A letter to May 7th, 2018

I remembered the blue windows on the white walls. I remembered the white windows on the blue walls. One after the other, I assembled, dissembled and reassembled every detail from the pages of my memory. The weight of every moment was hurting the back of my head, the core of my chest. Little did I know, the details: their remembrance and absence both would hurt as much.

It's gonna be a year tomorrow. And this past year in itself has been a year of multiple tides- high and low, for me. One thing I am certain of is that I have never dreaded tomorrow as much as I am dreading it today. May 7th, 2017 was a normal day. I remember the feel of the rising Sun on my cheeks like yesterday. I remember the dull ache in my chest like today morning. I remember the bus rides, the micro ride, the long walks, the red walls, the white walls, the spider, the flowers, the wait, the talks, the smoke, the conch, the smell of burnt wood, the wails, the tears, the rain. I remember every bit of it and I still want it to be one of the bad dreams that always find their way to me. It has been a difficult year.

My classmates were asking each other where this cruel joke came from. I had called one too many friends, in disbelief with the hope of hearing- "No, that really was a prank." The next thing I know, I am telling my parents and my brother how he was really gone and that I needed to leave soon. The morning Sun felt as if it was trying to soothe us with a warm hug but it burnt every inch of my skin and hurt my eyes. The rain that poured later in the evening seemed like a traitor because it felt like it was trying to wash away his memories. The breeze was a torture as it brought the wails and the songs of the conch a little too closer to our ears. They all felt like traitors pulling our torn skin apart, digging daggers deeper to our wounds, crushing every piece of our bones to powder. They were probably there with us, shocked to see us change in our routine, trying to comfort us with their routine... But every bit of everything that day was hurtful. It was a lot of trouble. It was a lot of pain. It hurt.

And today as I walked home with my earphones off, I listened to the choir of the buses, micros, trucks, cars, tempos, bikes and scooters with horns blaring and engines roaring. I listened to the whispers of the pedestrians- many talked about their plans tomorrow, some wondered out loud if it was going to rain tonight... Some were walking back home briskly, their pace quickening with every second. Ama called me twice. I let it ring and die- both the times. Ama, I can't make you listen to me like this. I can't make you welcome me with your arms wide open. I wasn't really brought up like that, was I? I am sorry, Ama.

I quickened my pace as I reached near the Maitighar Mandala. Then, I realized I wasn't just scared of tomorrow. I was also scared of having to walk home alone today and also scared of crossing the zebra-crossing at the 6-lane Maitighar road. I turned around and crossed the road from the Singha Durbar road. I was scared.

I close my eyes for a second and try to remember the sound of his voice; the stretch of his smile; the spring in his gait. I do not fail. Dear, Roll Number 34, you are one heck of keeper, aren't you?

In the back of my head, I was thinking of the two best friends who had been walking with me minutes ago. I was praying hard that they would keep sharing their story together for a long, long time...

Ama called me again. This time, I answer. "Hello, Ama... Ma aairachu. Tripureswor tira puge. Hidirachu rakhchu la?" And hang up. I wipe at the corner of my eyes with my left palm. Then I hold myself together for the long walk home with the silence of the night blanketing me with the warmth that I need.

I walk past the blue windows on white walls. I also walk past the white windows on blue walls. I can not look at them and so I don't.