I haven’t been in the mood to write lately. Not sure why. I feel like I have nothing to say. Possibly why the last few posts have been crap. The last week or so, a lot has happened, but I don’t feel ready to pen down or publish any of it. Instead, I think I’ll ramble on a phase that keeps bouncing around the walls of my skull:
“You were born in the middle of chaos.”
A week ago (or was it two?), I found myself hand in hand with The Man walking through the gullies and back roads of Basantapur and Asaan. Usually my focus is on the uneven path and crumbling slate beneath my feet, but having a hand to guide me I allowed my eyes the luxury of wandering as I walked.
Without worrying about the potholes and the various uneven surfaces that could easily twist my ankle, I peered into traditional carved windows of wood and followed the slanted couture of walls that leaned after decades of holding generations of families.
The ground floor of all the buildings that border the narrow alley house bright clothes, shoes, knick knacks and some have polished brass and silver traditional kitchenware for sale. But I have rarely looked above and beyond to the homes and lives that exist one floor up.
Held up by aged wooden rafters and crumbling cement between dusty bricks, I wondered what that same gully must have looked like a hundred years ago. Fifty years ago. Twenty years ago. I couldn’t find pictures in my memories of the same lane ten years ago, not even from five years gone by. I wondered if the streets were quieter, if the lanes seemed less crowed and if colors were more authentic and vibrant.
Mid way through my thoughts I voiced, “I wonder what this place looked like…” I was informed that if anything, it would have been more hectic, “This used to be the center of town,” he told me but even if it was, I know the same ground that my feet tread were of a different material and that the buildings must have had different character.
“I think I was born in the wrong century,” I said because I ached to see Nepal, my Nepal, for what she was before plastic goods and synthetic fabrics canvassed the city. And then came the reply that keeps exploding in my thoughts like the spores of a mushroom as it erupts, “You were born in the middle of chaos.”
I was mildly taken aback by his reply. Was that supposed to be a good thing?
“You’re here in the middle of change and transformation – this is the perfect time to be born.”
And there breaks off my thread. This is an unfinished thought.
I’m on the cliff of the unknown.
Maybe in another post I’ll come back to revisit the phrase that I believe holds a key… to a lock that is unknown… locking something I’m not even aware of. For now, I’m toying with the idea of being a child of chaos, an essential component to… something… amidst all the noise.
But I could be wrong, maybe there is no more to this than the sounds rolling on my tongue, and if that’s all that it is, all is still not lost.