Martin woke up screaming and trembling in his bed; drowned in sweat. Dazed by his own dream, that almost reflected his hopelessness and fading strength, he ran towards the mailbox. Surprisingly, he found three envelopes- exactly as he had found in his nightmare. He knew by instinct what those envelopes contained. Sitting on the kitchen table, he read his rejection letter and almost instantly, as already rehearsed in his sleep, rushed into the washroom. His dream portended his reality. The drawers opened. The bottle of poison dropped into his hand effortlessly. It was time.


Do you remember the time you asked me for a date- away from all the tumultuous noises into the serenity of candle-light whispers under the stars? I heard that voice soothing my ears, like splashes of sea water soothing your feet after a long walk on the "fried-sand" in a hot summer day, while I watched your silhouette dancing in the candle-lit darkness.

Dear Mother…

But don’t mistake this letter as a gratitude; this is an apology. My dear dear mother, I am sorry - from the core, from the depths of chasm, from whatever deep there is out there- for whatever you did and had to do for me. Very few people can see my eyes swollen- not with joy and pride- but with pain and regret whenever I talk about you. I wish I could take it all back and fix all the broken pieces.

Someone you should know!

She is someone who cries a bucket of tears when someone else has a break-up. She is someone who has zillions of friends (see I told you I am working my way up!). She is someone who calls a rough ride near-death experience. She is someone who loves bitching, not because she hates anyone, but just for fun. She is someone who has just been married but says she doesn't feel like one. She is wonderful. She is Bobby.

A love letter

One day when I was teaching, I saw tears rolling down her cheeks without her own notice. Her face was mystical in that particular moment because her tears showed no grief and her plastered smile showed no happiness. Her face expressed paradoxical feelings- she seemed happily sad and at the same time sadly happy. She was like my Monalisa- keeping two opposite secrets in perfect harmony with each other.

Language of Love

As I look back on the series of my life events that made me uncomfortable with my own language, I remembered my school. I studied in a small private school in my early years. I had 8 subjects in total and 7 out of them were in English medium. The Nepali book, as its name already suggests, was the only one in My medium. I wrote my exams in English for all seven of them. The worst part was we weren't allowed to even speak in Nepali during the entire school hours. Then came high school- 10 subjects in total and 9 out of them were in English medium. And came college-40 courses and 0 in Nepali medium.