consumed a dose, as though, like a miracle, it could bestow the healing effects of seven missed doses.

That evening, I finally paid attention to my asthma medications and realized I was almost out. I’d have to go to the pharmacy the next day to get a new supply.

When I lay down in bed, the wheezing persisted, and kept me awake. The two medication doses and the oxygen mask had helped; the wheezing was not as intense as in the morning. Yet, every time I inhaled or exhaled, a shivering whistle accompanied my breath. Outside my window, the green glow of the protective barrier blurred in the distance.

Part III is now available here

I was woken by the sound of my own breath. The deep wheeze was impossible to ignore. It had started in the night. I could remember bouts of wakefulness, when, tossing and turning in my bed, I felt my breath injected with intermittent wheezes. Despite the discomfort, I had persisted— too exhausted, and in need of rest. But in the morning, the wheeze had matured into a deep, permanent presence.

Even though it was spring, the air felt heavy, unlike other days when the scent of blossoming flowers would infuse the room. Instead, an oppressive, industrial odor prevailed. As though an alien particle had invaded overnight and formed a chemical bond with the air.

It was unlike anything I’d smelled in my life before. Gasping, I rushed to my dresser, where my inhaler lay, along with my other medications. Inhale. Exhale. It probably hadn’t been a good idea to skip my inhaler, as I had done for the past month. In fact, I’d been negligent with all my medications.

“Shuvam, are you up?” I heard my mother’s voice from the stairway.

“Yes— what’s happened?” I replied, my wheezing voice choking between words.

“Your asthma has gotten worse. Exactly what I was worried about,” she walked in, holding a glass full of her signature ginger, lemon, honey concoction. “Drink up.”

I grabbed the hot glass. The pungent ginger cut through any other taste. But the guilt of having skipped my medication sealed my silence. I finished the drink in a gulp, the ginger’s aftertaste burning in my mouth.

“There was a breach in the valley’s protective layer last night. It’s all over the news. They’ve fixed it now. But clearly, the damage has been done,” my mother said, disapprovingly glancing towards the top of my dresser, where my medications were strewn in a heap of disarray. “Don’t forget to wear your oxygen mask to school today,” she said, walking out the door.

A breach. That explained the smell from earlier.

***

On my walk to school, helicopters droned overhead, drowning out the commotion on the street. The aerosol air purifier they sprayed fell to the ground like tiny drops of rain, occasionally meeting my skin. It was non-toxic, so I didn’t need an umbrella. Even though it was spring, the sun was muted by an indistinguishable haze that colored the sky gray.

Other kids walking to school had their eyes glued to the sky. It was rare to see these military helicopters. So rare that they felt like a myth. To my generation, it was inconceivable that there was a time when vehicles moved freely about the road— enough to cause traffic jams, when airplanes flew millions of passengers across the world per day. I couldn’t think of anyone in my class who’d traveled by car, let alone an airplane or a helicopter. Except, maybe, for Ritesh, but he was the minister’s son.

I too would have stopped to stare at the helicopter, but I was too distracted by my ragged breath. The inhaler would help, but it wasn’t magic— it would take a few days. Every time I coughed, it felt as though a metallic reaction had occurred in my lungs, and its rusty residue spread through the cells. The oxygen mask made breathing easier. The wheezing had subsided significantly, but a remnant— every time I inhaled or exhaled— irked my conscience. Only 16, yet my breathing resembled that of an 80-year-old. Scrap that. Even 80-year-olds had healthier lungs than me.

***

At age 9, I had decided to become a historian, during a walk to the park with my grandfather. It was a beautiful autumn day, the sun’s light adding a bronze filter to the air. Against the backdrop of the clear sky, distant mountains in the north rose like sentinels overlooking the valley. Marigold flowers blossomed everywhere. The park marigold bushes, particularly well taken care of, imbued the surrounding air with a delicate fragrance. A crisp chill permeated the air. Grandfather had put on his favorite blue hoodie, paired with his dhaka topi, lopsided on his head. I had pulled out a full-sleeved shirt.

Grandfather and I, like always, stopped at my favorite spot— the wooden bridge above the translucent flowing water of the Bagmati River. Here, it felt as though the river charging below took my sorrows along with it— leaving me cleansed, transformed. Even the droning sound of the river purifiers, churning just a few meters ahead, couldn’t deter me from enjoying the moment.

As I spent hours atop the bridge, my grandfather patiently waited beside me.

“When you were my age, did you also come to this bridge?” I asked him that day. The adjoining park was unusually quiet, as though my grandfather and I were the only two live creatures plucked and placed into a reposing landscape.

He chuckled.

“This bridge didn’t even exist back then. So I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to,” he replied.

Astonished, I stared back at him. I had assumed that the bridge had been there since the beginning of time.

“Back then, Bagmati was a cesspool of filth,” he added. “Plastic, sewage, industrial waste— everything was dumped here,” he recalled, with a grimace on his face. “I have photographs in my old albums— I can show you.”

“Let’s go back, then,” I said, stepping down from the ledge connected to the bridge’s railing. “And you can show me the pictures.”

Part II is now available here

Outside, from the library’s window, I could see darkness was descending. The outside view was no longer visible— only the tall glass exterior reflecting the shelves of books and my diminutive figure amidst them.

Yes, the shelves had become dark walls from which I could not distinguish one book from another. But I was no longer in panic. I had found my answer.

“Integrity,” I whispered.

Yes— that was what I was afraid of. That in pursuing my dreams of becoming the prime minister, I’d have to loose my integrity.

Just then, the lights in the library went out. There was darkness all around me. Silence followed.

I remained— unmoved.

Then, a glow appeared between the shelves. But the lights of the library had not been restored. Instead, the books were becoming separate again. Their titles in their spines reappeared and these letters glowed in a soft-yellow illumination. I walked amidst them— my face alight by the soft glow.

At the end of the row, there was one book that caught my attention. Unlike the other books, whose only titles were glowing, this book was fully aglow.

I knew it was for me. I walked towards it and pulled it from the shelf. It felt warm against my palms.

On the cover, my name was embossed. I turned to the first page.

“Whether rain or storm—

A light within you that never dies—

And only you

can

Keep it alive”

As I flipped through, the rest of the pages were empty. I clutched the book close to my chest.

Just then, the lights of the room were restored. It became the library corner that I had known everyday for the past three years. The books were no longer glowing. I walked to my bag and put the book inside. I hadn’t done any studying, but it did not matter. I packed up all my belongings and went outside.

It was raining heavily now— but the water felt soothing against my skin. I relished the feelings as the droplets drenched my plaited hair and slid past my coat.

Back in my room, I opened my wet coat by the door and turned on the lights of the room as it sprung into life in the yellow glow.

My phone rang. It was my mother.

She must have woken up just now for she was still in her nightgown.

“How was your day?” She asked, walking from her bedroom to the study, as the background changed behind her face.

“I decided I’m going to try to be the Prime Minister after all,” I told her.

She looked back at me in a reflective gaze, and smiled.

During my walk, a sudden burst of rain fell from the sky. I was not too far away so I rushed towards the building and up the cemented staircase that formed the entrance. Inside the building, a wave of warmth hit me, a contrast to the cool freshness of the air that had mingled all day with rain. The yellow ceiling lights cast a warm glow over the lobby where, at the edge, was a table where the librarians had placed their recommended books for the month. While I always browsed through these, I hadn’t had time this month, and as I headed to the door for the stairs, the book covers were a blur of mixed colors.

But I knew where I was headed— the third floor which contained all the political science books. From the moment I’d discovered this space as a first year student, I’d spent countless hours in this corner of the library. Rows and rows of books— about the history, policies, governance, power changes across the world. It promised me a journey across time and space through the eyes of multiple statesmen, policymakers, bureaucrats and academics whose goal was to address— in their own ways— the workings of a nation. This corner of the library was my social space, where I was the chief communication officer, who connected the threads between ideas separated by time, geography or language.

That day, as I walked through the shelves, I felt an eerie silence ring through the library. I had been worried that I might not find any study spaces— for finals were approaching— but it appeared, once I reached the desks, that my worries were futile. The entire room was empty.

Quickly, I claimed my favorite desk— it was closest to the books and also by the large glass windows which acted as the building’s exterior. Outside, the rain had intensified— although sound couldn’t penetrate the glass exterior, the large raindrops fell in a rhythm. Lines of water streaked the glass.

I removed the study materials from my bag and placed them— neatly— in the desk. The heaps of readings arranged right next to the laptop, which I hadn’t opened yet. Next to it were a notebook and a pen. The scene was set— I was ready to study. Yet, I felt a powerful reluctance when it actually came down to opening my books and studying.

I put down my head on the table facing the word of bookshelves. On other days, when I’d need a break from my studies— I would walk through the shelves which had transformed the vacant room into an endless walking trail. As I walked through the shelves, I would feel like I was on an adventure— the bookshelves hiding me from the rest of the world. At every turn, I was certain to find a new book to interest me. I usually followed these trails with headphones on and upbeat pop music blaring from them. Despite the dark hues of blue, green, brown and black of the spines of the academic tomes, I always felt illuminated as I walked. Perhaps it was the familiarity with the books’ authors and ideas that brought me so much comfort.

I got up from the desk and walked towards the shelves. A melancholy had settled inside me and I did not feel like putting on any music today. The quiet felt unsettling. Even though the volumes had been my comfort for so long— today they felt aloof. As I gazed through the titles, each of which I had spent hours with, they all felt like a blur.

Maybe I should call my mother…

As I reached for my phone, I remembered that it was past midnight for her due to the time difference. I didn’t want to disturb her at this hour.

I retreated to the trails of the bookshelves even though they couldn’t soothe my agitation today. Why did I feel so agitated today anyways?

It had all started when I had heard about the change in the government. But the political instability in my country was not novel. Yet, it had never bothered me so much before.

Perhaps it was because I’d be graduating soon. The jobs that I had only studied about so far— now I’d have to strive to attain them.

I walked back to my desk— where at the top was the first draft of my senior thesis about Good Governance. I had created a comprehensive thesis synthesizing and evaluating components across multiple countries and continents— from lack of corruption to establishment of public services and infrastructure to elements of check and balance across state institutions. I was sure that when I started my career in politics— I’d have the visionary ideas to lead whatever sector I was in charge of.

I had believed in my education and learning so much that it never occurred to me that there might be barriers stopping me from getting the job I wanted.

How could I have been so naive?

I had embroiled myself so deeply in learning the mechanics of how everything occurred— the problems and challenges of the nation’s development— that I’d never visualized myself amongst those politicians— navigating the challenges of their shifting interests which did not align with the interests of my nation. In my naïveté, I had believed that others would value my knowledge and anoint me into the positions which would allow me to do the work I wanted to do to develop the nation.

Had I made a folly— throwing away my life so far to pursue a childhood fascination?

Perhaps I should have chosen a profession that aligned more with my quiet, focused personality— perhaps an account or a librarian or a software engineer. If I’d set my heart and mind upon this profession at age 10, who’s to say that I wouldn’t have enjoyed it equally?

As I walked through the shelves, the letters on the spine of the books evaporated— they were no longer visible to me. The discrete volumes— each of whose pages I had sifted through carefully— reading each word, deciphering each sentence— became indistinguishable. They became like solid walls through which I was walking. While I perceived these changes around me— and felt displaced from a place that had once been so familiar— it became just another factor to escalate my internal turmoil.

Now, along with the doubts and uncertainty about my future— fear mingled in. A shudder rushed through my body. Why was this news impacting me so? What exactly was I afraid of?

At that moment, my mind flashed back to an afternoon from my childhood.

It was an autumn afternoon. I remember because it was right at the cusp of the Dasain festival’s main day. My vacation had started seven days ago and within the week, I had finished all my homework. The house was quiet— my father had gone to the market and my mother was in her room— probably working on her writing. Her latest work was a poetry collection, but the theme was a secret for now. She’d tell us after she was done.

The bright, autumn sun spilled into my room and the soothing, cool air seeped in from the netted window. I was sitting in the couch, reading a novel about a dystopian society with a tyrannical government. Just as I was reading about the plan that the protagonists had conceived to thwart the government, my mother walked into the room. She was still dressed in her loose-fitting, mauve nightgown. She had probably gotten started writing as soon as she had woken up. I hadn’t even seen her during lunch time when my father and I had dined together, sitting across from each other, eating the hot meal of rice, spinach and paneer that he’d made specially for me because those were my favorite.

“Where’s Ama?” I had asked.

“She’s working. Besides, she said she wasn’t hungry right now. She’ll eat later.” He had replied.

As my mother sat opposite before me now, I wondered if she had eaten. But I didn’t ask. There were days she’d sometimes go without eating because she’d be so immersed in her work. And then, she’d faint because of weakness. But my father always knew how to revive her.

She was playing with her plaited hair when she said, “ How’s your dreams of being the Prime Minister going?”

I was surprised because she’d never asked me before. It was common knowledge in our household that I wanted to become the Prime Minister. But I never discussed it with my mother.

I had heard— sometimes through my mother’s reminisces about her past but mostly through prodding my father with questions— that my mother had once wanted to become the prime minister herself. But she didn’t speak much about it and when I asked, my father always spoke reluctantly. I didn’t know fully why my mother did not like to speak much about it. It felt as though my own mother was a mystery, and I, a seeker, who occasionally succeeded to gather wisps of information about her.

“I’m just in seventh grade now,” I said, meekly. “But I am doing my best in my studies. That should get me somewhere,” I said, more confidently.

My mother smiled. She was quiet for a moment.

“Do you know about integrity?” She said, in a reflective voice, her eyes not looking at me, as though she was somewhere else.

I knew the word— vaguely though— but I couldn’t remember the meaning exactly. But before I could reply— my mother was gone from the room.

My mother wasn’t around much when I was younger— she was mostly locked up in her room—writing. It was after I got into college, at 18, that she started paying more attention to me. Perhaps, she had taken me for granted when I was with her, in the same house. But the prospect of being thousands of miles away— that had shaken her somehow.

Yet, over all these years, Integrity— that was the one word I had learned from the woman who birthed me. As I grew up— that became the one value that I absorbed to my core.

Part 3: Coming on 20 March 2026

Rain fell outside my window softly but consistently. It was rare for it to rain during this time of the year, but today, when I woke up, drops of rainfall were hitting my window. Beyond, the lake’s water reflected the cloudy sky and appeared as though it had embraced a contemplative demeanor.

I sat by the window for some time— lost in the rain. In the small enclosure outside my window, a shallow pool of water had accumulated. As more droplets of water hit the pool, circular waves formed and disappeared within seconds.

My phone rang. I turned on the lamp; little light entered from the one window in my room, especially on a day like this when the sun was obscured by the clouds. My phone’s ringing amplified as I opened the drawer. The caller ID flashed my mother’s name.

“Good morning, looks like you just woke up—“ my mother said, probably seeing my unkempt hair and my crumpled pajamas. It was 9:30 am— early for me on a Saturday morning but too late by my mother’s standards. She woke up promptly at 5 am no matter what the day was.

I recounted about my approaching finals— the detailed notes I had to study and the expansive papers I’d have to write. At least I was on top of everything and had already created the outlines. Plus I intended to make my weekend productive so that when the deadlines approached next week, I’d have most of the work done.

I asked her about how things were at home— unsurprisingly, not much had changed since our conversation last evening. Towards the end of our conversation, she added, “There is a piece of news that might interest you— we are going to have a new prime minister.”

“What? Who is it?” I was perturbed. Just three months ago, the prime minister had changed. And now. Again. This would mean that all the ministers would change too. The work that the current leaders had started would remain unfinished. Who could expect any development in times like these?

It seemed as though all that people wanted was power— regardless of the consequence. The people who were given power to attain development of the country neglected that very development.

From my mother, I discovered the details of this change. It was a coalition change. How predictable. This seemed more like children’s games in school where children would keep switching their allegiance, based on which alliance might bring them school popularity. Here, except, they had made a game out of an entire country.

I don’t remember what I ate for breakfast that day or how I spent rest of the morning. Thoughts about the coalition gnawed at me— as faces of politicians flashed through my mind. Political parties had been formed on the foundation of ideals. But for power, they abandoned those principles. If those principles mattered even a bit, why would they form an alliance with someone they knew to hold the exact opposite beliefs?

When I looked at the clock, it was 1pm. Late. I had planned to start studying by 11:30. I was running over an hour late. I instantly changed into my blue jeans and a matching, dark blue T-Shirt. My laptop was fully charged but I still grabbed my charger and put it inside the case. I gathered the papers strewn across my desk and arranged them inside my folder. Within five minutes, I was ready with my fully packed bag.

By the time I stepped out into the courtyard, much of the rain had subsided and now fell like cool mists upon my face. The path to the library was a series of narrow cemented walkways stamped onto the grassy land. The grass blades, fresh with moisture.

The first time I had thought about becoming the prime minister of my country had been on a similar rainy day. There was a gathering in my house— my parents had invited their closest friends for a dinner party. As it neared 6pm, they were worried that their guests might not show up because of the heavy rain, but soon, people trickled in— shielded by umbrellas that formed a colorful panoply outside the door in the verandah. Inside, the guests encircled the central table where snacks were laid out.

Having no one of my own age to hang out with— I interlaced between the adults, my focus being the snacks on the table— from popcorn to french fries to salted peanuts. While the adults occasionally spoke to me— asking generic questions about school and my ambitions— they mostly forgot I was there and delved into a topic that captivated everyone— politics.

While I didn’t understand all the details of the conversation, I was enamored by how passionate everybody seemed. The details of the problems they spoke about were too convoluted for my 10-year-old brain to decipher, but I understood one thing clearly— that there was one person who could solve all of these problems— the prime minister.

I don’t understand what enchantment impelled me to decide that this would be the job for me, but in the years that followed, I set upon myself to accomplish this one goal by succeeding in the one task that society expected from me— by studying.

Social Studies became my favorite subject. I devoured academic texts about the nation, the government bodies, their functionalities as well as frequent news articles about corruption, poverty, dilapidated infrastructure. During lunch breaks and free classes, I’d be in the library— buried in the newspaper— dissecting the political and social events of the day, thinking of solutions that even lawmakers might envy. I knew the precise details about every ministry and its bureaucratic divisions. Even though not required by the school curriculum— I had read the constitution, enough times that some clauses had been engraved in my memory.

Did I regret that I spent those hours of youth— during which I’d have gotten to play outdoors, uninhibited, as though recreation was almost expected of me— confined in the library? Of course I didn’t. Because becoming the prime minister had become my life goal— and during the process, I’d— somewhere— started to relish the knowledge I gained— processing them to create an intricate map of what was happening in my country.

Part 2: Coming on 10 March 2026

Catch up on Part 2 here

Avinash and I had an arranged marriage.

He was my mother’s friend’s sister’s son. One day, my mother brought up the topic during breakfast.

“What are your thoughts on getting married?” She asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

I shrugged.

“I don’t have any particular thoughts. Why?” I was 25.

“My friend thinks that her sister’s son might be a good fit for you. Do you want to meet him?”

I pondered for a moment. There was no harm in just meeting.

“Sure.”

We were first arranged to meet at the coffee shop located in Residential Complex 10. It was a small, eclectic cafe, with wooden furniture, a bookshelf and reading area and guitars pressed against the wall. The teal interior added a layer of calmness. Time moved steadily, like ocean’s waves.

I was five minutes early. He was late. When he did not arrive by 11:15, I got up to leave. Just then, the cafe door opened, and a cool breeze hit me, blowing wisps of hair onto my face. Along with the wind, entered a man dressed in a maroon t-shirt and blue jeans. He looked around the cafe before his eyes met mine.

“I’m sorry I am late,” he said, with an apologetic look.

I remained quiet.

“I was working on something and didn’t realize how fast time slipped by.”

I was reluctant to speak; he was undeterred. As he shared about his life experiences— his trek to Gosaikunda or his bungee-jumping expedition in Kusma or his hectic college days— I felt there was a luminous quality about him.

We met more often, and I—too— began to speak. My school years, during which I was a wallflower— perpetually inhabiting the shadows. My work as a banker, unremarkable. My art endeavors on the side— paintings, embroidery and sculptures into which I spilled more of my soul than my actual work. As the cool autumn air, invigorated by the magical touch of the festival season, washed our faces, we strolled through the residential complexes, my hand in his.

Our marriage was a simple affair. A three hour long ceremony in my house, where only our parents were present. It fell during the festival season, and most of our relatives were traveling. The few that were left, trickled in during the reception party.

As days passed by, we found a deep comfort in each other’s presence. One day, it was sunset time, and I was preparing dinner in the kitchen— cutting cauliflowers and carrots and beanstalks. He rushed to the kitchen, grabbed my hand and took me upstairs to the kausi.

There, he arranged two chairs for the two of us to sit. The setting sun’s splashes of orange lit up the sky in a gentle haze.

“Look,” he said, pointing north towards the mountains.

The mountains hovered above the clouds, their rocky structure a contrast to the light balls of cotton below them. Snow lined the ridges of some of the mountains— creating abstract art. Behind, the setting sun’s orange hue outlined the undulating mountain structures in a soft, brilliant glow.

Avinash looked at the mountains in wonder. Standing beside him, I felt— for the first time in my life— that time was in sync with me.

***

The constitution’s words were etched into my mind. Under the Emotional Regulation Act, grief was an emotion placed under the “critical category.”

Grief is a natural reaction to the loss of a loved one. It is one of the most intense emotions that humans can experience in their lifetime. It can haunt people for years. Therefore, the constitution has identified it as a “critical emotion”.

Individuals experiencing grief will receive a two-year time period to recover. This is the longest recovery time assigned amongst all emotions. For the first two years, individuals will receive financial and emotional support to overcome their grief as outlined in the Rehabilitation Section of the Act. But if grief extends over two years, it becomes maladaptive. Individuals unable to overcome grief in the assigned two years have to be institutionalized. Their lack of emotional regulation can be dangerous for themselves and their society.

I could not understand the reasoning, yet, I had no choice. Torn between the desire to see my son and the sorrow in my heart, my days at the institution were notable only for the futile passage of cyclical time that I was witnessing.

One day, as I was cutting vegetables in the kitchen— a duty assigned to me since my second week there— a young girl entered and asked me for instructions. “I’ve been placed here from today onwards,” she announced, her curly hair tied behind in a pony tail.

Perhaps discerning my perplexed look, she said, “I turned 18 last week. So I’m old enough to be here, if that’s what you are wondering about.”

She was dressed in a light blue kurtha, identical to mine in design, except mine was yellow. I slid the boiled potatoes over to her and asked her to peel them.

A heavy silence oppressed the room, only interrupted by the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board as I chopped the onions.

Then, she spoke— in a familiar, nonchalant way. As though we were two strangers who found themselves together at the mall. “Why are you here— who’d you lose?”

“My husband.”

She nodded.

“You?” I asked.

“My father.”

It must have been devastating to lose a parent at such a young age. Even though I’d lost my husband, at least both of my parents were alive. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I understood.

“I turned 18 last week, and had to take the grief measurement test. 80%. That was my first time being tested. But because I was an adult, and it had been over 2 years. I was brought here,” she recounted.

I took a deep breath in. My heart, suddenly, felt heavy.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help,” I replied, placing my hand over hers. We had stopped our chopping and peeling. There was no one else in the kitchen.

“I would like to get better, but I don’t think this is the place for that. Do you feel that?” She asked, looking straight into my eyes.

“Yes.”

“How do I explain to someone that my father, who I lost, was the one person who made me feel like I belonged in the world? That’s a loss that you can’t get over, not in a lifetime.”

And, for the first time since Avinash’s death, I felt someone could understand how I felt.

***

On the third month of my being at the institution, Prashant was allowed a visit. He arrived with my mother, prompt at 10 am. There weren’t any other visitors that day so we had the visiting room to ourselves. Prashant entered, holding my mother’s hand, a tentative look on his face. When he saw me, his eyes lit up.

We sat next to each other in the beige sofa set. The room, with its blue and white curtains, evoked the feeling of being amidst waterfalls.

“Ama, when are you coming home?”

Joy tugged at my heart.

“Soon,” I replied. I had a feeling that my statement— at that moment— wouldn’t be a lie.

“Are you enjoying school?” I asked.

“Yes! We are learning multiplication and division, we’ve started reading a new book of folktales, and our art classes are much longer now.”

He took out a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Look, I made this for you,” he said, handing me the folded paper.

Opening it, I could make out the shapes of mountains. The lines had been erased and drawn over many times. The shades of grey and blue and white inside the mountains blended together. Below the mountains, a flowing river wound down to a valley, which was filled with spring blossoms. Orange sunset light suffused the page from behind the mountains, and became pink further up.

His inquisitive eyes looked at me expectantly.

How could I have missed this? Through their evening walks to the local parks or the bedtime stories that they read together, Prashant had imbibed his father’s outlook— of looking out at the world in wonder. As though birds that chirped by were whispering a magical secret, or the trees that rose to meet the sky were trusted friends.

I had my son. I still belonged in the world.

I drew him close and embraced him. Time looked in— relieved— through the window.

Catch up on Part 1 here

Death’s profound silence was so palpable that even time stopped to listen. That silence consumed me completely. His body, laid in the hospital stretcher outside the building, was enveloped by divine peace.

Relatives had gathered. Sitting on the sidewalk, they were wailing. The tears that streamed from their eyes had transformed into a perennial river; sadness etched the creases of their faces. Yet, I could not bring myself to cry. Instead, watching their histrionics almost brought a smile to my face. I was glad I was wearing a mask.

The waiting stretched on forever. We were waiting for the doctor to arrive, the one whose signature was needed to transfer the body from that concrete outdoor setting to the indoor laboratory. My husband had decided to donate his body. For scientific research. He hadn’t wanted a cremation, or the 13 day mourning ritual after his death.

When the doctor arrived, so did the ‘corpse van’. His body was moved to the back of the van. I went in with him, sitting atop the thin stools pushed against the van’s edges. Other relatives streamed in until the vehicle was fully packed. A short drive across the road, and we reached our destination. The body was removed and put into a stretcher.

An employee began to push the stretcher inside, and I followed behind. With every step forward, the miasma of death intensified. Inside— rows and rows of cupboards attached to the walls, each containing large glass jars— filled with organs. Here, I had to leave him. Here, I saw his physical form for the last time in my life.

***

After the medical officer’s verdict, I couldn’t bring myself to walk back home. I took a taxi instead.

My son was outside in the garden, chasing after a blue butterfly. He was eight years old. My mother, watching behind him, approached me— then stopped. The solemn expression on my face— perhaps— had told her all she needed to know.

She followed me into the kitchen, where, on the counter, was my half-finished herbal tea. I picked it up, and the cold liquid slipped through my oesophagus, leaving a cool chill as it passed. I was staring— blindly— out the window.

“You’re worried about Prashant, aren’t you?” My mother said, referring to my son.

I didn’t reply.

“He has me. Don’t worry. I did raise seven healthy children, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

I headed up to my bedroom— and opened the cupboard. I took the piled stacks of clothes and threw them on the bed. I needed to pack.

My mother followed, entering the room minutes later.

“They give you clothes there. I don’t think you need to take anything with you.”

Of course they do.

“So, what next?” I asked my mother.

“Just brace yourself. What time is your pickup?”

“2:45 pm.”

“Just relax until then.”

I headed downstairs, and called my son inside.

He skipped into the room, thinking lunch was ready.

“How about we take an early nap today?” I asked, restraining my tears.

He shrugged, walking towards his bedroom.

As he curled up on the bed, I said, “Ama will be gone for a while now. But don’t worry, she’ll be back soon, ok?”

“Why do you also have to go?” He asked, looking deep into my eyes.

“That’s what best for you and me. For now. Ok?”

Unconvinced, he turned to the other side.

I wrapped my arms around him and let the tears fall.

***

When I arrived at the institution, an elderly woman was waiting for me at the door.

“I’m glad you made it, Jyoti,” she said, smiling at me with her kind eyes.

She led me to my room, which was a small rectangle with beige walls, a bed, a cupboard and a study table. Atop the table, a solitary, pink rose stood inside a blue vase.

When she left me, I opened the cupboard which had a pile of neatly folded clothes, all in shades of pastel.

Days at the institution blended into each other. Time moved in circles, each new day mimicking the pattern of the day before. There were others like me— mothers, wives, daughters— who had been unable to escape grief’s clasp. They smiled at me when we passed each other in the hallway, but a sea of sorrow was embedded in their eyes.

Group therapy, individual therapy. They were all the same to me.

“But he’d want you to be happy, right?” My therapist said, one day.

“Yes.”

“So, embrace that happiness— you have that power.”

Of course I knew that. As I stared at the vibrant spring garden poster pasted on the wall behind him, I gasped for words.

It wasn’t true that I was unhappy. There were so many moments, after his death, that I’d been happy. My son’s eighth birthday party— the most recent. But, grief and happiness could co-exist. No one seemed to understand that his absence, for me, was as though I had lost a part of my own soul. Even when I found happiness, a part of me would always be in a distant space and time, searching for the lost bit of my soul.

For the first two years, I was allowed to grieve. I wore the white bracelet, symbol of a citizen in mourning.

“I’m sorry,” they’d say for a moment when they saw the bracelet, before moving on to another topic. Some paused, waiting for me to explain. More often than not, I didn’t.

As a grieving widow, my workload was reduced at the bank, where I worked as a teller. I received government support in the form of monthly stipends to supplement my reduced income. I spent more time with my son, trying to fill in the shoes of both parents.

“When will Baba come home? It’s already 6pm.” Prashant would ask me in the early days, having forgotten that his father had died, and expecting him to return home from work. The two of them would have then gone out for an evening stroll in the neighborhood. From the excitement gleaming in his eyes, I could tell that this was Prashant’s favorite thing to do.

I bent to one knee, and held my son’s delicate face in my hands. “Remember what I told you?” I’d say softly.

The excitement in his eyes melted, replaced by a perplexed look. Then, when the realization hit— a deep gaze of sorrow.

“Let me take you for a walk,” I’d offer.

But Prashant would quietly head to his room, dismissing my offer wordlessly.

Part 3: Coming Soon

I woke up with the sun. Deep orange, it was a ball of fire on the horizon. As light infused the sky, darkness retreated.

A soothing scent spread through the room as my herbal tea took on a deep, green color. With every sip, the tea’s warmth lingered at the bottom of my throat.

Today, at 10 am, I would have to go for my test. 10 am was still hours away, yet, I woke up at dawn, my mind filled with imaginings of moments leading up to 10 am. At 9:30, I’d leave the house and start the walk. At 9:45, heaving up the steps, I’d cross the overhead bridge. At 9:55, I’d enter the testing center. I liked being early.

The morning had elongated, somehow, that day. Each second vied to be noticed, as though waiting for my permission before passing. I spent the morning juxtaposed between the slow passage of time and the rushing anxiety inside my chest.

Even when my son woke up and called to me, I wasn’t released from the trappings of time and anxiety. As though I inhabited a different dimension than him. My mother, who perhaps sensed my anxiety, whisked him away to his room, saying she’d read his favorite story out loud.

At 9:30 am, I left my house and started walking eastward. It was Saturday— there were not many cars on the street. The lush, green sidewalk trees cast their shadows on the pavement forming a series of shadow steps that I walked atop. The spring blossoms perfumed the air with a subtle, sweet fragrance. I hoped I wouldn’t pass by anyone I knew. Not today.

The testing center, too, was surprisingly empty. I had anticipated a long line and hours of waiting. At the reception, I presented my ID to the jovial girl, who smiled at me. While she checked the details on the computer, I glanced around the immaculate reception area, across which lay a set of beige sofas.

“Wait there,” she said, pointing to the sofas and handing me back my ID and a small booklet. A sticker was pasted on the front with my details.

Age: 34

Gender: F

Address: Residential Complex 12

“Someone will be with you shortly.”

When a medical officer arrived, wearing a white coat, I stood up, instinctively, and followed her wordlessly. The testing room was sparsely furnished, with a bed, a table, a cupboard and a notice board where someone had pinned calendar images of nature landscapes. The flowing waterfalls, the majestic mountains, the flowering rhododendrons— none could soothe my anxiety.

“Lay down on the bed please. I also need you to open your blouse,” the medical officer said. From inside the cupboard, she retrieved a machine which looked like a typewriter. Wires emerged from its sides— wires which were carefully wound and tied lest they should entangle. Placing the machine next to my bed, she began to unwind the wires. One she attached to my thumb. Another, which had soft, sticky padding at the end, to my chest. The final one, similar to the second one but flatter, to my temples. Through the soft padding, I felt the cold metal touching my skin.

When the officer turned on the machine, it sprang alive, announcing itself with a dull, mechanical whirr.

“Just close your eyes and relax,” she told me.

I don’t know what happened next, except that time stretched on, even more so than the morning, and my mind was occupied by the feeling of cool metal on my temples and the droning, mechanical sound of the machine.

Then, “Ok, we are done.”

She removed the wire attachments from my body.

At the desk, placed the booklet before me. She had jotted down a series of numbers.

“Jyoti-ji, your grief measurement is still too high. At the end of two years, the normal range is between 30-45%. Even at 50%, we sometimes let patients return to their life before. But yours— it’s 75%,” she paused, and took a deep breath in. “I hope you know what this means, Jyoti-ji. You will need to be institutionalized.”

Time, suddenly, decided it no longer wanted to be with me. It sped up, and I couldn’t keep up with the dizzying pace.

Part 2 is now available here

75% is a part of a triad of short stories— three conceptually linked pieces of fiction exploring interconnected themes. Discover the other two stories below:

Nayan’s Visions

Lyrical

The biggest event that happened on a visit to Biratnagar was definitely mama’s wedding when I was six. It is still my main experience of a Nepali wedding. All my aunts and cousins gathered in the house, and at last, mama was there too.

Even though I didn’t meet mama much in Biratnagar, ironically, I had seen him often in Kathmandu, before moving to Kalimpong. Mama was in his late 20s then, tall with short black hair and an energetic poise. He taught me to ride a bicycle, holding the bike from behind as the training wheels were taken off and I struggled to balance. Mama had a motorcycle which he drove to go to work, and when he came back in the evenings, I would ask him to give me a short ride. Sitting in the motorcycle in front of mama, I felt a tingling sense of excitement as though I was on an adventure. I often repeated how it was perfect that my mama’s motorcycle brand was ‘Hero Honda’ and my bicycle’s brand was ‘Hero’. As mama zoomed through the city on his motorcycle, his head covered with a helmet, he seemed so capable and independent to me.

For the wedding, my cousins and I got new, fancy clothes. My mother and aunt went to Jogmani, the market across the Nepal-India border and brought lehengas for us. In the evening, they had us try them on. I was delighted with my lehenga— the top and the long skirt were a matching red, with golden floral patterns. The bright, colorful dress felt one with the wedding’s festive mood. But the adults were unable to find a lehenga the size of my younger cousin, who was three. Seeing my older cousin and me in our new, vibrant lehengas, she was so upset that she left the house, sulking. Minutes later, we found her in the street outside a neighboring house, her little body pressed against the wall, looking down on the ground in dejection. In the end, she had to wear pants and a t-shirt, but she still looked very cute.

On the day of the wedding, we set off early in the morning to the party hall. Mama emerged wearing a gray suit, a triangular Nepali topi, and shades. My mother and aunts were dressed in colorful saris and lots of jewelry. Musicians hired for the occasion played loud, festive tunes along the way. In the party hall, the bride, who would be my maiju, wore the most bright, red sari— a color distinctively worn by Nepali brides. While the ceremony went on, there wasn’t much for me to do, as mama and maiju sat down for hours and my mother and aunts stayed nearby to ensure everything required for the wedding was there. At lunch, I distinctly remember that mama and maiju sat next to each other in the plastic chairs as they ate the food— and I wondered why they felt they had to sit next to each other, even after the long ceremony. That was perhaps the first time I realized that a family bond was being formed. Since it was hot and tiring, my father suggested that we leave early and I agreed, because the wedding seemed in everyone else’s good hands.

In 2007, after a cease-fire and complex political negotiations, the Maoist war ended. It was once more safe for the study abroad program to run in Kathmandu so the office closed in Kalimpong and we moved back to Kathmandu.

Even though I don’t remember much of the war, it was a significant historical event for the country and me too— propelling the move to Kalimpong, and those long drives. After we moved back, there were no more long drives to Biratnagar. Mama, Maiju and Muwahajur moved permanently to Kathmandu and the house started falling apart without people living there much, so mama sold the house and built a new one in Kathmandu.

Mamaghar, as I knew it in my childhood, doesn’t exist now. But in my memories, Biratnagar and the house will always be a special place of happiness. Those drives to Biratnagar first introduced me to the soft internal excitement that comes with traveling to a new place and I relive that feeling every time I am going somewhere exciting to this day.

Catch up on Part 1 here

Mamaghar’s prime hang-out spot was the large single bed in the verandah. After waking up, I would drowsily come out to the bed and watch the morning ease into a bright day as sunlight filtered in through the metal frame that enclosed the verandah. The bed had a strong wooden frame, it was tall and covered with a small, woven gundri—a thin, carpet-like covering and a cloth sheet. Since no one slept in the bed, there was plenty of space for all of us— I could bend over my storybooks and enjoy them on one end, while my grandmother peeled vegetables on the other. I enjoyed staying out there much more than I did inside, where the walls and curtains and closets felt like they limited what I could do. But the verandah’s bed was open and I felt close to the world outside. Unlike the beds inside, the verandah’s bed wasn’t just for sleeping, making it a bed of possibilities— I could bring out and eat my snacks, or read books and make drawings, or watch the street and the people passing by or take a relaxing nap in the afternoon warmth.

The back door of the house led to the kitchen-garden, but I was most fascinated by the water system located there— a small cement patch at the center of which stood the manual water pump, we called it kal. It was a round, short (possibly taller than me then), rusty-green metal structure, with a thick round opening in the front and a long, sloping stick at the back. If you pressed down on the stick, water came gushing out from the front of the pump. I have been in love with water my whole life so the kal was for me a treat compared to the thin streams of water that came from indoor taps. By the kal, I drenched my feet in the gushing water and indulged in splashing my face at the end of a long day. It was also where my family washed clothes, and as my mother and grandmother did their chores, I would wash my little t-shirt with a tiger on it in a small mug, just to be near the water.

I couldn’t escape the mosquito-talk at night. When evening fell, the adults ordered me to go inside from the verandah to avoid mosquitos who could be carrying dengue and malaria— two mosquito-borne diseases rare in the hills but endemic in the Terai. As we ate dinner, mosquito mats— small electrical devices that diffused perfumed anti-mosquito vapor— would be turned on. My father would carefully cover the beds assigned to us with mosquito nets and usher me in. My grandmother and mother, raised in the Terai, had learned to cope with Terai mosquitos from a young age. But my father had grown up in an upper hilly Eastern village, and was more frightened by mosquitos than everyone else. After I was safely inside, he would meticulously tuck the net in beneath the mattress, to seal off all possible entry to the pesky little insects. As I went to bed in mamaghar, I slept soundly, content to have defeated the mosquitos buzzing outside.

In Biratnagar, I would always be eager to ride on a rickshaw. Sometimes we caught a rickshaw a few hundred meters away from the house, in the street where rickshaw drivers would be parked in a row, waiting for passengers. Other times, we hurriedly stopped a rickshaw passing by our house. If there were two adults with me during the ride— any combination of my father and mother, my mother and grandmother or my mother and aunt— I would sit precariously on one of their laps or stand in front of them on the small metal tray just big enough to fit the feet of the three people riding it.

But if I only had one adult with me, I would get to sit too— on the rickshaw’s small ledge-like seat. The rickshaw was like an open, low-cost carriage tied to a bicycle. Its biggest luxury was the adjustable wooden hood— if the sun was too strong and bright, you could pull the hood above you to shade your upper body, but if the heat wasn’t too strong, you could push the hood behind and enjoy the expanded scenery.

I loved rickshaws so much. In any other vehicle, we would zoom by a place in seconds, always haunted by the droning sound of the engine. But in rickshaws, nothing stopped the outdoor air from washing my face. The ride was slow but steady, and I felt every detail of the street— like when the rickshaw went heavily up to a small bridge and flurried downhill after crossing it, and the sight of people on the streets, the colorful houses with shops by the road, and the long, open fields of farming and vegetation. Passing by the Durga temple close to mamaghar, I could hear the bells inside the temple. In busy streets, I heard the quick passing of vehicles without the mechanical sound following me everywhere, and in quiet lanes by the farming land, I felt the tranquility of the countryside. The rickshaw’s chirping bell that the drivers occasionally rung was a merry addition to all other sounds.

Part 3: Coming Soon

My earliest memories of traveling come from the road trips to my mamaghar in Biratnagar, Nepal from Kalimpong, West Bengal. At home in Nepal, the Maoist Insurgency was raging through the country. My father’s work at a study abroad program in Nepal became increasingly difficult since it required traveling across the country. So, the program shifted from Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal to Kalimpong, a small district in West Bengal, India that was home to a Nepali diaspora. And our family of three— my father, mother and I— moved.

But once a year, we drove over the border to a city in south-east Nepal, Biratnagar, to stay at the house where my maternal grandmother lived. I called it mamaghar— the house of my mama. Mama in Nepali is the word for your mother’s brother. The several visits to mamaghar from when I was four till eight, in my memory, have all coalesced into one experience of being in a special place where exciting and fun things are guaranteed to happen.

On the day of the trip, my parents woke up before sunrise and made final preparations in the living room. As their voices and the light seeped into my bedroom, I’d know it was time to wake up, and felt a soft, excited buzz inside me. When the jeep was ready within the hour, all our bags fastened onto it, I’d walk outside into the cool morning air. The sky would be an empty, subtle canvas waiting for the sunrays to spill across it.

The 200-km long road to Biratnagar from Kalimpong started off as a long-twisted highway. On one side a tall, barren cliff and on the other, a deep ravine. We would always be on the lookout for monkeys, scuttling across the road alone or huddled in groups. On one drive, we showed my stuffed monkey named Banzai to the real monkeys, who looked back at us with an alarmed gaze. Soon, we would hear the crashing waves of the Teesta river far below and with every turn, we descended closer and closer to it. After a few hours, I would impatiently ask my father when we would reach the half-way point and he would reply, “Hathi chhiryo, puchar adkyo”— “the elephant has passed through the door, and now only the tail is left outside.”

The half-way point was by the Nepal-India border. While we ate lunch, our belongings would be transferred to a new jeep: one with a Nepali number plate since vehicles with an Indian plate required a “pass” to come into Nepal. Then, we would set off again to Biratnagar.

While the constantly twisting roads with a rising cliff and falling ravine ignited a sense of urgency in the morning, the second half of the drive was a long, straight, endless highway through forests of verdurous trees which gave the afternoon ride a calm aura. The Terai’s sun— its bright light filtering warmth into the jeep— lulled us all into serenity.

As I watched the road stretch on and on, I would pick the farthest point on the horizon in front of me, and think, “Maybe, when we reach there, we will see Biratnagar.” As though the city would magically rise up at that exact point. But that never happened. The infinite road was punctuated by mini bridges throughout: a few meters long, identical to the road except for the rails on the sides. I would excitedly read the name of each bridge in Nepali, then English. Unlike the roaring Teesta, the rivers beneath the bridges were small— some fresh with flowing waters, and others dry bedrock. It surprises me now how vividly I remember those trips, fifteen years later.

Late in the afternoon, we would finally reach Biratnagar. The city is in the Terai, Nepal’s south-most geographical landscape of fertile, flat lands. As someone raised amidst the hills of Kathmandu, my first knowledge of the Terai came from visits to mamaghar. Biratnagar, the fifth-largest city in Nepal of 200,000 people, is called the country’s industrial capital because of its factories. Kathmandu and Kalimpong are both over 1000 meters above sea level— hilly cities that are cool and misty for most of the year. So Biratnagar’s distinctive heat— the city is only 80 meters above sea level— was like a special tourist-attraction for me. Navigating through busy main roads, we veered into narrower streets of the residential area where small, concrete houses with their little back-yards overlooked the street. My mamaghar was one of them— a small two-storied house, with a living room, two bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom.

Despite being mamaghar, mama wasn’t there a whole lot— it was my grandmother who lived there. I called her Muwahajur and she was in her late 50s. She always wore a sari, mostly cotton to stay cool in the Terai. Her hair was tied in a bun and to a five-year-old me, she looked very tall. From the way she walked briskly and worked assiduously around the house, I knew she was strong. She had raised five daughters and one son, and all of them were scattered across the country. Some of my aunts lived closer in the Terai, mama in Kathmandu, and my family in Kalimpong. She was the heart of the house, and I could feel a fresh, welcoming aura in those rooms of simple but meticulously organized furniture. My grandmother was a naturally quiet person, she didn’t speak much, but mamaghar wasn’t a place where I needed words to feel welcomed.

Part 2 is now available:

“So do you want to try?” The woman asks, looking at me through the thick, round glasses she is wearing. “It’s just Rs. 500 for a prediction.”

The future— it hasn’t been long since I started to care about it. Only after my grandmother’s death did it strike me that I’d have an interminable amount of time to live alone, make a living— alone. Of course— there was always the chance that I too could die anytime soon— but until I did, I’d have to live life as if it would stretch on forever.

Until a year ago, I had a solid plan. Finish studying, get a job as a data analyst, and write poems every week. Maybe even start a family one day.

But when my grandmother died, just two months before my graduation— that plan fell apart. Not completely. I still graduated and got a job as a data analyst. It doesn’t pay very much, but I’m just starting so it’s not a completely dismal situation as I make it seem on my mind. But I haven’t written a poem since that day.

In all my years of poetry writing, did I expect anything to come out of it? Not consciously. In the beginning, I wrote, mostly, for my grandmother. Then—somewhere— the words I composed were imbued with my vision of the world.

And then, writing was not just a bridge connecting me to my grandmother and my grandmother to the cherished musicality of her childhood, but it also became a space where my thoughts, perceptions, dreams found a home to reside in.

Now, it feels as though that home no longer exists.

But back to the question— did I ever expect anything to come out of my writing?

In all those years of composing poems, there was a part of me that envisioned myself as a globally renowned author, my words bound in volumes and circulating across the world— captivating, inspiring, enthralling minds living miles apart from me. But that desire— back then— was generated just for fun, to fuel my short moments of daydreaming that I’d quickly get out of and forget for a while.

But after my grandmother’s death— that desire— has reemerged and taunts me.

Do you know how hard it is to make it big?

Of course I do.

Your poems aren’t bad, but there are millions of available poems— even well-established literary masterpieces. Why would anyone pick yours?

And so, the fear persists for a dream I did not even know I had until eight months ago. But I am young enough— now— to believe that it will happen one day.

“Yes, I’d like to try,” I reply tentatively, as the old woman in the sari keeps staring back at me.

The woman doesn’t ask for the payment first. Instead, she retrieves a box from under the stall table and places it on top with a thud. I’m surprised by how the boisterous fair behind me sounds like a muffle as though those sounds were muted by an invisible layer that separated this stall from the rest.

Opening the box, she removes a Virtual Reality headset and connects to her laptop. “Enter your birthdate on the application,” she says, turning her laptop towards me.

Against the black background of the screen, four rectangular boxes stood out. Date, Year, Time and Place of Birth. I entered the information.

“Great, now put on the VR headset,” the woman instructed, taking back the laptop.

When I put on the headset, everything was dark for a while. Then the first thing I heard— was the music. A faint, soothing tune.

The scene emerged in a golden haze that made it seem both real and surreal. A door was directly before me. Opening it, I entered a room.

Pastel walls and a beige ceiling added a serene touch to the space. Against this light background, the dark, wooden floor was accentuated. This looked like a kitchen-dining set up. It was small but had all the necessities— a stove, a sink, a kitchen counter which was broadened so that one side of it— with chairs placed against it— functioned as a dining table.

Through an archway, I seamlessly reached another room which was small too, and contained a sofa set and a coffee table placed before it. A watercolor painting of the Himalayas— brush strokes of blue, gray and white blending together— was placed against one of the walls.

The next room I entered was distinctly an office room. A small bookshelf, against the wall, housed multiple titles compactly placed together— the golden rays of the sun fell directly on the book spines, making them appear even more vibrant. Opposite, placed against the window was a computer— its screen flashed a series of numbers in a numerical computing program.

As I moved towards the desk, the sun fell directly on me and a sharp, throbbing headache pounded through my head. I fell down against the hard wood; cold swept into my body through my hands.

As I began to lie down, my hands strike against a small notebook. When I pick it up, a pencil falls to the floor and rolls away.

Opening the book, I detect lines of poetry in my distinct, sloping handwriting.

“Home”— the title of the poem reads.

My grandmother was always humming when she worked. Whether she was cooking dinner, doing the dishes or washing clothes, tunes were her perennial friends that accompanied her everywhere.

Having heard them so often, I too, had learned these tunes by heart, but I did not know where they were from.

Every morning and evening, the two of us would walk down the sloping land to the village’s water tap. It was a stone-carved tap that connected to a spring high above and perennially flowed with a frigid, translucent stream of water.

“Muwa, where did you learn these songs?”

She was quiet for a while, perhaps not expecting a question about something so deeply rooted into her daily life that she did not have to think twice about it.

“I learned them when I was a little girl. My mother, sisters, aunts— they’d all sing. Ours was quite a musical house. All of that changed when I got married. Your grandfather had no interest in the arts— he was just too practical for it.” We had just reached the tap. There were no other people; my grandmother promptly placed the gagri below the tap.

“But how come you never sing the lyrics?”

“Well, I don’t know, really. I’ve never thought about it. I guess I don’t even remember all of them because they were so long ago,” she replied.

“But you remember the tunes?”

“I didn’t sing for a long time after I got married— too caught up in my responsibilities. Household work, raising children, tending to the land. I was always busy.”

I looked up expectantly at her, waiting for more.

“But once your grandfather passed away, and most of your uncles and aunts left the house to settle in the cities, these tunes found their way back to me.”

Caught up in the conversation, both of us had lost sight of the gagri, which was overflowing.

“Hurry up, you’ll be late for school,” she said as she heaved to pick up the vessel full of water and placed it against her hip. On the short uphill trek back to the house, I decided that I’d start writing poems that evening. Poems which my grandmother could add tunes to.

***

On Saturday evening, I decide to go for a walk. I had spent the entire day studying for my Master’s classes, which I attended in the mornings. Work had been exhausting that week as endless amount of data processing needed to be done to prepare the final report.

My room is too small for any fun activity. It is my first rented room and has just enough space for a single bed, a study table and a small kitchen space that fits perfectly in the rectangular alcove at the edge of the room. Thus, I’ve been able to categorize my space into three distinct areas which cover the three significant aspects of my life— food, sleep, study.

I’d thought that life would get easier after graduating college. That was another one of those false beliefs propagated without thinking about what the consequences would be. A wide-eyed undergraduate student, I remember the sense of security I felt every time I thought about graduating. As if my college degree was a magical spell that could place all my life’s puzzles into place. But graduating and actually navigating the world that follows— that sense of security shattered— creating a myriad of undecipherable puzzle pieces.

It is already getting chilly outside so I put on two layers of clothes— a pair of thermal inners below my pants and sweater. Carrying my crossbody bag, I put in my notebook and mini water bottle. Not that I plan to sit anywhere and write, but it feels right to be carrying it with me.

Outside, the cold air hits my face. It is surprisingly windy and there are only a few people out on the street. To minimize the cold’s impact, I walk in the wind’s direction. Winter has set in completely, enveloping the city in a blanket of cold that transforms how people interact with the world. As the transition to night occurs, some houses have turned on their lights and the soft glow coming through the curtains feels like it is adding warmth into the frigid air outside.

It is a quiet evening, mostly, before I detect a faint trace of music. Must be one of the restaurants. I’m in no mood for music today though— haven’t been in a while. I just want to complete my walk— a much needed change after the incessant work I had done throughout the week.

As I get closer to the venue— as the music gets louder— it is a tune that is deeply familiar. Yet, as I try to connect it to any of the recent music I listened to, I cannot superimpose this tune to any song on my playlist.

The wind gets stronger, propelling me to walk faster— soon, I reach the venue through which the music is emerging. I’ve been to this place before— it is a garden complex that houses a range of eateries— from coffee shops to restaurants offering various cuisines. Today, golden string lights hover above the entrance, illuminating the path below in an inviting, warm glow. I walk through the lights and into the complex.

A winter fair must be going on for there are rows of stalls, and visitors, even now, are flocking them. String lights and table lamps provide a golden glow across the shops, each highlighting a specific product. I don’t go inside the complex. I just hover in the periphery. Winter clothing, jewelry, art pieces, make-up products, herbal tea— everything has a place here.

At the very end, though— something catches my eye. There’s a stall— detached from every other stall. Dimly lit, it has no customers.

Walking over, I end up across an older woman who only has a computer on the stall table.

“You’re here, good,” she said, veering her eyes away from the laptop when she realizes I’m standing before her.

“Are you selling something?” I ask tentatively, already baffled by her previous statement— which sounded like she had been expecting me rather than the casual joy of getting a customer.

“Yes, this stall provides future prediction services using the most cutting edge technology in the field. Would you like to try?”

I know what I want to say.

But I’m scared.

What if I don’t have the courage to face the future predicted for me?

***

It was a Saturday evening when I shared my first poem with my grandmother. It was about oranges— her favorite fruit. I had quickly finished all my homework on Friday evening so that I could spend my Saturday writing the poem. I wanted it to be a surprise, so I isolated myself in my room, finally putting my study table to use. My grandmother was too busy to notice the aberration of my absence since it was the first day of the harvest season. In the evening, when she— exhausted— came to the kitchen, I pulled her aside and offered to cook the evening meal. It was Saturday and she let me.

After dinner, I guided my grandmother under the light in the kitchen where I did my homework. Pulling out my flimsy notebook from beneath the cushion, I said, “I have to show you something.”

As I flipped through the pages, my grandmother waited patiently, looking at my moving hands with wonder in her eyes.

“It’s a poem— for you,” I stated and before she could reply, I started reading it out loud— describing the sweet delight that oranges add to human life and the joy that comes after seeing the bright fruits hanging ripe amongst the lush background of green, pointed leaves.

Apprehensively, I looked back at my grandmother. But the moment I saw her eyes beaming with joy, the lingering fear that she might chastise me for spending my time on non-academic endeavors vanished.

That night, before going to bed, I heard a new tune emerge from my grandmother’s room, and the words I had composed found their place within a serene melody.

And so began my journey of becoming a poet. Every week, I wrote a new poem, getting inspiration from my surroundings. My second poem was about water— describing the journey down to the village tap in the first half and the importance of water in our lives in the second. It didn’t matter what it was about— my grandmother loved them and the exercise of creating a new melody for each.

Every Saturday evening, I would cook dinner and my grandmother, intuitively, would join me under the kitchen light to hear me recite that week’s poem. She’d have it memorized by the third time, already experimenting with the tune she might add. Her tunes would be tailored to the poem’s theme— a melancholy ballad infused the poem about a lost son, a joyful rhythm rang out in the poem about festivals, a reflective tone embedded the poem about navigating through life’s travails.

As I grew up, it was these poems that provided a stable anchor to the uncertainties of life— such as the time of the earthquake or the village fire— and even more so because of the connections they nurtured with my grandmother.

When I completed high school and time came for me to pursue my Bachelor’s degree, I had to leave my village because it did not have any universities.

Of course I did not want to. Being an orphan, all my life, I had faced countless moments when the absence of a parent struck me sharply— but I do not want to go into it now. It will suffice to know that in those moments, my grandmother’s presence that brought immeasurable comfort and assuaged my pain.

But my grandmother would not hear of it. I had to go— she insisted. For my future. And so, I packed my bags, bought a phone for myself and for my grandmother and moved to the capital city where I enrolled in a math program. The hostel provided me with the accommodations I needed in a small 10 X 12 foot room.

The city, even though I had never been there before— did not overwhelm me. It was different from the village— yes— but I had learned about cities in school, and had even heard more first-hand descriptions from my relatives who intermittently came to visit my grandmother— once every few years. And so, the endless concrete building rising to meet the sky, the congested roads populated with cars and motorbikes, and the thick air heavy with smog became expected images transformed into reality. Perhaps being an orphan since birth meant that I had been— unknowingly— inured to the shock that any change could bring because the transformative change of losing parents had occurred on my first day of being alive.

I stayed mostly in my hostel room, studying, listening to music or writing poems. I didn’t stop my weekly poetry sessions with my grandmother. I’d write something every week, even if it was just four lines written hastily in a burst of inspiration as I was rushing to classes. On Saturday evenings, I’d call my grandmother at 8pm, and recite the poem. By the next morning, she’d have a song ready.

And so the years passed, the weekly poems now were not only a creation for my grandmother, they were also an anchor to connect me to home.

One Saturday evening, during my final year, it was the tail end of winter when I called my grandmother and was met with a deep, ragged cough.

“Hajurama— what’s going on— are you ok?” I asked, pushing aside my notebook.

“Yes,” she replied, in between coughs. “It’s just that the cold has gotten to me a bit this time.”

“Did you go to the local health post?”

“Yes, they’ve given me a cough syrup.”

That night, I asked my grandmother to take rest— I’d share the poem with her when she was feeling better. Even I could not have anticipated the whirlwind of events which unfurled in the two weeks that followed.

Part 3 is now available here

I was born an orphan. That is not technically possible, but the three hours that my mother was alive after I was born, I do not consider to be significant. True— those hours are the only time in my life when I had a parent physically exist in the world at the same time as me. But I have no memory of it. My father had died three months before I was born in a workplace accident. After my mother’s demise, in the dimly lit delivery room at the health post, it was my grandmother who bravely volunteered to take care of me— providing me with a warm guardian’s shadow where I took refuge throughout my childhood and teenage years.

At that time, my grandmother lived alone in our ancestral home. Once, the two story mud structure had housed all her eight children and even a few grandchildren. They had all moved away now— to the cities or even abroad. My father was the only child to stay with her. He had a government job, just like his father before him.

For my grandmother, it must’ve felt like traveling back in time. At 55, she must’ve believed that the days of being solely responsible for an infant were behind her. But my grandmother— when the time came for her to undertake the daunting responsibility of an orphan grandchild— did not falter.

“Muwa, how did you feel about it?” I’d often ask her, when I became old enough to understand that my grandmother was, well, my grandmother. That I didn’t have any parents like the other kids at school.

“What’s there to feel?”

“Well, you raised eight children. Didn’t you feel like you couldn’t take on another infant?”

“No,” her solemn reply would have no explanation. But her certain tone said all that needed to be said.

And so the years passed by— under my grandmother’s steady but comforting vigilance, I grew up. My grandmother put me in the only private school in the village, even though she hadn’t gone to school herself. We had a bit of agricultural land and she looked over it— instructing the workers with precise details about which plant or grain or vegetable or fruit to plant where. When it was time to sell the first lot of the produce, she’d go to the market with the workers. She always made sure that the first visit would be on a Saturday so that I could tag along too, behind her, fiddling with the edge of her sari that trailed behind.

Everyday, after school, my grandmother had snacks ready for me. And as soon as I was done with them, she’d drag my school bag from wherever I’d left it— sometimes the verandah, other times the living room— and insist that I start with homework.

“But don’t you need any help?” I’d say.

“Don’t worry about me,” she nonchalantly replied as she began to prepare for the evening meal.

Even though I had a study table in my room in the first floor, I preferred to stay in a corner of the kitchen and study as my grandmother cooked by the fire. The dim, yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling provided just enough illumination for me to distinguish the letters and words and numbers in my books. Humming as she worked, my grandmother would cycle among a familiar set of tunes. These tunes became so familiar when doing my homework that silence felt distracting. Only when my grandmother’s humming played in the background did I feel that the setting was just right for me to do my work.

***

As winter approaches, days are getting shorter. At just 5:30pm, the last vestiges of light remain. At the bus stop, where I’m waiting, a crowd has gathered. It is that time of the day when everyone is getting out of work. Cars and motorcycles have accumulated in the road — something ahead must be slowing down the traffic.

Across the road is the familiar sight of the medicine shop. Pharmacy— that’s the technical word for it.

Rows of wooden cabinets— painted white— are placed against every available wall space. Each filled to its brim with boxes containing tablets. Considering that these medicines are supposed to bring stability into people’s lives, it is ironic that they, themselves, compose a disarray of color— a visually disjointed whole as each medicine’s differently colored packaging— of blue, yellow, red, green, white— strives to stand out among the rest.

The pharmacy is always busy. Whether it is in the morning as I’m getting off the bus to head to the office or in the evening as I wait for my commute home. I’ve never seen this place devoid of customers.

Perhaps this is because of the sense of comfort they provide. In some ways, pharmaceutics was a business that succeeded because it made people believe that death could be averted. Obviously, it was a false belief.

Part 2 is now available here

Lyrical is a part of a triad of short stories— three conceptually linked pieces of fiction exploring interconnected themes. Discover the other two stories below:

Nayan's Visions

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Catch up on Part 2 here

The next morning, Nayan woke up with a gasp. Even though she had slept dreamlessly, fear— a palpable, stifling presence— haunted her throughout the night. Despite having just woken up, fear’s heaviness had exhausted her.

On days that her father was away, Nayan slept next to her mother. Preeti’s placid figure, at that moment, terrified Nayan.

“Ama,” she whispered, nudging her mother’s arm.

There was silence.

But then, her mother turned, yawning.

“Yes, Nayan. Good morning. How come you are awake so early today?” The alarm clock on the side table flashed 5:00 am.

Nayan sighed. “Nothing,” she said, falling back onto the bed.

Nayan didn’t go to school that day, or the next— feigning a stomachache. She lay in bed all day, trying to fight off the fear that slithered through her body like a physical sensation.

On the third day, when her mother was still alive, Nayan finally got out of bed. Fear still clung to her, but it had become lighter. At least, she could move and talk and eat.

For the rest of the year, Nayan was taken hostage by fear, as though it had been commissioned by death to keep an eye on her. She no longer felt like death’s accomplice— that role had been transferred on to fear. Unlike death, fear was invisible, yet ever-present. It glided through the air that she breathed, it etched itself into the retina of her eyes, it merged with her sleep. She stopped playing hide-and-seek with her mother or watching the rain. Fear interfered so deeply that she could no longer find joy in these activities.

But her mother didn’t die. Not that year. Not the following year. Not for many years that followed. Fear retreated, and soon became a distant memory.

Nayan completed high school. When it was time for her to go to college, she chose to pursue the fine arts. She was a gifted painter.

“Your use of color, Nayan, is the most striking about your work,” her professor remarked during her first year final critique. “It’s almost as though nature has colors that only you can see.”

Nayan smiled. She didn’t know where her intuitive understanding of color came from. She only knew that when she painted a river, she could capture all the shades of blue it might possibly be in its lifetime.

Nayan commuted to college from home. When she arrived home in the evenings, she’d go for a walk with her mother across the city. It was a ritual that neither woman ever missed, even when it rained or during the frigid winter evenings when no one else dared to step out.

As they were walking below the deep blue sky, one winter evening, her mother stumbled. Nayan caught her mother before she could fall.

“Let’s go home,” Preeti said, breathless. “I can’t tell why, I’m suddenly feeling faint.”

Nayan took her home. In the days that came, her mother became more and more ill. Countless hospital visits followed, yet no doctor could provide a diagnosis. Soon, Preeti lost all appetite.

Nayan called her father.

“Something has happened to Ama. You have to come home fast.”

When he arrived, two days later, he decided to take her mother abroad. Nayan stayed back home to keep watch.

When her mother returned, she was in a wheelchair. The diagnosis had been given. Fourth stage liver cancer. Incurable.

Nayan took a semester off to care for her mother, who stayed mostly in bed. As she became frailer by the day, Nayan would sit next to her in the bed, and stroke her hair or read aloud pages from some of her favorite Nepali novels.

One day, after Nayan finished reading, an overwhelming silence rang through the room. As she stroked her mother’s falling hair, she saw another hand imitating her motions. She looked up. Across the bed, a woman, her skin tone blue, met Nayan’s eyes.

They were eyes like she had never seen. A multicolored jewel. An opal. The hands mirrored her own caring touch.

“Ama,” Nayan said. Her mother brought up her hands and held both of theirs for a moment. Then, she was gone.