A coconut fiasco

In the sleepy village of Thori, the air buzzed with excitement. After years of promises, complaints, and endless cups of chiya at the local teashop, the long-awaited bridge over the muddy Khahare Khola was finally complete. The villagers had watched with bated breath as the contractor, Ram Bahadur Thapa—better known as ‘Ram Dai’—bossed around his crew of sweaty workers for months. Ram Dai was full of aspirations and big dreams, shouting to villagers, “The bridge which I will build will be a bigger achievement than Everest.”

The bridge itself was…well, let’s just say it was a bridge. It wobbled a bit when the wind blew, and the railings looked like they’d been slapped together with leftover bamboo, but it was a bridge nonetheless.

To celebrate this ‘monumental’ achievement, Ram Dai invited the Minister of Infrastructure, Honorable Shyam Prasad Sharma, to inaugurate the bridge. The villagers were thrilled. A minister coming to their dusty little village? This was the biggest thing that had happened since Bhim Bahadur’s goat ate the headmaster’s exam papers.

The morning of the inauguration was chaotic. The villagers had strung up marigold garlands everywhere, and someone had even borrowed a loudspeaker from the nearby town to play patriotic songs on repeat. Ram Dai was running around in his shiny new kurta, barking orders at everyone. “Oi, Kanchha! Straighten that party flag, or what will the minister think?”

Meanwhile, the local coconut vendor, Hari Bahadur, had the worst day of his life. He’d been roped into providing the ceremonial coconut for the minister to crack open—a Hindu tradition to bless the bridge. Hari was a nervous, wiry man with a habit of muttering to himself. “What a day! Why did they pick me to provide the coconut? I don’t even know if this coconut is good or not!” He held up the coconut, inspecting it like a ticking time bomb.

Around 11:00 am, a shiny black SUV rolled into the village, kicking up a cloud of dust. Out stepped Minister Sharma, a plump man with a moustache that looked like it had been glued on too tightly. He was decked out in a crisp white kurta and a Dhaka topi, waving at the crowd like a Bollywood star. The villagers clapped and cheered, though some whispered, “This minister looks fatter than he does on TV!”

Ram Dai rushed forward, bowing so low his forehead almost touched the ground. “Greetings, greetings, Minister sir! Your arrival has increased the pride of this village!”

The minister adjusted his topi and grinned. “Alright, alright, Ram Bahadur ji. I heard you built a fine bridge, so I came to see it!”

The ceremony began with the usual fanfare: a speech from the minister about ‘development’ and ‘progress’, which most villagers zoned out of while sipping their chiya. Finally, the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived. Hari Bahadur shuffled forward, clutching the coconut tightly, and handed it to the minister. “This is the coconut, Minister sir,” he stammered.

The minister took the coconut, looked at it sceptically, and chuckled. “This is so small, Hari ji. Couldn’t you bring a bigger coconut?”

Hari’s face turned red. “Forgive me, Minister sir, this is the last coconut of the season!”

The crowd laughed, and the minister shrugged. He raised the coconut above his head, ready to smash it on the stone slab at the bridge's entrance. “May this bridge bring prosperity to the village!” he declared dramatically.

CRACK!

The coconut split open, spilling its water onto the ground. But before the villagers could clap, a loud creak echoed through the air. The bridge shuddered. The railings wobbled. And then, with a deafening crash, the entire structure collapsed into the Khahare Khola below, sending up a plume of dust and debris.

The crowd gasped. Ram Dai’s jaw dropped. Hari Bahadur clutched his head and wailed, “I knew it; I knew this coconut would bring disaster!”

The minister, still holding the broken coconut, blinked in disbelief. “What… what just happened?” he stammered.

The collapse of the bridge was the talk of the district. News spread like wildfire, and soon enough, the government announced the formation of an investigation committee to determine the cause of the disaster. The committee was headed by a stern bureaucrat named Bishnu Prasad Pokharel, who loved paperwork more than his wife. Bishnu arrived in Thori with a team of ‘experts’, which included a sleepy engineer named Suresh and a junior officer named Gita, who spent most of her time taking selfies with the broken bridge in the background.

Bishnu set up shop in the village school, turning the headmaster’s office into his temporary headquarters. He called Ram Dai in for questioning first. “Ram Bahadur ji, how did this happen? How much budget was spent?” Bishnu asked, peering over his glasses.

Ram Dai, sweating buckets, tried to play it cool. “Sir, I built it perfectly! All the materials were first-class! This… this is the coconut's fault!”

Bishnu raised an eyebrow. “The coconut’s fault? What nonsense are you saying, Ram Bahadur?”

Ram Dai leaned in, lowering his voice. “Sir, that coconut…that coconut was so hard! When the minister broke it, the shock wave must have broken the bridge.”

Bishnu stared at Ram Dai for a long moment, then laughed. “Shock wave? Haha! Ram Bahadur ji, you’re a scientist too, huh?”

But Ram Dai wasn’t done. He slipped a fat envelope across the table, winking at Bishnu. “Sir, you’re a wise man. Just conclude that this case is because of the coconut.”

Bishnu’s laughter stopped abruptly. He glanced at the envelope, then at Ram Dai, and nodded slowly. “Alright, Ram Bahadur ji. We’ll make a report saying it’s the coconut’s fault.”

The following morning, the committee released its findings. It said, “Due to the excessive hardness of the coconut used during the inauguration ceremony, a shock wave was generated, which led to ultimate structural damage and failure of the bridge.”

The villagers were stunned, the minister was relieved, and Ram Dai was ecstatic. But poor Hari Bahadur? His life was about to take a turn for the worse.

Two policemen showed up at Hari’s little coconut stall. “Hari Bahadur, you’re under arrest!” one of them barked.

Hari dropped the coconut he was holding, his eyes wide with terror. “Me… why me? What did I do?”

“Your coconut broke the bridge! You’re guilty!” the policeman replied, dragging Hari away as the villagers watched in disbelief.

At the trial, Hari tried to defend himself. “What kind of justice is this? A coconut is just a coconut! How can it break a bridge?”

But the judge, a grumpy old man who wanted to finish the case and go home, wasn’t having it. “Hari Bahadur, your coconut generated a shock wave. This is a scientific fact. You’re guilty!”

Hari was sentenced to six months in jail, leaving the village with laughter and outrage. As he was led away, he muttered, “I’m done selling coconuts; there’s too much risk in this job!”

Back in Thori, life went on. Ram Dai got another more significant contract to rebuild the bridge. The minister returned to Kathmandu, bragging about how he’d survived a ‘disaster’ in the village. Bishnu bought a new scooter with the money from the envelope. And the villagers? They went back to crossing the Khahare Khola on foot, muttering about how they should’ve just stuck to the old wooden plank bridge in the first place.

As for Hari, he became a local legend. When he exited jail, he swore off coconuts forever and opened a momo stall instead. “Selling momos don't cause any shock waves!” he declared proudly.

So, Thori’s great bridge fiasco became a story told everywhere, a hilarious reminder of what happens when you blame a coconut for a crumbling dream.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2025/03/16/a-coconut-fiasco

The roar of the crowd

On New Year’s Eve, revered figures, across one sweep of the eye—the evening tumult—were surrounded by the local commotion of Anil and a Bikram. Still, the duo were instead in an altogether different realm. The time, as it seemed, was coming. The drums were being banged, and momos and incense smelled around.

With his eyes wide open over the noise, Anil screamed, "Bikram, this is the best New Year's Eve in Nepal!"

"Yeah, but it is a bit congested," came Bikram's less enthusiastic reply. “Let's find a quieter spot.”

They moved through the throng, the crowd pushing and pulling like an ocean wave. As they neared the hippie street—Thamel, a rumour spread like wildfire: thieves were among them, stealing from the festival-goers.

"Watch your wallets!" someone yelled, and panic rippled through the crowd.

Anil felt a tug on his bag and turned, "Hey! Someone tried to steal my iPhone 16!"

Bikram, protective, shouted, "Who was it? Show yourself!"

The crowd, already on edge, began to murmur accusations. "It must be those outsiders!" someone pointed at Anil and Bikram, who were less familiar with the streets.

"No, no, we're from here!" Anil protested, but his voice was drowned by the rising tide of the mass.

A man with a loud voice stepped forward, "We can't let thieves spoil New Year's Eve! Grab them!"

The crowd, now a mob, surged towards Anil and Bikram.

"Hold on, you've got the wrong guys!" Bikram felt he was drowning in fear and anger.

"You look different than us; you must be the thieves!" another voice accused.

"Listen to us!" Anil begged, but the people had stopped listening; fear and misunderstanding curled the corners of their mouths.

It got out of hand very fast. Someone slammed into Bikram, causing him to crash into a food stall and knock over a pot of hot oil. Taking this as a show of aggression, the crowd moved in.

"No, stop!"

Anil yelled to protect Bikram, but it was too late. In the frenzy, they were overwhelmed by the mob. Caught up in the confusion and darkness, the two friends were trampled underfoot, their voices drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Later, as New Year's Eve continued with a sombre tone, the real culprits were caught on the outskirts, but by then, Anil and Bikram were already gone.

 

 

 

In the quiet village of Sudurpashchim, nestled in the hills, two friends, Hari and Rajan, stumbled home late after a night of local brew. The town was asleep, wrapped in the silence of night, broken only by the occasional bark of a dog.

Hari, swaying slightly, chuckled, "That was some good local kodoko raksi, eh Rajan?"

Rajan, equally unsteady, grinned, "The best! But my head's spinning. Let's get home before we wake the whole village." As they passed old Kancha's house, his dog, Tiger, started barking furiously.

"Quiet, you beast!" Hari yelled, his voice echoing through the stillness. The dog's bark only grew louder, rousing the village. Lights flickered on, and curtains were pulled back. Kancha, an elderly man known for being easily alarmed, appeared at his window. "Who's there? Who dares disturb the peace?"

Rajan, trying to calm the situation, slurred, "Sorry, Kancha-ji, it's just us, Hari and me. We didn't mean to—". But Kancha was already shouting, "Thieves! Baccha chor! Child thieves!"

The word spread like wildfire. Doors flung open, and villagers, armed with whatever was at hand, converged on the scene. "Baccha chor? Here?" a woman from the crowd shrieked, her voice laced with fear.

"No, no, we're just drunk," Hari protested, but his words were slurred, making him sound even more suspicious. "Drunk or not, you shouted at the dog to keep it quiet—why would you do that unless you were up to no good?" another villager accused.

"We were just trying to get home!" Rajan argued, but the crowd was already in motion, driven by fear and anger.

"Look at them; they can barely stand—they must be here to steal our children!" someone else shouted.

The mob encircled them, sticks and stones in hand. "Beat them until they confess!" came the cry.

"Please, listen to us!" Hari pleaded, but the first blow landed, followed by another. They tried to run, but the crowd was relentless. "We didn't do anything!" Rajan screamed between hits, but his voice was lost amidst the chaos.

The beating continued until some more rational villagers managed to intervene, recognising Hari and Rajan in the dim light. But by then, both friends were battered, lying on the ground, their pleas for mercy ignored in the hysteria. The morning brought clarity and regret. The village was silent, the truth out, but the damage had been done.

Making the TU Cricket Ground in Kirtipur an arena of energy and fervour, the Nepal Premier League had descended here. Tickets were sold out, stands were packed, and Nepali young and energetic cricket fans' cheers electrified the air.

Today's match between the Kathmandu Gurkhas and the Biratnagar Kings promised high stakes and drama.

A gathering of two friends, Ajay and Deepak, who played street cricket, came to watch the fifth season of the NPL. Ajay, a hardcore supporter of Gurkhas, proudly donned his team's colours. At the same time, Deepak—who supported the Kings—wore blue and gold. "Look at this crowd, Deepak! We are in a different world," Ajay said, scanning the waves of faces."

“Yeah, but remember, the crowd can turn in a second," Deepak said, sounding slightly ominous. As wickets fell, one more exciting phase of the game was underway. The Gurkhas were down and slowly expressing frustration among fans, especially Ajay-turned-jeering.

"Gurkha, you sold us out!" yelled Ajay over the chorus of other voices doing the same. Deepak shrugged, "They're still playing, Ajay. Give them a chance."

But even the crowd had come into motion. A bitter controversy over a decision by the umpire suspected of favouring the Kings took flight on the wings of intense anger. "Cheats! The league is rigged! Fully one-sided game," someone yelled from behind them.

The crowd, like a beast awakening, began to surge with discontent. Signs were waved, bottles tossed onto the field, and the once-celebratory atmosphere turned hostile. Ajay, caught up in the wave of anger, joined the chants, "We want justice! We want justice!"

Trying to calm his friend, Deepak said, "Ajay, this isn't right. This isn't sportsmanship." But, by this time, Ajay was far beyond listening and speaking. "They're snatching away our 'victory!' We have to show them something!"

These words intensified the turmoil when a fan group, including Ajay, started marching towards the field to take on the umpires. Security was straining hard to hold them back in vain since the crowd's will was far too strong.

"Stop this nonsense!" Deepak shouted, but his voice became a whisper before the mob's roar. The crowd's rage had now turned against the umpires and the rivals' supporters.

"Out you go, Kings!" were the words the crowd used as ugly violence broke out.

"See, Ajay, this is not about cricket anymore!" pleaded Deepak as he attempted to rescue his friend from the protesters. "What have we done?" It was no longer a question; his head was spinning from finding himself amongst a mob filled with rage and fear.

"What have we done?" The reality hit him when he saw a crying child with his team's scarf wrapped around his neck. The match was halted, and players were escorted off for safety, but the crowd's energy didn't dissipate. It transformed into a debate, a reflection.

"Why do we lose our minds over a game?" one fan asked, his voice now one of sadness rather than anger. Another responded, "It's the power of the crowd. It feels like we can change things, but look at what we've changed."

Now sitting back down and speaking softly, Ajay said, "We let the game control us instead of being able to enjoy it. We became the enemy of what we love.” Deepak nodded, putting an arm around his friend, “This crowd is a force, Ajay. It can uplift or destroy. We need to keep that in mind.”

As the crowd meandered out slowly, the blame game turned into understanding, revealing the complex power of collective emotion under the stadium lights.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/12/29/the-roar-of-the-crowd

A friendship torn apart

The truth is often a double-edged sword, severing bonds with its sharpness. Yet, only through the pain of its cut can we understand the depth of our human relationships. Shiksha enjoyed a different life in Denmark's capital, far from the towering Himalayas—the classy brick roads and the lovely, calm canals. Coming from warm Nepal to the cool air of Copenhagen was quite shocking; however, through her new friend Anju, she managed to get a bit of warmth.

Even though it was not easy for both people to form deep relationships with people set apart from other cultures, the friendship between Shiksha and Anju became precious. They talked about their shared Nepali cultural experiences, the difficulties of adjusting to new things, and the happiness of raising children in a foreign country. Anju’s bravery and silence were Shiksha's guiding lights, bringing them near and warm to each other.

It was one of those evenings when the sun dipped below the horizon, unveiling a dusk framed by marigolds, with the sky painted in soft, warm tones. The two women sat in their favourite café, all bundled up as one would do in the northern hemisphere during winter, away from the frosty cold.

"I really can't accept that you speak Danish so well," Anju said, admiring her friend.

Shiksha smiled humbly, saying, "Oh, Anju, I pretend to be a linguist. But you, with how well you speak, you're almost Danish now!” Anju's laughter was as light as a little bell, "However, we do what is necessary to live and work here, don't we?" One began to realise that Sanchita had become a generous third wheel, too, where Shiksha would soon shadow them. 

After some awkward moment when Shiksha visited a grocery shop, she met Sanchita. She called out, "Good evening, Shiksha; I hope I'm not coming in at the wrong moment in the same market," said Sanchita, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Sanchita, have a seat," Shiksha gestured toward an empty chair.

As they gossiped, the air became heavy with Sanchita's sly insinuations, each dripping with poison disguised as concern, casting a palpable shadow over the once warm conversation. "You know, Shiksha," she said in a shallow tone, with conspiratorial intent, “Anju may seem very secure, but I have heard her say not-the-kindest things about us, Nepali people. She exaggerates things, and she is arrogant. She often talks behind us and feels she knows the perfect Danish language. She is always back-biting and saying stupid things about our culture and tradition. I have even heard her say that Nepali people are the most ridiculous people in the world. She told us we're not brave or proud and don't care enough about our country. We're all just trying to get by. Many of us do have feelings and care for others. But we don't want to work hard; we always look for the easy way out.”

Shiksha looked at Sanchita, her eyes full of confusion, and asked, "What do you mean by that, Sanchita?

"It's nothing," Sanchita said with a blinked gesture, rejecting the idea. The only thing you need to focus on is that people who love showing off their new identities tend to forget their humble beginnings quickly."

When Shiksha met Anju at her child's birthday party, she told Anju what Sanchita had said to her. This had taken a downward turn, and the words were weighing it down, but in a moment, Anju laughed it off and began changing the topic; however, now she stood enveloped by embattled waves of doubt and confusion wherever possible.

Days passed, and Sanchita’s insidious ferment began to cast a shadow on Shiksha and Anju's relationship. The poison of Sanchita’s words reached Shiksha nonetheless: she began to doubt the warmth in her bond with Anju, wondering if what she had shared and believed was a lie. The severity of the situation had darkened their earlier warm relationship. Now Shiksha was left with a heavy heart and an immense battle before her.

"Are you OK?" Anju asked, looking at her concerned colleague. Shiksha cleared her throat. "I have come to discuss what Sanchita said."

"She said that you discredited our people," she continued. Anju's rage took the shape of a red-hot face. The feelings of betrayal were early read in her eyes. "And you, Shiksha, believe her? Do you believe her over me?"

"It's not that I believe, OK? I- I had to hear it from you. Shiksha's tears rolled down her cheeks as the gravity of their quarrel hit home. I just… I thought we were better friends than this; she said softly and haltingly, her words raw with hurt. I had to talk it out with Sanchita.

There was a beat after Anju confessed, and the silence seemed to reverberate throughout the room before she answered, "I also spoke with Sanchita." She insisted she never said any of those things. She's convinced you're not telling the truth, Shiksha." Taking advantage of the moment in a rush of emotion, she questioned Shiksha's loyalty to herself, "I did not think we were that kind of friends," Anju, who blamed Sanchita, their mediator, for mishandling everything, had also blemished Shiksha in her mind. Anju said not a sod, refusing to make the emotional connection that she and Shiksha used to share.

"Shiksha, I am not sorry; our friendship is here to stay." Friends don't treat friends that way. I can't trust you anymore." And just like a delicate china cup, when it breaks, it will never again be able to contain the same. The laughter that used to ring throughout the void remained for days. The smiles were less warm and now gave way to cool nods; they had laughed together for one night in October, a quiet moment devoid of laughter.

The bond between Anju and Shiksha disintegrated over time. On such a day in the park, she passed out snowballs to her little ones who wildly ran upon that like-airy from that bone-chilling winter. But this time, they wouldn't hush up for Anju's privacy; Shiksha had just busted in. She met eyes with the one she had once called a friend, betrayal of long ago still stinging. "And some things, once torn apart and scarred, can't be sewn back together to make it look like they were never broken." Looking towards Shiksha, a person she now felt somewhat repelled by, Anju maintained: "There are some breaks you can't reverse; behaving as if they're still whole won't alter that."

"That said, but really, isn't that true for everyone? Everyone hates to be spoken about in a negative sense,” Shiksha retorted. However, the unfortunate conflict over who was right broke the friendship and created a great gulf between Shiksha and Anju. It festered in her chest, an ache too deep to soothe the shattered parts riding on its wake when they fell away from their bridge down a chasm resembling glass that cut into skin with every pulse of her broken heart. Best friendships can never win over misunderstanding. This was a good lesson for Shiksha to learn. Some are like covalent bonds, without opposite charges on both sides and stick together. The lie and the sense of betrayal could not be erased, no matter how hard they tried to rebuild their friendship, which only worsened over time.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/10/20/a-friendship-torn-apart

The silent heartbeat

In the quiet spaces between heartbeats, love speaks the loudest truths. Under the expansive cerulean sky, in the heart of Chitwan's jungle, stood an old, sun-kissed hospital—an oasis of healing. Nurse Priya glided through the corridors, symbolising unwavering dedication. Amid the patients seeking solace, she encountered Vincent, a ninety-five-year-old man whose eyes held a lifetime of memories now fading away.

“Priya,” Vincent's voice was always a soft call, a summons that pulled at her heartstrings with unexpected force. "Your hands are a comfort, more healing than any medicine a doctor could prescribe." His words, filled with a depth of admiration that transcended mere gratitude, echoed in the corridors of her mind.

She would smile, dismissing the fluttering in her chest as mere professional admiration for his indomitable spirit. "You flatter me, Vincent. It's merely my job."

His gnarled hand would often find hers, a touch that lingered, speaking of gratitude and perhaps something more. How he looked at her, with a depth of emotion that belied his frail frame, stirred something in Priya, she thought long dormant. But she was a married woman, and such thoughts were a betrayal she could not afford. The conflict between her professional duty and personal feelings raged in her heart, a tempest of emotions she struggled to navigate, each wave threatening to capsise her. The turmoil in her heart was a storm that refused to be calmed.

Priya felt a tenderness for Vincent that was as surprising as it was profound. In the dimly lit hospital room, his presence was a beacon of warmth, his appreciation for her care a balm to her spirit. The way he listened to her, made her feel valued in a way that transcended the professional bounds of nurse and patient. 

His eyes, alive with the embers of a long life, met hers with an intensity that spoke of sincere affection and gratitude. It was a quiet, gentle connection that resonated with her unexpectedly. Each shared smile and moment of laughter wove into her heart, creating a fondness she had never anticipated.

At home, Bikash, her husband, waited in silence. The days of passionate embraces and endless conversations had withered like the petals of a forgotten lotus in the sun. His words were sparse, his gestures of affection even rarer."

"Once again, you're late," Bikash's voice carried a hint of accusation as Priya returned home one evening.

"The patients needed me," Priya responded, her voice carrying the weariness of her shift.

"Do they need you more than your husband?" His words were sharp and venomous, causing her to flinch.

“It's not a matter of need, Bikash. It's my duty," Priya said, her tone defensive.

But Bikash could see how her eyes lost their lustre when she spoke of duty and how they shone when she recounted tales of Vincent's wisdom. The anxiety gnawed at him like a relentless beast in his chest.

Bikash had experienced heartbreak before, and it made him cautious about love. After two painful breakups, he was afraid to show his emotions. He didn't want to get hurt again, so he kept his feelings in check, especially with Priya. He was worried that being too open with his emotions would only lead to more pain. This self-imposed barrier prevented him from fully expressing his love and kept him emotionally distant. Even when he wanted to show Priya how much he cared, his past experiences held him back. His fear of getting hurt again stopped him from being as affectionate as he wanted, creating a deep sense of emotional distance.

"Tell me, Priya, does this old man's admiration please you?" Bikash's question hung in the air, heavy with implications.

Priya's silence was her answer, and the space between them grew, filled with unspoken truths and fears, creating a palpable tension in their relationship that was as heavy as the Chitwan's jungle air. The weight of their unmet expectations hung in the air, a burden they both carried, casting a shadow over their once vibrant love. The tension in their relationship was like a heavy fog that refused to lift.

In contrast, Bikash often seemed like a stranger to her. He was more focused on his work and outward interests, leaving her feeling distant due to his passions and preoccupations. Their growing silence felt like an unbridgeable gap filled with unspoken conversations and missed connections.

With Vincent, she felt understood and seen, while with Bikash, she often felt neglected and like an afterthought in his busy life. This stark difference left her feeling lost and confused, the emotional chasm between them widening with each passing day. The strain in their relationship was becoming more and more palpable.

On one hand, there was her dutiful husband, who was always there but often absent. On the other hand, there was an elderly man whose limited time left seemed to brighten her days. Priya found herself at a crossroads, torn between two very different paths.

Each day Priya spent with Vincent, their connection deepened. His stories of youth in the face of his impending mortality reminded her of the vibrancy of life, and his attentiveness filled a void she hadn't realised was there.

“You have a light in you, Priya," Vincent whispered one day, his hand squeezing hers. It was a dimmed light.

In the honesty of his gaze, Priya saw a reflection of her longing.

Bikash kept his feelings for Priya hidden deep inside. He was afraid of losing her due to misunderstandings, bad luck, or someone else, so he never told her how he felt. Even though he cared for her deeply, he felt empty because he never showed affection or expressed his emotions.

Bikash often practised how he would tell her, but he could only manage distant and calm interactions when he was around her. This inner struggle made him feel desperate as he saw his silence push Priya further away every day.

Each day, Bikash’s mind raced with the possibility of losing Priya, not to death, but to a man whose heart was as generous as time was cruel. Each night, he lay awake, listening to the silence.

Bikash, unable to quell the jealous intensity that raced through his heart, watched as his wife blossomed under the attention of another man, albeit a dying one. His mind was a maelstrom of anxiety and stress, and he was unable to understand or accept the depth of Priya's connection with Vincent.

"Why does he look at you with such affection?" One night, Bikash's question was more of an attempt to understand than an accusation.

When Priya's eyes met his, he saw a turmoil that mirrored his own. "Vincent sees me, truly sees me," she said softly.

Priya's confession about Vincent's understanding and appreciation created a gap between unspoken emotions and unmet expectations that neither knew how to bridge. Their growing distance was palpable due to their unspoken truths and fears.

In their tranquil home, Bikash and Priya sat closely together, listening to the melodic pattern of the monsoon rains. The storm offered a welcome break from the sterile hospital rooms and Bikash's demanding business affairs.

A lightning bolt illuminated their faces momentarily, revealing the unspoken truth of their enduring love hidden beneath layers of unexpressed fears and daily distractions. Priya found herself torn between her fondness for a terminally ill elderly man and the profound impact of his acknowledgement of her value.

At the same time, Bikash realised that his self-restraint could put their love at risk. As they sat together, unable to vocalise their emotions, their love story remained an unfinished sonnet lingering in the humid air.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/08/04/the-silent-heartbeat

The museum of airborne dreams

 

Residing in the Chitwan district, where the wild elephants roam as freely as the rivers that carve our land, I am accustomed to the extraordinary. Yet, I could never have foreseen that my most extraordinary journey would begin in the mundane purgatory of the Gautam Buddha International Airport and Tribhuvan International Airport.

Little did I know, these seemingly ordinary gateways would lead me to a world beyond my wildest imagination, a world where the laws of physics and societal norms were beautifully twisted.

Upon my arrival at the more peculiar Gautam Buddha International Airport, I encountered a security guard, his uniform crisp yet his expression sombre. I couldn't help but inquire, "Excuse me, sir, but where are all the travellers?"

He chuckled softly, a hint of irony in his voice. "Travelers? Oh, we've turned this place into something else entirely. You're now standing in the grandest museum of Bhairahawa!"

"A museum?" I echoed, my brow furrowing in confusion.

"Yes," he continued, sweeping his arm across the desolate expanse.

"Here, we exhibit the grand ambition of our leaders, the masterpieces of their promises. Each empty chair is a tribute to the passengers that never came. Each silent gate was a testimony to the flights that never took off.

You see, we don't have international flights; the investment made was quite substantial, but, alas, it served more for commission and loot than for public transport."

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me, a state-of-the-art facility standing as nothing more than a mausoleum of misused resources. It was a biting commentary on misplaced priorities, a physical manifestation of the chasm between the rulers and the ruled.

The security guard followed, providing unsolicited but insightful commentary on each piece. "And here," he gestured towards the pristine, unused luggage carousels, "we have the rotating wheels of progress, forever stationary."

I nodded, taking note of this peculiar gallery of governmental folly. The absurdity was almost humorous if it wasn't so tragically true—a perfect lever to escape into other planes of existence.

Then, after a few days, I returned to Tribhuvan International Airport for my flight back to our second home. Amidst the chaos of delayed flights and disgruntled passengers, a scene that mirrored the restlessness within me. The air was thick with frustration, a universal language understood by all, regardless of origin.

In the sterile confines of the departure lounge, I first glimpsed the fissure—a shimmering tear in the fabric of reality, a portal to another world, unnoticed by the world-weary eyes around me.

Driven by curiosity and the innate desire for adventure that runs through the veins of every Nepali, I approached the fissure. I reached out, and in a breath, I was transported not to another country but to another place of existence entirely, a realm far beyond the mundane purgatory of the Tribhuvan International Airport.

I found myself on a planet called Zentara, a world of such breathtaking beauty that it surpassed the vibrancy of our Tharu art. Its people moved with a rhythm and grace that mirrored our traditional dancers. I, the intrepid traveller, was utterly captivated by this alien culture, documenting my experiences in the well-worn leather-bound journal I always carried.

"Delayed again!" grumbled a fellow passenger; his frustration echoed in the collective groan that filled the terminal, a universal language of frustration that transcended cultural and linguistic barriers, reflecting on the shared human experience of disappointment and impatience.

"Perhaps the planes are staging a silent protest," I mused aloud, my voice a stray note amidst the cacophony of discontent.

A chuckle from my side drew my attention to a woman with eyes that seemed to have captured the cosmos. "Or maybe they've grown tired of the skies they know," she suggested, her grin as enigmatic as the galaxies.

It was then I noticed a curious glimmer, like a mirage, but sharper, nestled between the dismal seats of the waiting area. Without hesitation, my new acquaintance grabbed my hand. "Shall we?" she asked, gesturing toward the anomaly, a portal to another world that seemed to defy all logic and reason.

We stepped through and found ourselves not on another plane but on another planet. Zentara was a world so ludicrous in its beauty that it made our temples and palaces seem like mere sketches in the dust, a stark contrast to the absurdity of the airport and the societal norms it represented.

As we ventured, the woman—introducing herself as Aastha—became more than just a guide. She became my fellow observer, sharing this celestial escapade's wonder and absurdity.

"Look there," Aastha pointed towards a group of Zentarans engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate.

"Is it politics?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Even better," she replied, her voice tinged with amusement. "They're arguing whether clouds should be classified as public property since everyone uses them to think."

We laughed; our human sensibilities tickled by such an outlandish concept.

Our path led us to a marketplace where a merchant proudly showcased his wares. "This, my friends, is a bottle of genuine Zentaran gravity. A dab behind the ears, and you'll feel lighter than air!"

Aastha raised an eyebrow. "How practical. And here we are, using gravity all willy-nilly with no thought of conservation."

Our journey continued, each encounter more bizarre than the last. We met artists who painted with colours that defied our understanding, their canvases a symphony of impossible hues.

We dined with philosophers who debated not the meaning of life. Still, the absurdity of it all, insisting that laughter was the universe's baseline frequency, a concept that both amused and intrigued us.

Throughout my journey, I couldn't help but draw stark contrasts between Earth and Zentara. I saw the same spark of kindness that I'd found in the smiles of my neighbours back home but also the same shadows of greed and power that had marred much of our history.

Zentara also struggled with resources and opportunities. Yet, they approached these challenges with a collective mindset that humanity often needed to improve. It was a subtle commentary, a mirror held up to my species.

We, who have the vastness of Earth, still find reasons to divide ourselves. In contrast, the people of Zentara, each with their distinct ways of life, found strength in their shared planet, reflecting the societal norms and values that shape our world.

As I documented these experiences, my thoughts often wandered back to Earth. I pondered what my friends back home would make of a society where the absurd was the norm and the impossible merely routine.

Upon our return through the shimmering fissure, the dreary airport had transformed.

It was no longer a place of delay but a threshold between worlds, a reminder that even amidst the tedium, infinite possibilities existed.

"Quite the side trip, wasn't it?" Aastha remarked, her eyes sparkling with shared secrets.

"Indeed," I replied, my mind already weaving the narrative. "I believe our Earth could use a dose of Zentaran absurdity. Perhaps it would teach us not to take our existence so gravely."

"Or at the very least," Aastha chuckled, "to argue about the communal ownership of clouds."

As I reflect on my improbable sojourn from the elephant-inhabited plains of Chitwan to the echoing, empty corridors of Bhairahawa's airport-turned-museum, I realise that the most extraordinary tales often lie on the fringes of the mundane.

My journey became a voyage of absurd revelations—a testament to the whims of fate and the hidden fissures that can lead to worlds unimagined. Thus, I returned armed with tales of cosmic whimsy; if we could embrace a fraction of that interstellar absurdity, we could discover unity in our diversity and joy in our shared humanity.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/06/30/the-museum-of-airborne-dreams

The day Bhairab danced in Asan

In the bustling city of Kathmandu, which stands in the shadow of the majestic Himalayas, with its narrow lanes and ancient temples, there lives a young woman called Aarohi. Her spirit is as vibrant as the prayer flags fluttering in the wind on top of the hills. Her laughter is a melodious symphony that often cuts across Kathmandu's noisy and busy streets. The only thing she loved was to write stories that captured Nepal's true essence.

The smell of incense, among other elements used in these stories, makes them function like bridges between two worlds, helping people to remember their past lives.

Nevertheless, Aarohi hardly laughed anymore; no stories came from her mouth, and one would say that something had locked up her spirit.

At one time, her apartment was full of the aroma of traditional sarangi music, and some incense burned inside it. Nevertheless, today, nothing is left apart from the darkness and light emitted by her laptop. The friends became invisible pixels, while conversations turned into mere meaningless words.

Her friend Suman had noticed the change in Aarohi's demeanour. Known for his playful banter and unyielding optimism, he decided it was time for an intervention. He concocted a plan requiring all his charm and a touch of the absurdity that Aarohi had always enjoyed. It was a sunny afternoon when he arrived at her doorstep, ready to put his plan into motion.

Suman's intervention was not just a plan but a beacon of hope and a testament to the transformative power of friendship and creativity, inspiring the audience with its potential.

Suman dropped by unannounced. He knocked on her door to the rhythm of a popular Nepali folk song. Aarohi, startled out of her digital trance, answered the door with a sheepish smile.

With his characteristic humour, Suman teased her, “Aarohi, if you were any more plugged in, you'd be a living and breathing power bank!”

Aarohi chuckled, but her laughter didn't quite reach her eyes. “I'm just catching up on some stuff,” she lied as she closed numerous tabs on her screen.

Suman, never one to tread lightly, retorted, “Catching up? The only thing you're catching is digital insomnia. When was the last time you wrote something? Your blog's collecting more dust than the attic at the Hanuman Dhoka.”

The words stung more than Aarohi cared to admit. She plopped down on her bed, surrounded by crumpled pages filled with half-formed ideas and crossed-out lines. “I don't know, Suman. Every time I start, I just... I can't.”

Suman took a seat beside her, his tone softening. “You know, for someone who talks to her screen more than people, your laptop's not giving you much conversation back, is it?”

The absurdity of her situation became painfully clear. Aarohi sighed. “Whenever I watch another video or see someone's perfect post, my words seem pointless. Who'd want to read my stories when they can watch the world in HD?”

The irony was thick in the air, a stark reminder of the natural world's richness and the superficiality of the digital realm.

The pair sat silently, the buzz of Aarohi's phone notifications filling the void. Finally, Suman stood up, his eyes brimming with mischief. “Alright, here's what we're going to do.”

Aarohi watched, puzzled, as Suman opened her window, letting the sounds of the city flood in. “We're going to make a deal. You'll write about the first thing you see outside this window, and I'll…”

“You'll what?” Aarohi was curious.

“I'll dance to a full song in the middle of Asan Market wearing a Bhairab mask!” Suman declared, striking a dramatic pose.

Laughter bubbled up from Aarohi's belly, a sound she hadn't heard from herself in a long time. "You're on!"

She peered outside, her gaze landing on a peculiar sight—a monkey perched on a power line, seemingly watching a group of tourists navigate the crowded street below with comical confusion.

Aarohi grabbed her pen and notebook, the image of the monkey on the power line igniting a spark within her. She began to scribble furiously, her words painting a tale of the monkey as the city's unspoken tour guide, offering absurd but insightful commentary on the human condition. The monkey, a symbol of the city's untamed spirit, became the protagonist of her story, guiding her narrative with his mischievous antics.

Suman peeked over her shoulder, reading her lines and nodding in approval. “Yes! That's the Aarohi I remember. Keep going!”

Emboldened, Aarohi wove humour and absurdity into her story. The monkey offered philosophical musings on the tourists' relentless quest for Wi-Fi signals, likening them to sacred pilgrimages of old.

Her pen could barely keep up with the story's rapid unfolding—the monkey's decision to launch his own YouTube channel, his meteoric rise to fame, and his eventual realisation that he yearned for the simplicity of life as a monkey in Kathmandu. Aarohi's creative process had undergone a metamorphosis, her words flowing effortlessly as she painted the monkey's journey.

As Aarohi wrote the final words, she felt a lightness she hadn't felt in months. She looked up with Suman, her face alight with triumph. “Done!” At that moment, she was not just a storyteller but a conqueror of her doubts and fears.

True to his word, Suman groaned but accepted his fate with an exaggerated bow. “I suppose I have a date with destiny... and a mask.”

The next day, amidst the chaos of Asan Market, Suman danced with abandon, his Bhairab mask drawing a curious crowd. Aarohi watched a mix of horror and delight on her face as she recorded the spectacle.

Her video, ‘The Day Bhairab Danced in Asan’, went viral. People couldn't get enough of the humorous and heartwarming sight, and Aarohi's storytelling took on a new form. Her words, once confined to the digital realm, now had the power to bring people together, to make them laugh and think, and to remind them of the beauty and absurdity of life in Kathmandu.

The video of Suman's Bhairab dance became a local legend. It was a tale retold with laughter in the tea shops and shared worldwide through the screens that once held Aarohi captive. She had found a way to marry her love for storytelling with the undeniable reach of the digital world, all thanks to Suman's intervention.

Her blog was revived, and she is now hosting a series of ‘Only in Kathmandu’ stories that celebrate the quirks of her city, receiving comments from every corner of the globe. Suman's playful banter and unyielding optimism have brought Aarohi back to life and sparked a new chapter in her storytelling journey.

Aarohi and Suman became an unlikely creative duo. Their work sparked a movement that reminded everyone to look beyond their screens and appreciate the world around them, to find stories in the streets they walked and the faces they passed.

Aarohi's room now lay open to the world, her window a portal to inspiration rather than an escape. And every now and then, when Suman felt the itch for another bout of absurdity, Aarohi would be there, pen in hand, ready to capture the magic of the unplanned and the beauty of the real.

Together, they showed the world that sometimes, to find what truly connects us, we must disconnect, step out, and dance with the Bhairabs that walk among us. As for Aarohi, she never forgot her lesson—that even in a digitised world, the human story is the most powerful connection.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/06/02/the-day-bhairab-danced-in-asan

A promise of new beginning

The sun dipped below Chitwan’s horizon as Kamana wrapped up another long shift. Her feet ached for rest and her heart longed for the indulgence of a hearty dinner, but familial duty beckoned. With a sigh, she redirected her steps towards her family home. There, amidst the warm embraces and familiar chatter, stood Shankar—a dashingly familiar face from her childhood, the man whose silent admiration had flourished from schoolyard glances.

With intentions as clear as the sky, Shankar sought her hand in marriage. Agreeing to a courtship, Kamana stepped into a dance of destiny with the man who once lived in her daydreams.

The days unfurled like the petals of a lotus, revealing a profound love that Kamana found herself enveloped in its bloom, wedded to the man of her reveries. But fate, ever the trickster, had surprises tucked up its sleeve. Shankar revealed plans for a new life in America, a land of dreams where opportunity beckoned like the stars. Yet, just as their American journey began, life stirred within Kamana—a child, a promise of new beginnings.

With a baby on the horizon and a foreign land as her new reality, Kamana faced the daunting question of her place in this brave new world, where a pregnant foreigner's prospects seemed as uncertain as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings.

“Shankar, I don't know how to find work here while pregnant.”

“You are my wife now, so you don’t need to worry about these things. I will provide for you and the children. You will stay home and care for the children and the house.”

Kamana honestly didn’t like the idea of staying at home, but for now, it seemed like the best decision for her. Soon, their son was born, and a little girl was born a couple of years later. Kamana seemed lost in the daily routine of caring for the children, cooking and cleaning. She had lost her identity as a person and was now just Shankar’s wife. Before she knew it, ten years had passed, and she couldn’t remember having an identity of her own anymore. 

 

The days she worked and lived off her own money were gone, but she still missed those days. Having something to do that made her feel important and like she belonged.

Trapped in the existential void of being known merely as Shankar's wife, Kamana grappled with the erasure of her essence.

For a decade, she had slipped through Kamana's fingers like grains of sand, each year amplifying her sense of isolation in a land that was home yet not entirely. She moved through her American life as though wrapped in a translucent veil, visible yet separated from those around her.

Her life in Nepal, vibrant with friendships and familiarity, now played out in distant echoes carried on the wind. As she tended to her children, a creeping realisation hollowed her spirit—she had become a mere shadow of her former self, an empty vessel where once a fierce soul blazed.

On an unremarkable day, amidst the mundane lull, a spark ignited within her. Kamana could no longer wither in the confines of her bubble; the time had come to reclaim her essence, to seek her rightful place in this sprawling tapestry. She yearned to rediscover the fire that once defined her, the unique essence of being that whispered, insistently—Kamana.

“Shankar. I can’t live this way anymore. The kids are growing up, and I need something more in my life than just caring for them. I want to find who I am, get a job and feel like I am doing something,” Kamana tried to explain to her husband.

“How would I look? I can't support my family, so I have my wife go off and try to find her work. Your place is at home taking care of the children, and mine is going out and making money. You already have an identity; you are Kamana; you already have a belonging; it is here with the children,” he replied.

He tried to argue with her, not wanting her to go out into the world and leave being a housewife.

“I feel empty compared to how I used to feel. When we first started seeing each other and I was working and helping people, you could see how happy I was. Look at me and tell me that you see the same joy in me having to stay at home all the time. The children are now old enough to let themselves in after school.”

Weeks of tension strained Kamana and Shankar’s marriage as they grappled with her need for self-fulfilment. Eventually, Shankar recognised that her happiness was paramount and blessed her to seek what would give her a sense of belonging.

Lost at first, Kamana wandered the city, considering various roles that might reignite her sense of identity. It wasn’t until her eyes met a billboard for nursing school that her path became apparent—an opportunity to nurture her true self.

“I want to attend school and become a nurse,” She told her husband.

“You're not the cheery woman I married,” Shankar replied.

He was unhappy and told her he didn't want her doing something that would take so long to learn. So that she could find something else that gave her a less time-consuming purpose, she was determined, though she knew that helping people medically would be the thing that made her feel whole again.

So, she started to attend school and learn how to become a nurse. By the time she had finished everything and passed all the exams, her children had grown into young teenagers. They were proud of their mother, and her daughter said she aspired to be just like her and find the thing that gave her identity.

As the Nepalese New Year dawned, it ushered in a tide of fortune for Kamana. She secured a position at a local hospital, and even in the face of long hours and challenging patients, an unwavering sense of belonging enveloped her—a sign that luck was indeed on her side as the new year began.

She wasn’t just Shankar’s wife anymore; she was her person. She had an identity as a nurse, which gave her a community where she could make friends and become more part of society than she had been since she arrived in Nepal. Her husband had finally realised that she was much happier now that she had found a place in this country where she belonged.

Being his wife wasn’t an identity of her own, just an extension of his. Kamana wanted to do one more thing: share her story with others so that nobody would feel like they had no identity or belonging in the world.

Kamana’s journey of self-discovery resonated far and wide as her blog became a beacon of inspiration. Her words encouraged others to seek out their passions and to find their voices and places in the world. Her story, a ripple that turned into a wave, even reached her homeland of Nepal, where pride swelled in the hearts of her family and friends.

In her quest for identity, Kamana had transformed from a woman adrift to a purposeful nurse. It was a stark reminder of the existentialist truth that one must forge one’s path to avoid the abyss of losing oneself to the definitions of others.

Her newfound wholeness became a rallying cry for her fellow nurses, a call to share their tales. Kamana’s dream was to foster a community, a sanctuary for all who felt lost, to help them uncover their spark—their reason to be. She proved that within everyone lies the power to be their person, to carve out their destiny.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/04/28/a-promise-of-new-beginning