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...

I may look normal, but I go into used/second-hand bookstores and buy books that I have no idea when I'll read. That's exactly what I did today, after almost two years (thanks Covid).  I go into used bookstores not knowing what I will find, what will find me, low-key excited at the prospect of finding something exciting, something of value( at a cut price too). Will I add to my Harry Potter Collection, will I find a Hosseini or a Ishiguro or a Rushdie, or will something else find me?  I carefully browse the spines of the books, I go through them again just to make sure I have missed anything, I look for familiar authors— authors I've read or authors from my to-read-list. But what you look for is not always what you find, sometimes a book catches your eyes and you just know that's the book you want.  That feeling of getting three books for the price of one, yet not having compromised on quality (unlike most other things, the contents o...