Chasing Butterflies

Chasing Butterflies

It was back in the summer of 1990. The classes were over for the day, but I was still in the classroom. There was a big chart hanging on the wall which illustrated the life cycle of a butterfly. I didn’t realize I had been staring blankly at it for minutes until someone started calling out my name multiple times in a crescendo. It was the school bus assistant. Before I could turn around to face him, he quickly grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me downstairs yelling all the way to the parking lot where the school bus full of students had been waiting for me. When I climbed into the bus, I could see anger and fear painted on almost every face, in different proportions though.

1990 was also the year when I had lost my mother to a stroke. I remember one of my relatives coming to my school in the lunch time itself to take me back home. When I got home, her lifeless body had already been covered in some kind of white cloth. I tried to run towards her but the people around me wouldn’t let go of me. Everyone was crying, but my father. It seemed his red swollen eyes had run out of tears, and his face was frozen in a twisted scream of agony. Later that day, they shaved off my head and made me set the large pile of wood on fire which covered her that she was barely visible from the outside. I cried a river that I could have put the fire off with the tears. I couldn’t watch her burn to ashes.

The school bus dropped me right in front of my house. I waved my friends goodbye before I went into the house. My father was sitting in the couch reading a newspaper. He always asked me how my day had been. I told him that the teacher taught us about the butterflies that day, and I wanted one of those charts too.
“Okay. I will get you one on your birthday”, he said flipping a page of the newspaper with his left thumb. My birthday was still a couple of months away. I couldn’t wait that longer.
“No, daddy. I want it tomorrow”, I immediately replied.

The next day when I was home from school, my father hadn’t gotten back. So I went to my neighbours’, and waited for him. When I saw him coming, I couldn’t see the big chart in his hands. I was very sad, and thought that he might have forgotten. I went up to him and stood beside him as he fished the key from his pocket to open the door locks. Later that night after we had dinner, I mustered my guts, and asked him about the chart.
“Oh! I’m so sorry son!” he exclaimed, and reached for his briefcase. He took something out of it. It didn’t look like a chart- It was a book. A thick hard-covered book.
“I couldn’t find the chart, but this book looks way better”, he said and handed me the book. Initially, I wasn’t pretty excited about the book. I wanted the exact chart that hung in my classroom wall. But when I flipped a few pages, it was more than I had thought. I lifted my head up to face him with a smile on my lips, and hugged him.

Day by day, my fascination for butterflies only grew exponentially. I would spend much of the time reading the book my father had gotten me. It had beautiful pictures of different varieties of butterflies from around the world. I would sneak out from my house into the backyard gardens to play with the butterflies. I really enjoyed chasing them down.

There’s nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it’s going to be a butterfly. Yet it’s a wonder how those wings are born of struggle and transformation. One fine morning, as I was chasing one, I happened to smack it. The poor butterfly fell on the ground with one of its wings detached from its body. I didn’t do it intentionally. I felt very bad. I picked up the butterfly and its wing, and rushed into the house. I tried to glue the wings together but they only broke further into small pieces. It had died already, and I started sobbing. I had killed something which I really loved. My father heard me crying, and came up to me to ask if I was alright. I told him what I had done and that I felt very guilty about it.   

“Is there any way I can bring it back, daddy? I want to see it fly again”, I asked wiping away the tears rolling down my cheeks.
“No, son. I’m afraid not.  We can’t do anything about it. This is how the world is. Nothing ever comes back from the dead”, he voice sounded different. I looked at him. He was staring into the photo frame, which had a picture of my mother, with misty eyes. I held back my tears. I wasn’t still familiar with the very concept of death. Sometimes I hoped my mother would come back, and believed there was similar chart of life cycle of my mother too. I daydreamed her emerging out of her cocoon with bright coloured wings which couldn’t wait to fly her to me.

Someone has said, and said it right that butterflies are self-propelled flowers, and the flowers tethered butterflies. The former flutter seemingly aimlessly in the air of freedom while the latter disperses fragrance of love. Together they illuminate the spring with their vivid colours. I had started believing that these butterflies were the kisses that my mother had sent me from the heavens above. This belief led my fascination grow into an obsession which worried my father a little. I was always found either reading the books on butterflies or chasing them down in the gardens. I never tried touching any after that incident. I just chased them up to the edge of the world until I ran out of breath or couldn’t feel my numb feet.

I used to wonder why butterflies were named so. It’s not like they are made up of or taste like butter. Flutterfly, maybe? At nights, when I was half asleep, I used to dream and partly imagine to hitch a ride on the back of a butterfly. I guess there’s no better way to fly than flying in a formation with butterflies, twirling and gliding through the air in the space courted by the green grasses and the endless skies. And I kept dreaming that the butterflies would take me to their queen who had the brightest and the biggest wings of all that I could easily build my own world and grow flowers of love on them. The queen butterfly and I would then dance together in the meadows, and follow the wind drifting into the nothingness. My mother, the queen of butterflies!

Years later, I realize how we all are just like butterflies. Butterflies can’t see their wings. They can’t see how truly beautiful they are, but everyone else can. People are like that as well. We all flutter for a day and think it’s forever. We come into this world out of nowhere, flutter here and there in search of a few things throughout our lives. Some soar high in the skies reaching for the sun and the ever-changing clouds while some fly so close to the ground that they get stepped upon. Some don’t even make it out of the cocoon, and a few get their wings broken. But then ultimately all of them just disappear into nothingness again without living any trace behind. 

It’s almost 2017, and I still go the parks carrying the beautiful butterfly book with me. I spend my time with the butterflies talking to them. I see drops of love falling from the skies and landing on their wings. They flutter their wings, and disperse them around. A few drops land on me too, and I can easily feel it’s her. But I want some more of it. So I get up and chase them. I have found my own reasons for chasing butterflies for all these 26 years. Have you found yours?

Sleeping Beauty

Sleeping Beauty

What do you think is the reason people watch their loved ones sleep? I had my own reasons.

When I woke up in the middle of one night, there was she right beside me sleeping peacefully. The beaming light of the silver moon from the heavens above came in through the window, and fell upon her body as if she were wearing it head to toe. Time stood still as I checked every inch of her face. The moles on her face formed an equilateral triangle above her left eye. Her eyelids had a crease, and were closed against the moonlight. She was breathing softly and rhythmically- her breasts rising and falling with each intake of air. Her ebony black hair danced around her head on the beats of the cool breeze which caressed her gently like a painter’s stroke. She had eyes of opals under her eyelids, and a body of a nymphet- a heart of a child and wit of a fool.

Night bugs outside sang songs of the deepest of the woods. She looked so innocent and vulnerable in her sleep. It was one time I could really observe her without an explanation or reason. And there was something very peaceful about watching her sleep, like a stolen moment one can enjoy. My heart began to warm up a little. I reached up to her face and planted a gentle kiss on her temple, and watched her subconscious react to it.

Then the REM kicked in. I so wanted to learn the calm with which she was aiming at her dreams. I wished she was having a beautiful dream. I wished she dreamed of the green meadows and the mountains, of the lake which glimmered under the rays of the mellow sun, like it had been undisturbed for years. I wished it. I wished it all. 

I ran my finger under her dainty nose. I could feel the warm air she was breathing out. It sent monotonous ripples through my heart. I could see her body was at utter peace and rest-every muscle in her body totally relaxed. Time stood still yet again as I stared at her for like minutes, fixing my gaze right into her face that one could easily assume me hypnotized. She wasn’t wearing any forced expression or any mask at all. She was just her. Innocent, primal and honest- such was the depth of her oblivion. There was something innately attractive watching her sleep in that moment of tranquility.

I couldn’t find a single flaw in her as I continued to watch her because every flaw would start turning beautiful right in front of my eyes. Finding faults is for those with tired minds, and I was certainly not one of them. I got up from the bed, and walked up to the window. I smiled at the moon floating in the calm summer starlit sky, and she smiled back. The craters on her skin started fading away. I kept smiling all the way through. I turned my head to watch my love. The breeze was gone by then, and her hair was a mess in a beautiful way.

If she had a habit of speaking in her sleep, I could listen to her all night long, no matter what she was telling. Madness has overcome me. The longer I climb, the deeper I fall into her captivity. I went back to her, and held her hands in mine softly. Her fingernails were varnished. The polish on them reflected the moonlight back to where they came from. I could feel her pulse which happened to sync with my own heartbeat.

I closed my eyes for a while and took a deep breath. The love of my life was right in front of me, and I had a sad realization that she wouldn’t last forever. Neither would I. Nothing would. My heart felt heavy, and there was a lump in my throat at the thought of this. But love is an endless ocean. It has no beginning and no ending. It transcends the boundaries of life and death. Somebody has said our death is our wedding with the eternity. I told her even if I burn away, my ashes will still be alive, and they will come dancing in a thousand new faces in her memories. I told her all but she wouldn’t hear it in her sleep. She wouldn’t see the compassion flowing continually onto her from the deepest bottoms of my heart.

I opened my eyes to look at her again. This time she seemed very fragile-like a snowflake falling from the sky, like a dew drop on a leaf at the dawn, fragile like flower blossoms in the early spring, like a water bubble floating in the void. One touch is all it takes. It broke me apart. I almost felt like crying. I held her hands again, and read a poem I’d written for her from my memory.

From both your eyes, from your nostrils
From both your ears and from your chin
Forth from your heart and mind
And from your tongue
I’ll drive your malady away

From what is voided within,
From strands of your hair
And from tip of your nails,
From all yourself top to toe
I’ll drive your malady away

Ill thoughts and nightmares
Will no longer visit you
Even in the darkest of nights
Sleep with the silver moon
Rise with the burning sun

Now spread your wings
And fly with the birds
Under the bluest of the skies
Croon in the early mornings
And take a man’s blues away

Flow with the rivers
And gather the streams
Down from the hills and mountains
Let flowery grass spring up
Let there be lakes with lotus blooms

Drift with the clouds
And the blowing wind
Without a destination
To the faraway deserts
And fill up the oasis

She slept like a baby the whole night through, completely oblivious to all my words and all my actions. I wanted to join her in her peaceful sleep. I wanted to go blind and dream. So I lay by her side. Seeing and holding the lockets of her hair, my face became all eyes, and eyes all hands, before I fell asleep. 

Paper Boats

Paper Boats

As it started to drizzle, I hurried towards the terrace to get the washings in. It was a typical mid-July afternoon, and the sky had hidden behind the dark clouds. I climbed down the stairs with my arms around the heap of clothes, piled them on the couch, and stood by the window. In no time the drizzle metamorphosed into a heavy downpour. Within minutes, I could see a large puddle coming to life on the nearby road. Oh how I wished to go back in time!

“Stop running around or you’ll hurt yourselves”, my mother used to shout at us. We had holidays during the monsoon. Whenever it rained, we had a favourite pastime activity-sailing paper boats. We would normally remain prepared all the time but on that day we only had as many as five of them. So we hurried into my room and tore apart an old notebook. We folded as many papers as we could into those tiny little boats. She was better than me at making them-almost twice as much as fast.

“Will these be enough?” Anjali had asked. She was my best childhood friend and my neighbour. As far as I can recollect, she had a small scar on her chin and a missing front tooth. Her mother did her hair into bunches. She could never pronounce my name correctly.

“Maybe”, I replied smiling at her.

We set off like sailors carrying those paper boats to search for a puddle nearby. Upon finding one, we distributed the paper boats equally among ourselves. One of us would go to the other end of the puddle and mark a long stick as the finishing line. She always carried a yellow umbrella with her, otherwise her mother wouldn’t allow her to go out in the rain.

The sound of raindrops have always been a perfect lullaby for me. And sometimes they also stir up my vessel of bittersweet memories as it did that time around. I opened my cupboard where I had kept my photo albums. One of them had a photograph of us, smiling at the camera. I got it out of the album and gave a pretty good gaze to it. Life is like a million photographs-you can remember it but you can never recapture it. We were two 8 year olds in the photo without a worry in the world, unaware about what future held for us.

I remember before we started the race, we wrote our names on those paper boats. She didn’t have a very good handwriting. A-N-J-A-L-I. All the letters would be of different sizes when she wrote them. We played the game in rounds. We gently put our boats on the puddle, one for each round. We then had a countdown 5 4 3 2 1 before we blew warm air from our mouths. The paper boats sailed together under the soft drizzle for a while and came to a halt.

“See. Mine has drifted farther than yours”, she would say and roll out her tongue at me. I smiled. I could easily outrun her in every single round but seeing her happy when she won felt way better than winning myself. So mostly I used to blow softly and let her win.

“Not again!” I would exclaim and clutch my hair.

“Don’t worry. We have plenty of rounds remaining”, she would console me.

Our boats never made it to the finish line in a single blow. Some of them would sink as they bumped over little mounds and rocks, and the raindrops from the overcast heavens up there weakening their structure. The paper soaked the water into its pores rendering the boats wet.

I put the photograph back into the album. I knew I was smiling. I don’t know if she has one of these. I looked out through the window. It had stopped raining outside. You can’t have a rainbow without a little rain they say. But rainbows don’t just magically appear after every single rainfall. Life is certainly not a fairy tale-sugarcoated with a cherry on the top.

After the game was over, we picked up the ones which made it to the finish line after multiple blows. Most of the time, the water would have already washed away our names on them. We also had an open drain in front of our houses which connected our doorways. Anjali lived a couple of blocks away from my house. She rushed to her home waiting for me to sail those paper boats. I set them free and so did she. The current carried the fragile boats along with them. Mine were a little heavier than hers. For I had loaded them with love.

 Hope is like a paper boat. Only currents of water and wind can keep them going. Else, they are just going to sink sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time before they come across their ultimate fate. Hope is a beautiful thing but not always.

She waved at me from her doorway. I smiled and waved back. The paper boats were already on their way. Many sank half way through. A few collided. I saw one coming towards me which had her name on it. I stooped over it to pick it up but I missed it. My boats rarely reached her. Even when they did, they were empty and light.

Anjali is one of my paper boats, drifted away from me. Her parents moved when we were 10. I remember that day when she bade me goodbye for the last time before she left. We had exchanged paper boats with our names on them, which I lost after a few years. I haven’t seen her since then. I remember her sometimes when it rains. All I am left with is one photograph of us and some blurred childhood memories. I loved her back then. And maybe sometimes she loved me too. I will never know. I kept the hope of seeing her again afloat with just a few folds of paper for the next few months. Our love was meant to drown because we sailed our hearts on paper boats.

As 

Driving Your Malady Away

Driving Your Malady Away

                                                                                           

From both your eyes, from your nostrils,
From both your ears and from your chin
Forth from your heart and mind
And from your tongue
I’ll drive your malady away

From what is voided within,
From strands of your hair
And from tip of your nails,
From all yourself top to toe
I’ll drive your malady away

Ill thoughts and nightmares
Will no longer visit you
Even in the darkest of nights
Sleep with the silver moon
Rise with the burning sun

Now spread your wings
And fly with the birds
Under the bluest of the skies
Croon in the early mornings
And take a man’s blues away

Flow with the rivers
And gather the streams
Down from the hills and mountains
Let flowery grass spring up
Let there be lakes with lotus blooms

Drift with the clouds
And the blowing wind
Without a destination
To the faraway deserts
And fill up the oasis

उनको विचित्रता (Her Oddity: Nepali Version )

                              उनको विचित्रता                                                        (Her Oddity: Nepali Version )                                     

रसिला ति नयन पछाडि
                                                      

बिस्तारै  उठ्दै गरेको

त्यो ठुलो आँधी
            

देख्छु म

निराश त्यो मुहार पछाडि

जीवनको सुन्दर आशा

मोक्षको एक खोज

देख्छु म

Love that transcends !

Love that transcends !

In a snowy city, far away from home, love doesn’t come in forms that we crave for. 

Embassy of Nepal
Paris, France
1998

“……..Miss, would you please stop crying, and tell me what happened exactly?” the attaché in the Nepalese Embassy asked Aarati in a polite tone. Aarati wiped the tears off her cheeks with her left hand, and lifted her head to face Mr Prabhat—the attaché. They were seated across an oval table which had two glasses of lukewarm water on it. It was mid-January, and the streets of Paris were covered with a thin layer of snow.

                                                 ***

Aarati had first come to France for her undergraduate studies in 1996. Thousands of miles away from her home, Nepal, she was fascinated by the bustling city that was Paris—the City of Love. She was into her late teens, but had never been in love.

On her first day of college, Aarati was about to head towards her rented room a couple of blocks away from the campus when someone called out her name, albeit incorrectly. 

She turned around, and saw it was Céline, a girl from her class.

                                             ***
It already had been over a year since she had landed on French soil. It was a warm sunny day. Fluffy clouds were floating in the clear blue sky.

The two girls had turned into very good friends in no time.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” said Céline, quickly turning her face towards Aarati who was staring blankly at the clouds.

“It is. The sky looks lovely”, replied Aarati.

Céline had invited Aarati to her home that day. Céline was the only child to her parents. Her father had passed away when she was just three. Her widowed mother had then married someone else. She lived with her mother and step-father. 

Céline was a lonely soul. She didn’t have many friends, neither in school nor otherwise. She kept herself locked in her room most of the time, and barely talked. She was different from the rest of the children from her early childhood. It was only when she was into her early teenage  years that she began to figure out some of the things that were different about her. She had no particular affinity towards boys. It was weird, even for her, let alone her friends and family. Afraid of being rejected by everyone, she had kept it to herself. 

 In fact, this was the first time in her life that Céline was actually happy—in Aarati’s company. Unaware of Celine’s buried secrets, Aarati had no idea that her life was going to change forever. Céline cared a lot for Aarati. She would call the Student Community House, and ask for Aarati almost every day. She would help Aarati in every possible way. Every night, she longed for the sun to shine into another day so that she could see Aarati again. She was even envious of the boys when Aarati would talk to them in class. 

Aarati had no such feelings for Céline. She liked Céline and was grateful to all that she had done for her, but she didn’t have the slightest of clue about Céline’s feelings for her. Until the day came when things started to fall apart.
                                                                                                                            ***
Céline: “Aarati, could you please stay a bit longer here in college after the class?”
Aarati: “Um... I can. What is it about?”
Céline: “ I need to tell you something.”

Throughout the day, Aarati thought about what Céline wanted to tell her.

 After classes were over, Céline and Aarati were the only ones left in the room. Céline was full of love, full of hope that she had found her better half in Aarati; she was the only thing Céline cared about in the whole world.
Céline: “Aarati!”
Aarati: “Yes!”
Céline: “Umm... There’s something about me that you should know. Actually, you are the first one that I am going to open up to.”
Aarati: “Hey...is anything wrong, Céline? Tell me.”

Aarati held Céline’s hands.

Céline looked up into Aarati’s face, and started crying. 
Aarati: “Are you okay? Please tell me. Don’t cry.”

Céline then poured her heart out about her dark childhood; about how 

she had been abused sexually by her stepfather. Upon hearing this from Céline, Aarati’s heart grew heavy. She had a lump in her throat. She hugged Céline. She tried to say something, but couldn’t utter a word. 

Céline: “There’s one more thing I need to tell you Aarati.”

“Sure…..”, said Aarati.
Céline then opened up her bag, and took out a bouquet of flowers. She handed it to Aarati, and said: 

“Je vous aime! I love you. “

“I have always loved you since we first met. Aarati, I should have told you about this earlier, but I just couldn’t. Because I am different, I have my fears of rejection. But love transcends all the boundaries, doesn’t it, Aarati? Boundaries of space and time, life and death, gender and race. You have lightened up this dark heart of mine. Will you please ……..”

Aarati stood up, and walked away before Celine could finish. She ran….ran…ran…

It was midnight already. Aarati couldn’t fall asleep that night. Céline’s words just kept echoing in her head. Where Aarati came from, the society could never understand the love Céline was talking about. But then there was this soft corner in her heart that felt sorry for Céline and her past. She couldn’t stop her tears. Days passed by, but Céline didn’t receive a word from Aarati. Neither of them attended college. Céline regretted what she had done, and thought she had gambled her friendship for love. She would eventually go into the deep labyrinths of depression. 

Not long after Céline was rushed to an intensive care unit. She had taken a blade and slashed her wrists. The doctors admitted that she had a very slim chance of surviving. Céline’s mother found a letter which Céline had written to Aarati before she cut herself.  It said Céline had no hope for life since Aarati didn’t feel her love, and that she would still love Aarati with all her heart even after she was free from the bonds of life. News spread and reached Aarati. It was mid-January and snowing. She hurried towards the hospital, but it was too late. Céline was gone. Aarati cried her eyes out seeing Céline’s lifeless body. Céline’s mother, in great grief, however, held Aarati responsible for her daughter’s death, and told Aarati that if she had come back to her, and talked about it, Céline would still be alive. She even threatened Aarati that she would go to police. Scared, regretful, grievously hurt, Aarati left the hospital. She went straight to the Nepali Embassy. 

 “……..Miss, please. You need to stop crying and tell me what it is about”, Mr Prabhat spoke softly. Aarati told him everything, sobbing throughout the time she spoke. Mr Prabhat assured her that she didn’t need to worry about anything—she had done nothing illegal and would not end up in prison. 

                                            ***

Feb 14, 2009

Basantapur, Kathmandu 

Those accustomed to associating Valentine’s Day with red roses and red hearts had to readjust on Saturday when the heart of Kathmandu turned pink to celebrate a day that has more to it than just romance. Dozens of homosexual couples, lesbians and transgenders gathered at the Basantapur Durbar Square in Kathmandu, one of the capital’s most prominent public places to celebrate the Pink Triangle Day. 

A decade had passed, but Aarati still couldn’t forgive herself. She was a married woman, a mother of two kids, but her past came crawling in, at nights like the starlit shadows, and she would cry the whole night. She had bought a bouquet of flowers from the florist for the celebration at Basantapur. She held the bouquet in her arms, and looked to the skies—fluffy clouds floating, and saw Céline smile.
The card in the bouquet read: 

But love transcends all the boundaries—boundaries of space and time, life and death, gender and race. With love to Céline !
~ Aarati

Circumference & Center

Circumference & Center

Circumference is impotent against the center.

Trapped

Marooned

In a vicious cycle

Of life and death

We all move

In circles

The Mask

The Mask
Folks! Hold that mask of yours firmly, just in case it might unveil YOU.

Curtains up
The play begins
The King
The Queen
And the Knight
Up here from the balcony
I behold

The King's got

In A Nutshell (Her Oddity II)

In A Nutshell

(Her Oddity II)

Our souls miscible
We whisper in perfect harmony
A moment of pure bliss

I,a nifty poet
And she,my naive muse

So naive that she would
Play hide and seek with stars under the moonlit sky
And wear wild flowers on her dark hair
Croon along with the birds at the dawn
And play with pregnant grapes with care

And there was I
Rhyming about her grace
About her never ending moonshine
And her nudges and caress

She had eyes of opals
And a body of a nymphet
Heart of a child
And wit of a fool

Soon the boulevard we were on
Opened into narrow dark alleys of dusty bricks
A silhouette above our heads
And she started to feel sick

I touched her temple gently
She had a fever
It was a cold Decemberian evening
Of chill breeze,I saw her shiver

She fell asleep in the cradle of my arms
And the place caught fire
She never woke up again
And the dark clouds flew her higher

Without the last kiss on her lips
Without one last farewell
She took my heart away with her
All I'm left with is vivid memories of her in a nutshell

Her Oddity I : http://www.nicheofmine.blogspot.com/2014/06/her-oddity.html?m=1

Poets

Poets

When the thoughts come rippling by
From your window-watching or sky-gazing
Or from the haunting memories of past
Of dry blue eyes,wry smiles and thawing hearts

Starlit Shadows

Starlit Shadows

Deadheading the past
Thou seek for a haven
Through the helical paths

With an inferno all around and in

Paroxysm II

Paroxysm II

Until the gust put the candles out
A silhouette turned the sky tenebrous
The breeze at the briny was no longer zephyr
The seashells at the shore, all void inside

Paroxysm I

Paroxysm I

Yore, I heard the avians crooning the dawn chorus
It was a daybreak
The sky was a different shade of blue

In that serenity
The aroma was pristine
Rendering me idyllic

I frolicked through the woods

Her Oddity

Her Oddity 

Behind those misty eyes
A tempest rises slowly
Refraining to cease

Behind that grimace 
I behold a sane hope of life
A sane quest of bliss

She covers herself up in a veil

My Bitch !

My Bitch !

Chill morning it’s been
A Decemberian Sunday
I see you
Yet again, albeit  with your master

Cradled in a handmade chasuble
With an elegant walk leading the way
I see you
I’m bemused, I’m baffled

The Results

The Results

(a cold tale)

“ Bishal, you need to work harder”, said the class teacher as he handed Bishal his mark sheet. He was completely broken when he came to know he had failed yet again. Mathematics-35* (F). Bishal held back his tears and walked away folding his mark sheet. Bishal was a 10^th grader who

Cherished Memories of High School

Cherished Memories Of High School

( dedicated to all of my +2 F friends of St.Xavier's College,Kathmandu )

       It's been months since the last day of high school. I remember how we had bidden each other farewell with mixed feelings. On one hand, we were smiling, jumping with joy and hugging each other, and on the other hand, somewhere deep inside, we were not willing to depart. Now when I look back then, I'm immensely pleased with the everlasting memories of my life in the high school, our beloved St.Xavier's College.

       I remember how we had made it into the Xavierian family through an extremely tough competition among some 8000+ students. We had our dream come true, to be in St.Xavier's College as we were among those 512 students who made it through the entrance exam. Let's go a couple of years back in time for a quick flashback.

Mistakes That I've Made

Mistakes That I've Made


All those mistakes that I have made
Wish that all of them collapse and fade
Know that begging for sorry isn't enough
What else can I do?  Life is so tough


When all the lives are so busy

Hoping For A Miracle

Hoping for a miracle

 Hopin' for a miracle to happen
 In a hope that you will be mine
 No matter how long I have to wait
 Till you're there even for others, I'll be fine

 The broken pieces may be fixed

My Doll

The other day my cousin sister, who is a 2nd grader, was asked to compose a poem as her homework. So I composed a poem for her. It goes like this :

My Doll

My doll has a long hair 

Her dress I never tear 

Her blue eyes and bright face 

Her hair is never a mess . 

I play with her all day long