“tell me,” she said, “do you know what this is?” taking off a cap and tilting the contact lens case there appeared to be little but contact solution. maybe water.

“pain” she said. pain.

she continued talking picking up vials and odd containers. shapes and sizes all. colors too.

“this pain, a very specific one. it’s the pain of the most sever migraine. a terrible thing to do to someone. yes, yes, we could inflict physical pain-a broken bone, a nasty gnash — i have those tears too. but this, this, there is no suffering worse than one that takes away your mind. is this what you’re looking for?”

it wasn’t.

“no, that’s not the pain you’re after today? what you’re looking for is something along the lines of the heart. i have something more spectacular for that, if i think i know why you’re here” she said. pausing to turn around for something on a kitchen shelf, she then continued,”i gift you with the knowledge of–witch tears.”

“what does it take to make a witch cry?”

“now darling,” she cooed as if she had the world to console, “let the world have some of it’s mysteries.”

“what does it cost?”

“not much, a shred of your humanity. but people lose their humanity over the smallest things these days. at least your’s would have some cause, some reason. don’t you want to know what it can do?”

she settled onto a table cluttered with knick-knacks from an antique shop. “these tears,”the aged voice continued, “cannot take away your pain, but they will be endured in equal by whoever it was that inflicted such suffering on you.”

it was tempting. to have him feel it all. the blows of disbelief. the stab of lies. the burn of deception. the hurt the hurt the hurt. witch tears. it would be fitting. he’d see the humor.

“i understand why it appeals to you,” she began while one fist unfurled to reveal a small dropper. “it would be, in every sense of the word, just. an eye for an eye.”

he did deserve it. for being callous. for being selfish. for being unkind. for taking advantage of it all. it would be fair. it would indeed be just.

then while repeating the motion with her left wrist, the wrinkles of palm unfolded to show a small emerald pill, “but maybe for you, i have an alternative.”

“what’s this?”

“this? this.” she spoke like a lullaby, “this is something almost forgotten. this is something so rare these days. this is something incredibly powerful.”

“too rare to afford?”

“no, no, for this the barter is that you change too. it’s a process  you see, you consume it–it will alter you. and it will transform him. he will be given something beyond pain, he will be enlightened. he will see the errors of his ways. the mistakes he continues to make. he will learn the treasure of loving you. the gift of you. but only if you want it. if you allow it.”

“will it hurt?”

“all processes require some pain. there is always that additional cost. but he will feel it too. it will be a different pain.”

“he will change for certain?”

“for a time definitely. whether he will stay that way for always, it isn’t up to you. but you, you will be changed by it. it is the best healing i can give you. so tell me, what do you choose to inflict.”

looking at the right, “vengeance.” then to the left, “or forgiveness?”



a leaf happened on me today. it wouldn’t be fair to say i caught it. with my arms up ready to use my phone, a leaf nestled into the bend. i saw it and thought, well now–that’s good luck. if you wish on a leaf you catch, it comes true you see. it’s worked. believe me.

wasn’t there that one time i caught a leaf and wished to see my crush? and then later the same day happened to see him in the bazaar? didn’t it happen? it did. (but would it have happened all the same without a girli little wish? these are the things that lead to beliefs. beliefs? superstitions.) i picked it up by the stem and twirled it in between my fingers as i walked.

to wish or not to wish.

did i have wishes? of course. of course. wouldn’t i want to be able to travel where ever i want whenever i want. don’t i ache to see dear friends who live too many seas and miles away. couldn’t i use a couple of nice set ups to get me through with a little more ease. a little extra cushion in the bank account.

there are desires maybe. and there are wishes.

i knew the two i’d struggle to choose between. a matter of the head or the heart. so easy when they agree. such torment when they don’t.

what to wish for. on a leaf, that maybe choose me. heard my need.

security or sanity. society or separation. sin or sin.

away from the concrete, where grass outlines the earthen path, i returned the leaf and decided to ask instead, for direction.

i’ve been trying to write so many words so many thoughts and feeeeels about things. i’ve been trying and not doing.

i think i’m lost in the whirlwind of things. movement. caught up in the draft. perhaps. shifts under my feet. ah yes, the ground moving. and somewhere in this is balance. a strange peace.

wouldn’t you know.

this is so far from what i’ve usually been feeling. i think a part of me just woke up. i like mornings when i’m up for them.


the mind runs on overdrive.thoughts are lost in thoughts.

there seems to be so many things i could write about- the state of the county, my theories on solutions, attachments to places, watching lives, the growing connection i feel to kathmandu and nepal, realizations about family, anxiety, love, love, oh i could write about my Love, action and inactivity, my mind dulls and numbs into a buzz.

i am feeling the significance of decisions. what i choose becomes my life. possibilities are infinite.

here’s a stupid little story, it’s 87% not worth reading.

I had a massive bowel movement. (you see how this story is starting…so if you keep reading, it’s not my fault). And I decided to tell my friend the entire story of it. what I had eaten for dinner (daal-bhaat. Oh man. So much of it. and a number of other things. ) And then what I ate this morning, my busy day, by late (and big) lunch (with dessert—I decided to skip the coffee), and my immediate need to defecate as soon as I arrived home.

When I was done, I felt lighter.

So I shared all of this (in even more detail) with my friend. And realized it was a bad story. So I made up a lie of sorts. I told him that I had considered blogging about it but figured it wasn’t the kind of crap (hah) people wanted to read…or was it? and that in sharing the story with him I was using him as a guinea pig, to gauge his reaction, and then to determine if this was blog-worthy.

He said my thoughts were interesting. I thought he was being polite. He explained it was sarcasm. I wondered how all of this would look in writing. Shit writing.

Then…. (you’re still with me?), we ended up having a fun conversation about farts. The different kinds…and the situations you find yourself when needing to deflate. The terrifically awkward ones. We laughed and shared stories, because who doesn’t have a funny fart story or two? And we giggled about it for a while. I know it’s silly, but that’s what I loved about it. it made me smile, it makes me smile still.

And it occurred to me we had this conversation because I decided to tell him about an awesome poop I had. Didn’t turn out so bad in the end. I can understand it may not hold the same appeal to everyone but I don’t see why we should be disgusted by it. it’s poop, not racism.

So I thought about those things. But then I wrote this anyways. Why? Meh. Why not. it’s my blog. My space. You’re here by choice. I know at least one person who (if he makes it this far in) will have winced at multiple points in reading this. he would have called me ‘crass’.

oh well.

i don’t have a good ending.

(i also choose to believe that having actually (honestly) blogged about this, it mostly makes up for my lie. yes? good.)

if i could look 2015 in the eye to say my goodbyes, i don’t know what words would find their way. i imagine i’d look at the year as i do a former lover — all the pain and hurts hanging between us, all the tears, all the love that would still linger.

i’d look into those piercing blue and feel broken because hasn’t this year been one continuous test? the passing of time to find the breaking point of myself: my friendships,my family, my country, my home, my love, my work, my body, my passions, my fears, my future. hasn’t every bit of my life been subject to pressure, strain, and frustration?

what is there left to say as time, once again, leaves me even more uncertain of everything. i am only sure that i know even less than i thought, and there is even more i will never know.

as midnight turns into Jan 1st, as Jan bleeds into Feb, Feb into spring, spring until fall, fall into the end of another year, i wonder if i’ll be able to turn this into a year of goodbyes, of letting go.

i hope i’ll be able to release bitterness and anger.i hope to part ways with repeated pain, repeated grief. i hope to let people pass,  i pray they’ll move to better things. i hope to separate myself from the past, from the fears which handicap my hopes.

i suppose, as always, there will be new things. new experiences, new adventures, new people, new places, and of course, new things to learn.

i am relieved to say farewell, goodbye 2015.

in the evening after the after dinner clean up, i find myself comfortable on my mother’s bed as we chit chat.

recently i’ve started telling her my thoughts on things. i told her about why i think we’re in the mess we’re in. about how idiots waste energy trying to condemn the rich without realizing they’re making things worse for themselves. how the amendment process should have been started right after the passing of the constitution.

i tell her she’s racist…but it’s not her fault, and i don’t hold it against her. she takes no offense but understands.

i explain the concept of Fatalism and Development, about the documentary i saw on Dor Bahadur Bista and how i feel like i understand him. i explain in simple terms how caste and hierarchy has damaged our country. i talk about how development has done so much harm.

i tell her about why i believe Nepal is in the state it is. and i tell her what i think it will take to change. true pride in our country. a generation raised with more education. the death of old thoughts. the rise of the up-and-coming. openness over the definition of ‘nepali’.

we talk and i see she is interested, she listens, but she doesn’t contribute as much. a question here and there, good questions too.

“you should write a book” she says. “why haven’t you written one already?”

i smile and wonder why i haven’t made anything of myself yet, but, these are certainly matters i could (i should) put into writing.

“i need to develop my thoughts first,” is the decided appropriate response.

we talk more. i add detail and flourish to earlier concepts i had presented her. i say good night and give her a kiss feeling very satisfied.  i think about all of this and i wonder, does my mother understand everything i am saying?

does she get it? do streaks of light take life in her mind? will she see things the way i do? will she agree?

i don’t know. but even then, i am happy for these conversations. i am happy for these memories. i hope they mean something to her too.


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