Origin of Thoughts

Sashi woke up today, annoyed and at 4 a.m. Her thinning blanket somehow turned over and her oiled-up feet were exposed to the ruthless chills of Magh. She angrily switched on the light, as if to scold the walls and windows of her room for the restless night.  Her belongings in the one-person rental flat are quite minimal, although symmetrically pleasing, like something straight out of a Wes Anderson movie, only, without the colours. Her clothes, from her mother's sarees to her work uniform had to put up a fight with her undiagnosed O.C.D; even the softest of the fabric was disciplined into a neat pile.  Her bathroom had nothing more than a single soap, dry on one side and slimy on the other. Her toothbrush, however, looked more worried, for the woman brushed ferociously, disappointed at her slightly yellow teeth which were now accompanied by often bleeding gums.  Her kitchen was completely empty, as she had decided not to eat in her room. The ventilation in the tiny flat was awful,

When Charlie decided to die, his bagpack lost its painful weight of monotony and helplessness. A man standing behind him shoved his way to the front, nearly pushing him out of balance. Strong stench of tired armpits spread across the bus, mixing with the smell of diesel and something rotten. But Charlie had decided to die. So it was okay.   So how should he die?   When he reached his room, he undressed himself to nothing and looked around. His clothes were either dirty or unfolded. Ramita didi who would have to clean them tomorrow. Surely, she’d be the first to know about dead Charlie, but why would she clean the clothes of a dead man now?   He washed his dirty clothes and hung them to dry. The rest were ironed and folded neatly.   The day they find Charlie’s body in the room, Paale dai might look around and see these untouched pairs of shirts and pants, then decide to take it for his son.   He opened his fridge. The old broken machine smelled of milddew,

स्कुलबाट घर फर्किंदा, ठुलो उकालो उक्लिंदा लाग्थ्यो, यस्तो भारी ब्याग छोडेर एउटा काँधमा ममीको जस्तै ब्याग भिर्न पाए हुन्थ्यो | कस्तो राम्री देखिन्थे होला, दुइ चुल्ठी फुकालेको, जुत्ता मोजाको सट्टा हील जुत्ता लगाएको, नाङ्गो नङहरुमा कालो पालिस लगाएको, केहि नदलेको अनुहारमा थोरै मकेअप  गरेको | स्कुल युनिफोर्म नभएर अस्ति भर्खरै न्यु रोड़मा देखेको ड्रेस लगाउन, कति रहर | बुच्चो कानमा बज्ने झुम्का लगाउन, कति रहर | बाटोमा हिंड्दा देखिने चिटिक्क परेका दिदीहरु जस्तै परफ्युम लगाउन, कति रहर | कति! सोच्दा सोच्दै उकालो नि कट्यो, घर पनि आयो | खाजा खाएँ, होम्वोर्क सुरु गरें | गर्दा गर्दै सोच्थें, नगर्नुपरे हुन्थ्यो | लेख्न पाए  हुन्थ्यो | म लेखक हूँ भनेर भन्न पाए हुन्थ्यो | मेरा लेख मनपराउने मान्छे भेटाए हुन्थ्यो | मैले पढ्ने उपन्यासको लेखकले मेरो नाम थाहा पाए हुन्थ्यो | सोच्दा सोच्दै होम्वोर्क नि सक्यो, अनि खाना खाएर सुतें | दिनहरु नि बिते | कहिले काहिँ चाही, बिहान उठ्दा रहर नै रहन्थेनन् | राम्री हुन नि मन लाग्थेन,  लेखक हुन नि  मन लाग्थेन | खाना खान नि मन लाग्थेन, खाजा खाना नि मन लाग्थेन | ठु

It’s better to write, because no person will read it further than three lines. It’s better to write, because somehow I can talk about why I think we are at a continuous crisis, why I believe that there is no free will, and I can leave it on a piece of paper with my bank account number scribbled right in the middle, and I can walk away, with the paper still at the restaurant table, hot and waiting for the customer who will sit there next, and somehow, the next day, next week, next month, my money will still be untouched, unbothered, asleep.   I may not be a writer, but I call myself one because that’s how I get paid. For me, the definition of a writer is as confusing as the definition of feminism, and somehow, strangely, I believe I become less of a writer the more I write.   My concepts aren’t tempting, my opinions aren’t critical, and I become a slower reader by every passing year, trying, desperately, to make meaning of what I just read: She   blamed   for  

As long as you live, may you always remember that you were never born to love, rather you were born to save yourself. We are not capable of affection even if we think we are, because what sustains us is the belief that we, as humans are never complete, and in the back of our minds we never wish to be, but it’s surprising how easily we assume that someone can complete us.  We’re spread across all of the island, some on the cliffs, others on the shore. Sometimes we wish to catch, other times, fall.  But we can never love.  When we think we love someone we are simply tempted, that we are able to accept their differences, and we hope that they do the same for us. We connect because we suffer or we have suffered, we connect through the similar miseries and sorrows.  But no, we can never love.  Affection is misery. It is a surrender. But in its completeness, affection is non-existent.  But affection, in its own true non-existent self may have bee

कति भारी हुन्छन शब्दहरु, निन्द्र लागेको आखाँमा तर ओठ भने बिना आवज नै चल्छ​ कथालाई माया मार्न सक्छ र ऊ ? बरु भोलि बसमै निदाउछु भनेर सोचिसक्यो होला किनभने कोइ रातहरुमा किताबको बासना निन्द्रभन्दा मिठो भईदिन्छ  थाकेका औलाहरु पाना पल्टाको पल्टै हुन्छन् आखाँहरु तिर्मिराउन थालेका शब्दहरुमा घोरीरन्छन् हाई आउँछ उस्लाई, अनि मलाई तर्साउँछ​ रिस पनि कति आओस्? आखाँ उस्को झोलिएको छटपटी उस्को मनमा ओठ उस्का भारी म​? मात्र दर्शक सुत भनेर नि भन्दिन​ एकोहोरो हेरिरन्छु, उस्ले आफ़्नो किताब  हेरेजस्तै अनि एक समयमा आएर शरिरले हार मान्छ ओठ लडबडाउँछ​ आखाँ नसोधि बन्द हुन्छ​ किताब बन्द गरेर बेडसाइडमा राख्दैन ऊ ऊ त बस् त्यै शब्दहरुलाई आफ़्नो छातिसगँ टाँस्छ​ अनि सास फ़ेर्दा किताब तल माथि गरिरहन्छ​ मानौ उस्को सास उस्लाई त्यै किताबले दिराको छ​ अनि म​? फ़ेरि पनि दर्शक  - अनुश्रुति अधिकारी