as i move through

~ ~ ~ मेरो त भगवान हराएको छ, मन्दिर गएर कसलाई खोजौं ? ~ ~ ~ ~ shuvangi ~ It has been years since I've found myself seeking at Basantapur. Over the years, I've grown familiar to the lanes here. I have vague memories of me typing and discarding notes I have written about the place - with an ever present hint of melancholy plastered around d the edges of each letter. I've spent many afternoons embracing the blaring horns, the squealing tyres, the soft murmurs of passerby's, the whiffs of dried spices and meat that find me in every alley. On those afternoons, I am away from my playlist. I don't need a mellow voice crooning a song on coming home when I am in these streets. Because this is where I've found my home. ~ ~ ~ "चिया खाने हैन?" भनेर सोध्न नथाकेकी दिदी र नाइँ भन्न नसक्ने हामी | ~ ~ ~ ~ sudip ~ Basantapur is a stranger to me. A stranger who stays put as if he knows I'll come find him either way. A stranger who will ...

Dai’s fingertips have a whiff of marigolds in them. Mum’s smell like fine mustard oil with a hint of garlic and ginger in them. Dad’s fingers are busy with the soldering iron fixing wires to light up the string lights. And my hands, well, they smell of cow dung mixed with a bit of red soil. Yup, my favorite festival of the year is now coming to an end and our hands will stop smelling the way they do until next year. When Dai and I were younger, we went to mamaghar to celebrate Bhai Tika with Mum, leaving Dad at home. At mamaghar , it was a grand affair - a lot of people with a lot of food. Dai and I followed mum there every year. However, I don’t have any memories of celebrating Mha: Puja . The best I can say about that is: ‘I read in Social Studies about it.’ Mum tells me we skipped the tradition religiously for over a decade or so; mostly because we didn’t have enough space at home for that. And then, one year, mum and dad suddenly decided that even if we had to squeeze in t...