The Young Writer

I. Dressed in grey shorts and a maroon T-shirt with an almost empty black backpack, I walk along the footpath by the Sanchaykosh Bhawan . There’s barely any space left along the sidewalk. People from across Kathmandu have thronged to Thamel today, at Durbar Square –a kilometre away— another group have gathered to commemorate the dead. I have decided, instead, to be a part of Nepal’s first Pride Parade. A sense of joy, a sense of pride is welling up in my chest, I have been a part of something historic. I have become, by participating in the parade, an ally of the LGBTIQ+ community. Instead of getting lost in a centuries-old tradition, I once loved as a child, I have become a part of the birth of a new tradition that celebrates the living and not the dead. The “progressive” in me is happy, wondering why people have issues when other people do not live their lives according to what society considers “normal” and acceptable.  The surrounding is festive. Bright, wide smiles. Rainbow Fl...

 Buddha suddenly woke up one day when the rest of the town was fast asleep. He could feel the stiffness in his body. As he loosened his crossed legs, he heard his bones creak and groan like rusted metal parts of an abandoned chariot. How long had he been like this? How long had he been asleep? —he couldn't tell. He looked around but he couldn't make any sense of his surroundings. It was too dark and silent. A gentle blow of the air ruffling the leaves made him realize, he was seated under a tree. This sensation felt oddly familiar— like something he had already done, in another lifetime perhaps. What was not familiar was the bone-chilling cold the air carried with it. Intuition told him the gentle wind was supposed to be soothing. Something was not quite right. He stepped down the stairs and came outside the shade of the peepal tree and turned his gaze to the only source of light, the sky. In the island among the clouds, he saw some stars. With nothing else to...