Our stories

Dreams

2009-02-19T14:34:00.000-08:00

Tilak KC

Education has been the only escape for me.

I was raised in one of the most primitive village. I had to walk two hours to and from school daily for my primary education. We had no shoe or slipper to assist us. I still remember those cold winter morning when my feet would burn with cold on my way to school. The sensation of feet would go numb after a while. By the time I reached school I had to run to the fireplace to warm them up.

I wore a grey short and a blue shirt to the school. I had a small brown sweater on top of the shirt. Everything was fine in summer. The torn parts of shirt and sweater on my elbow would act like the ventilators. The space below from the shorts would allow the air to pass up cooling the under stuffs. But things got quiet difficult in winters. The cool air of summer would get really cold in the winters. And the under stuffs and elbows would virtually freeze on the way to school. My parents did their best to patch up the torn parts but those patches were never as good as the new ones.

The classrooms were big empty rooms. There were home made rugs and carpets on the floor. There was a single chair and a blackboard for the teacher. The school didn’t have sufficient class rooms. Whole of the class had to sit in a single room. We were two hundred in our class and we had to cramp in a single room. The books were freely distributed by the government. The copies were expensive. We mostly used a slate. Slates were reusable. We could write on both sides of it and then erase it after showing it to the teacher. We used to run to the river to collect the chalks. We used to collect the special white rocks that could be effectively used as chalk.

I loved going to the school. The walks were difficult the mornings were chilly but the idea of going to the school was beautiful. There were only few children that went to school from our village. And it really felt great walking out in the morning with a slanted bag and a water bottle on my hand. The new things learned at the schools were very much appreciated by my parents. My father would repeatedly ask me about it. And I felt a sense of pride in retelling him with every inch of detail. He would then look at me with ardent admiration on his eyes. He would then carry me on his shoulders and we would head for a walk. This always drove me to get the best in the school. The schools were fun too. I loved learning new things. I heard about the buses and planes for the first time in school. That day I pestered my father to tell me each and every detail of the bus. By the end of it, I had a beautiful picture of house like structure with four wheels and many windows walking through the hills. I read about the capital city Kathmandu for the first time in the grade two. That night I dreamt of going to the capital with my father. These fascinations and desires always drove me to the school.

This article is the excerpt from my upcoming book..Fairytale..

Storm

2008-12-09T22:11:00.000-08:00

- Tilak K C

The night turned treacherous.

The cold winter wind howled madly. The drizzle washed down the valley. The lightening struck occasionally.

The small plant got uprooted. The nest got washed away. The tree got burned and got sliced into half. The lightening tore it from the middle. The slices appeared in the earth. It started trembling with the fear.

The animals ran towards the caves for the shelter. The birds flew away. The fishes tried desperately to escape the current. The whole of the jungle was in chaos.
The skies kept on roaring on with all might.

The golden sun appeared in the morning. The storm had gone away. The calamity had subsided.

The trees had been uprooted. The forest had been burnt. The grounds had been torn. The river had washed away the land. The valley had been converted into a swamp.
The animals came out of the hiding. They had lost their siblings. They had lost their homes.

A small golden bird came hovering down from the east. The little floppy feather ball lingered in front of the animals. It slowly bounced up and down.

It circled them and went up to the highest branch of the tallest tree. Once there, he opened his beak and let out the most melodious of the tunes. He sang of the golden sun. He sang of the nature and he sang of the hope.

The animals were in captivated by this melody. Slowly and steadily their hearts started feeling in with the warmth. Slowly and steadily the ray of hope lighted the chambers of their heart. They all looked up to the sun and unanimously started singing the tune of hope. They sang in the top of their hearts and they sang with the melody the bird was singing.

They sang on.

Two drops of tears rolled down the birds eyes.

Four small fluffy feather balls lay dead ahead on the ground.

A touch away

2008-10-22T13:54:00.000-07:00

Gerald Chandler

When the telephone rang last night I thought it strange, since no one ever calls at that time. Her older sister, with that tone of voice that you just know has to be something very bad. And it was. Her brother, fighting a losing battle with brain and pancreatic cancer, had just been declared “terminal”, with perhaps two months to live. The Medicine Men had stopped all efforts except for pain relief, and had given up. She was not completely shocked by this news, having been aware of his earlier condition. Facing the reality of it is another matter. They had never been really close, and time and distance had caused them to drift apart even more for these past years. Hidden behind the tear streaked, sham brave face were the thousand panicky, despairing questions and regrets we all deal with in times like this. "Why?" “What to do now?” “Call, despite feeling hypocritical, and perhaps face rejection?” “Why didn’t I get to know him better?” “Write a letter? “Pretend I don’t know?” “Cry?” “Rage at the unfairness of it all?” “Blame and denounce God?” So many conflicting ideas and emotions, all demanding resolution, explanation, reason. And the personal fear, never admitted or acknowledged, too primal, too terrible to contemplate, now all too real.

The only question now is when; “What" has been answered, for him. Despite our denials and pretensions to the contrary, Death smiles, knowing He’s never more than a touch away from any of us...

This is a short writing I genuinely liked. Gerald Chandler has been kind enough to lend me this piece. He is from Arizona, USA. His could be followed in

http://coyoteprime-runningcauseicantfly.blogspot.com/

Sunflower

2008-10-19T05:07:00.000-07:00

Tilak K C

I looked at the big golden sun flower. She opened her eyes with the golden sun in the dawn. She admired him in hot and humid afternoons. She waved him farewell as he sank down the horizons in the evening. In the night, she cried in pain. She cried in pain and anguish of separation. She cried for the golden morning, the hot and humid afternoons and lonely evenings. Her tears shone as the silver pearls of dew in the morning sun.

I was amused by all of this.

“Oh flower, why are you crying? “ I asked.

“Oh boy, I am crying because I can not bear the pain of separation from my beloved,” She replied.

“Oh dear flower, you cry for something you shall never achieve. You cry for that morning start that shall never be yours.” I continued. “You can not be close to him. You will vanish in the warmth of him. Your soft petals would be vanquished in that scorching heat.”

She keenly gazed at me. Then with a deep sigh it replied.

“My dear boy, I love him and the pain of that love is sweeter than thousand honeys. The pain of that separation is dearer tome than the thousands of life without it. I know I will never be with him. He is a burning ball that flies in the depth of skies. And I roam the green earth. Yet the warmth of his morning love upon my face is all I want from him. The scorching afternoons are dearer to me than the cushion of eternal luxury. He loves me. And that is sufficient for me to want him eternally. This love and separation have all the happiness I want.”

I was amused by the reply.

“One day I shall be in his arms. And I shall perish in his scorching heat. That will be the final glory. I shall have lived my life to the fullest. Then I shall die in love and pride.”

Each and every word was sinking in me. I now envied her devotion.

Moments

2008-10-15T14:17:00.000-07:00

The silver pearls of morning dew,

The yawning world so fresh and new,

This isn’t just a day, my friend,

It’s the heaven in the backyard lane.

A drop, a pitter and then a patter,

Water is bouncing on my shutter,

This isn’t just rain, my friend,

It’s the life flowing through the plains.

A smile, a tease and a wink flashing,

A blush, a shake and a swift glancing,

It isn’t just a girl, my dear,

It’s the angel walking by near.

A bug, a wasp and a bee hovering around,

Velvet layers of beauty that surround,

It isn’t just a bloom, my friend,

It’s the love uttered in plain.

A push, a nudge and a pull of the hair,

Fighting and slapping is all I care,

But, it’s not a war, my dear friend,

It’s my buddy in his fidgeting years.

A flick, a spark and then a light,

The darkness is swaying in fright,

It’s not just a candle, my friend,

It’s the hope guiding the men.

Tilak K C

Alone

2008-10-02T12:06:00.000-07:00

Amidst the smiling companions
Among the laughing friends
With the cherishing family
I smile alone
I laugh alone
I cherish alone
And,
I live alone

Tilak KC

Alone

2008-10-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

Amidst the smiling companions
Among the laughing friends
With the cherishing family
I smile alone
I laugh alone
I cherish alone
And,
I live alone

Tilak K C

Rumor

2008-09-26T09:11:00.000-07:00

Tilak K C

Once I fell down and cut my hand.

I went to the doctor. He went on with the normal procedure. He washed the wound and applied antiseptic on it. Then he put a big tape on top.

The doctor’s wife was in other room cooking lunch.

She went on with her daily errand. She had a pot to fill and few clothes to wash.

She reached the well.

“Do you know that guy from that big white house?” She spoke. “He has a nasty cut.”

All the woman folks were intently listening to her.

Postman’s wife came back with a bucket of water. The postman was on the bed.

“There has been an accident in the village.” She spoke, “The guy of that white house broke his hand.”

The postman was listening to her.

The postman went to distribute daily mails. He reached my neighbor’s house. Mrs. Verma was in front lawn.

“Any Letters?” She asked.

He went through the packets letters and said, “No, none, but there is a news.”

She looked up.

“The guy from that white house had a fight. He broke his hand badly.”

Mrs. Verma had finished cooking when Mr. Verma entered the house.

“The guy from that big white house had a fight. He has a big broken hand. He was rushed to the ICU of the city hospital.”

Mr. Verma went for the evening walk. He walked with my uncle.

“Your guy had a fight. His hand was shattered. He is in the critical stage in the ICU of the city hospital.” He informed him.

My uncle rushed to our home.

“Our boy is in trouble, he is breathing his last breaths.” He informed my aunt.

By the time I reached home, people were mourning. They were preparing for my funeral.

Night

2008-05-09T14:05:00.000-07:00

By Prabal Subedi

The soundless winter

pitch dark night

yellow stars

so beautiful

like glitters of gold

in the vast

abyss vessel.

The patience wind

chills with time

to remind me

of times I need

of times I passed.

The darkness

seems so cozy

lives up

to the hope

that sun will rise

tomorrow with a new

shine for life.

The darkness

waits

waits for

a new morning

of the golden rays

of the golden sun,

and

the blue sky

and white clouds.

It waits

patiently for the sun

for its enemy

it has to go

once it comes

it has to vanish

it has to vanquish

and no one

will remember it

for

for they need Sun

but will in

no circumstances realize

that the Sun prevails after

the night has gone.

The night yet

covers me

while I sleep

provides me with

the silence

that I feel

in my dreams,

the calmness

that I so need.

I thank you

oh “Night”

for you have

always taught me patience

for you have

made sure

that once I get up

I see the Sun

I see brightness

I see tomorrow.

Oh Night,

I wait for thee

I praise thee

I love thee!

Prabal subedi is pursuing his undergraduate degree in Jacobs University Bremen,Germany. He has taken a wonderful initiative to write this nice poem. He can be reached at pr.subedi@jacobs-university.de.

relics....

2008-05-05T07:37:00.000-07:00

Potrait By: Shreekrishna Sharma.

-By Shashank Shrestha.

two toys... a beautiful ballerina and a fluffy, corny looking teddy bear... the teddy loves the ballerina; it loves the way she moves, her smile and the music that seems to ethereally surround her when she's dancing gracefully... the teddy loves her madly but he can't do anything to gain the ballerina's affection... the ballerina has many admirers, the teddy is one of them, it is but a tiny speck in the ocean of toys that surround the ballerina...

Does anything set the teddy apart? It loves the ballerina, it cares for her and perhaps it'll give up its own happiness for her sake and expects nothing in return, but will it be enough? The teddy is a pitiable creature, even if it tries to its fullest, it will never be the one the ballerina wants... the teddy understands but still doesn't change direction; stubborn as it may sound, it doesn't throw away the feelings it has. Stupid, is it? Or is it just illusioned?
----
The ballerina sees the teddy... she smiles at the funny thing... She knows what is in the teddy's thoughts but she cannot return what it feels... Her's, is a life filled with such admirers; admirers attracted by what she projects herself to be... would the teddy turn to her if she weren't as beautiful? Would it listen if she didn't generate the music that follows her every footstep? No, the teddy would never care... Perhaps her's is a lonely path, filled with those who flock around her.. but never try to see what's hidden underneath...

the teddy humors her, but she knows deep down inside she wants it to leave, she wants it to stop placing its attention on her. The ballerina does not want the company of the teddy; they'll end up hurting each other this way. The comfort she wants will never be given by the teddy; not unless it gives up on the very thing it came to earn... the ballerina cannot give the teddy the kind of love it wants... she would confide in it but it'll misunderstand it as a sign of affection, she would cry on its fluffy, furry shoulders but the teddy would deem itself as something treasurable to her... She can't give it such false ideas... Hence the distance... always the distance...
---
the teddy wonders why the ballerina is sad, it wonders why it can't wipe away her tears... its life will be spent in the same confusion... why?

the ballerina see the confusion in the teddy's crumpled cotton face... she doesn't turn to it... as much as she wants the comfort of a friend's shoulder, she doesn't want the teddy as anything more than what it is... her life too will be spent in maintaining the distance... why?
---
relics of the past gone by, a broken mirror, a nagging void... does the distance still remain?

-Shashank Shrestha is currently pursuing his Bachelors degree in Lee University. He is a fantastic writer and photographer. Samples of his works could be found http://ryuoroman.deviantart.com. This piece of writing is from his facebook notes. The acute representation of love via the means of toys impressed me very much. I liked this piece a lot.

Shreekrishna Sharma is a wonderful artist. I will keep on posting his creations in the future articles. He has wonderful collection in his blog http://www.artistsites.org/ckizna/. He could be reached at sharma.shreekrishna@gmail.com.

Are We the Seeds?

2008-05-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

Portrait by: Shreekrishna Sharma

By Joanne Cucinello

Is it “time" ~

or the weight of the world

that pulls the body

downward into earth?

Were we born

on top of the moon

poor descendants of the stars

here to become

familiar

with something more?

And are we soon to recognize

the uncontainable nature

of our spirits

our true identity ~

or must we continue

for another thousand years

believing in war

and separateness?

The Great Spider

continues to weave its vast web

threading bridges of instant passage

connecting minds

across all earthly borders

with just one

click.

But will we survive

when the plug is pulled?

Will we still be connected ~

or will our fate be like that

of our ancient brothers

the Stars above ~

drifting forever silent and separate

in the great unknown?

Joanne Cucinello is a poet, writer, mother, grandmother.. a friend and a sister .. or she is a woman. She has wonderful collection of her poetry in her personal blog http://icthebridge-moonspirit.blogspot.com. The beauty of her poetry is the simplicity with which she represents heaviest of human emotions. I am completely taken by the beauty of that. I enjoy her poetry very much. Hope you will do the same.

Feelings of Love

2008-04-30T05:26:00.000-07:00

-By Bobbi Langford

See the love brewing in his eyes,
Emotions that should never be denied,
Feelings my heart happily replies,
On wings of angels this love forever flies.

Feel the warmth of his loving embrace,
A gentle heat that's a secure place,
That sometimes reaches the heart of a fireplace,
An all encompassing tepid space.

Lost in a pulse searing kiss,
One of many things this heart would miss,
Never knew anything quite like this,
This is the fount of heavenly bliss.

Surrounded by passions radiance,
Enthralled in a fervid brilliance,
Wrapped in the blanket of our mergence,
Filled with loves heady fragrance.

The touch of your hand makes this heart dance,
Cherished feelings only enhance,
This love that happened merely by chance,
Is nothing less than an amazing romance.

Bobbi is a freelance photographer and a fantastic writer. Bobbi has a wonderful collection of love poems on the blog http://4urlvr.livejournal.com/. This article initially appeared in that blog. I liked it very much and requested it to be posted here.

Circle

2008-04-26T05:13:00.000-07:00

“Pasa……….” He heard someone calling.

He opened his eyes. The straw barred hut was same as usual. The torn pairs of gray underpants were hanging on the strings through the middle. The thick layer of dust had covered the broken pieces of furniture. Few of the cooking utensils were on the broken rack. The clothes had been bundled and thrown in the corner. They were waiting for a Saturday. A locker with the half empty shelves was partially open. Few of the empty hangers were hanging in there. The sun was peeping through the small holes in the roof of the hut. The hut was illuminated with the rays of lights passing through them.

It was eight fifteen. He got of the bed and headed for the tap.

He came back with a washed face and wet hair. He took out a small old greasy mirror and checked his teeth. They were all white. He took a closer look at his face. Few of the pimples had emerged in the cheek. He squeezed them one by one. The white puss was out. The skin near the pimples had turned red.

He shoved his hands in the mustard oil. He caressed them through his hair. He took a dusty comb and ran it through his hair. After few of the strokes it was neatly middle parted. He took a small pair of scissors and thinned out his partially peeping beard. He hated razors. They were difficult to use. He had tried it once and had only managed to cut himself.

He took a handkerchief and folded it along the diagonal. He took it longitudinally and put it around his neck. He tied it around his neck. The knot appeared in the front. His multicolored shirt and belly bottom pants looked perfect.

It was eight forty-five. He had fifteen minutes to spare.

He silently sipped tea in front of the rusty old tea shop. The boys were cracking up. They were howling in laughter. He had no desire to laugh. He nervously glanced at the watch. It was eight fifty five. He looked at the road.

* * *

She came slowly walking around the corner.

She was beautiful. She had a beautiful longitudinal face. A thin nose ran along it. The small thin lips were slightly curled. Dark beady eyes were searching for something in front. The long curly black hair was bouncing by her sides as she walked on. She was in white and blue surwal kurta. The long white shawl was wrapped around her neck. Her eyebrows had been properly highlighted with dark black mascara.

She looked ahead. The "lofar" was there in the tea shop. He looked out of place in that multicolored shirt and belly bottom pants. He was staring at her. It had been almost a month since this had started. He stared at her. He followed her. He asked for her number. She never replied.

The morning college was less crowded. Only few students were walking through that big metallic gate. The majority of students came in the afternoon.

She had to hurry to her class.

* * *

He was in his usual white shirt and dark black pants. He looked elegant in them. His face was clean-shaven. A rectangular spectacle hung over his eyes. The hair was neatly parted.

“Good morning class.” He said in a soft deep voice.

“Good morning sir.” The class rose to their feet.

He looked around. It was same as usual. The class toppers had occupied the first bench. The second bench had that girl. He nervously glanced at her. She was intently gazing at him. She was on her white and blue surwal kurta. She made him uneasy. She was half her age yet she had that gaze. It made him uncomfortable. She had a sly smile on her lips. He immediately changed the direction of his glance.

He picked a marker from the bench and started the class.

The class went quite well. The Faraday's theory of electromagnetic induction had been discussed and elaborated to depth. He believed most of the students had got the concept well. Few last bencher were busy talking. Some were busy staring at his face. He didn’t care much about them.

He walked down the corridor for the staff room. The big clock hung by the end of it. It was nearly eleven o’clock. He turned left and swiftly entered the big brown hall. Staff room was written on top of it.

He nervously glanced at the opposite side. The dance teacher was there. She was busy talking another teacher.

* * *

She had a cute oval face. Her long silky black hair reached up to her lower hip. The mild black color adorned her. She was busy in her conversation.

He was still gazing at her. He remembered the first time he had seen her. it was in the principals room. She was there for the interview. She had applied for the post of dance teacher. He was hit by a thunderbolt. He was awestruck. She was the most beautiful thing he had seen. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. For the first week he had remembered nothing more than her face, elegance, hair and grace.

He was still struck by her beauty. Five minutes with her in the staff room was the best moment of his day.

The lady got off the bench and headed for the exit.

The morning job was good. It paid her enough. She loved the job. The students loved her. They had learned sufficiently. The last cultural program was quite a success. Her classical composition had earned few very good remarks.

She reached the exit. The tall physics teacher was there as usual. His mouth was partially open.

She remembered the first time she met him. It was a disaster. He blushed like a teenager when she introduced himself. He couldn’t speak. Only a long he.., he…., hello… appeared out of his mouth. She had never tried speaking to him since then.

She was late for her next job. Once outside, she called for a cab and headed for the theater.

The rehearsal had already begun. They were about to reach her scene.

* * *

The protagonist was delivering the dialogues. His long deep voice was vibrating in the big empty hall. The fluidity with which he was delivering the dialogues was admirable. He was moving gracefully across the stage. The hand gestures were of perfect timing. They coincided perfectly with the timing of his dialogue. The passion in which he was doing his job was admirable.

She liked the intensity with which he took his job. His fluidity and depth of voice had touched her. The dialogues went directly into her heart. She had liked him the very first day she saw him act. And it hadn’t changed a bit since then.

It was her scene now. She was the girl for the dance scene. This was her moment. She would be dancing with him about five minutes.

The rehearsal was over. It had been a tough one. But he enjoyed it. The protagonist sat on the bench outside the theater center for a cup of tea. The dance girl was really good at her job. She had danced with the intensity which he had never seen her dance before.

The fish seller passed along the way. She had the basket of fish on her head. It was perfectly balanced on the mercy of gravity. Her hands were placed in her hips. She was hurrying through the crowd of people in a catlike manner.

Her blouse was cut short ensuring the maximum exposure of the backside. The sari had been wrapped around her legs. The portion below the knee was neatly visible. She had voluptuous curves neatly exposed. The long black hair had been tied in the back to form a pouch. The lines of mascara had been put around the eyes. A black dot had been put on the chin to imitate the natural mole.

The visible skin was sun tanned. She spent seven to eight hours a day fishing in the sun. this had given her skin a golden color.

He kept on looking at her until she was no more to be seen.

* * *

She hurried towards the fish market. The sales would be high now. If she missed the afternoon tip the sales would be low for the rest of the day.

She reached the teashop. A group of boys were seated in the circle. A lone figure was in the middle. He was sipping tea in silence. The red handkerchief round his neck looked good on him. The neatly parted hair was oddly catchy. The multicolored shirt with the long belly bottom pant made him look tall and handsome.

She was still looking at him. She didn’t see a bicycle coming from the opposite direction. Bang, they collided. She fell flat on the ground. The fishes were scattered all over.

She blushed profusely. She looked in the boy’s direction to see if he had seen her fall.

-Tilak K C (Based on a Indian Video)

Today

2008-04-24T05:16:00.000-07:00

- By Shashank Shrestha, USA

I cried,
I smiled,
I held back,
I pushed forward,
But for whom?
Or for none?
Or for myself?

All that went awry,
Its all in the past now,
I took a new perspective,
Changed my glasses,
And now I bid my past farewell,
I can't change yesterday,
Neither predict the future,
so I'll just try to think of today,
Today I live,

Today I smile,
And today...
It's going to be alright... finally...

-Shashank Shrestha is currently pursuing his Bachelors degree in Lee University. He is a fantastic writer and photographer. Samples of his works could be found http://ryuoroman.deviantart.com. (Photo source: facebook, Photographer: Shashank Shrestha)

The final run

2008-04-23T07:19:00.000-07:00

The rush of warm blood heated up my face and body. All eyes from the stands seemed to stare at me. The intent gazes pierced through my heavily padded protection gears adding to my discomfort. The cheers and screams of thousands of spectators made any other voice practically inaudible.

- By Santosh Chaudhary, USA

My pulse raced through my nerves as I stepped in the cricket ground. I headed for the striker’s end of the pitch and settled there. The scorecard on the western end of the ground flashed the progress of the game. We needed a run from last two balls. And I was the last wicket remaining.

Scoring a single run from last two balls is supposed to be a simple task in the competitive cricket tournaments, but the situation I was in had few differences. Firstly, I specialize in the technique of bowling rather than batting. I prefer throwing balls at the opponent team’s batsmen, and I have very little skill on hitting the balls thrown at me. Secondly, in this particular game I was batting as the last person as all of my teammates had returned to the dressing room bowled out by the opponent’s bowlers. So, it was all up to me to score the winning run. Of course there was another teammate on the ground but he could not do much from the non striker’s side of the pitch. It would have been a piece of cake for the skilled batsmen to score that final run, but for me it was the test of my lesser learned skills.

The drumbeats inside my chest got louder by the moment. The rush of warm blood heated up my face and body. All eyes from the stands seemed to stare at me. The intent gazes pierced through my heavily padded protection gears adding to my discomfort. The cheers and screams of thousands of spectators made any other voice practically inaudible. The intensity of the noise was rising as the moment of decision drew nearer.

The opponent’s captain arranged his players in the field in such a way that I could not see any space that I could use to push the ball without being intercepted by one of the fielders. I either had to play a master stroke of the genius or had to take the risk of hitting the ball so that it would fly above the fielders’ head without being caught in the air. Both the conditions seemed a steep climb to me.

The game was evenly poised at this moment. Either of the team could win it. One fallen batsman and the game was all to the opponent and one stroke of luck in the form of a run and I would bag victory for my team. The fielders all looked at me, the lone striker, like they were ready to attack the moment I dared to move.

I concentrated all my thoughts on the ball in the bowler’s hand as taught in the basic training sessions. The bowler released the ball and the ball darted through the air towards me like a bullet. I had just fraction of a second before I realized that I had to do something with my bat. I moved my front foot a step and lifted my bat high and punched the incoming ball on the face with but a little force. The impact made the ball turn right back and it went past the bowler who was still running towards my end of the field to gain balance. None of the fielders had a chance to stop the ball as the ball rolled in the area of the ground where by the rule fielders cannot be placed. And the pace of the ball made it just difficult for the fielders nearest this area to catch up before the ball crossed the boundary rope for four runs.

Before I realized that I had scored the winning runs I was all the way on the non striker’s end of the pitch and the next thing I realized that I was running, my bat swinging in my arm, toward my teammates. They lifted me up in the air and I felt like a king. Joy, fear, excitement; an innumerable variety of emotions swelled up inside as I joined my teammate’s yell of glory and victory.

Politics- A Gutter?

2008-04-20T05:46:00.000-07:00

Let’s make an assumption. Let‘s assume that there is a class of hundred students. Let’s assume that the class is a normal class. By normal I mean the class is like any other class. This class has academically talented students. They are the geniuses of batch. They come up with new ideas. They come up with new questions and new solutions. Let’s say, top ten percentile of the class falls in this category.

This class also has usual pool of talented students. Next twenty percentile of the class are just talented. They are academically good. They are socially connected to many people. These are the groups of people you should go and talk to if you want to organize anything in a school. They are good with teachers. They are good with students. They are the ones to raise the points or discuss whenever required.

There is huge pool of good students in a class. They are good in academics plus they have mastered something called the normal workings of the life. These students are much more practical. They are not genius of the batch these are the people who come up with the ways to implementing those genius plans. If you want to organize a show these are the people that are going to work hard. They are going to prepare the stage. They are going to fix the bulb. They are going to run around inviting people. Usually, fifty percentage of the class fall in this category.

Now we have final twenty percentile of the class. These are the people who break in chairs and smash in windows. These are the people who scream from back of the hall.

The time passes on. The class moves on.

The top ten percentile of the people become top professionals. They become doctors, pilots or engineers. Few of them are scientist. They invent and create new things. They are the best in their sectors.

The talented students also emerge successful. They turn into businessman. They master the ways of the market. They land up with good jobs. These people are editors of the top media houses. They think and write. They contemplate and criticize. They are the executive officers and the general managers. They head and lead the projects. They lead the economy.

The good students also manage well. They get involved in normal jobs. They are the civil servants. They are teachers and government officers. They do a noble job of sustaining the economy. They teach our kids. They look after us as army or police. They are responsible for our service. Whether be it in bank or the government officer, these are the people attaining us.

The last twenty percentile go through an interesting transformation. They find something called politics along the way. These are the people that are good at breaking chairs or smashing windows so politics automatically appeals to them. They go and break few of the windows of government offices. They become active party member. They are good at burning. They burn few of the motorcycles during a strike. They are promoted to local leader. They are good at smashing. They go and smash few heads in a fight. They are now regional leaders. They are good at screaming. They will shout and scream. They go to jail. They now become full scale politicians.

The time passes on. The class moves on.

Then, something of an enigma happens. Suddenly bottom twenty percentile of the class takes over rest of the class. The bottom percentile wins the election and forms the government. It comes with the authority to rule rest of the eighty percentile of the class. It devises plans and policies to affect them all.

The power structure of a nation falls on the hand of most incapable hands. The effective policies never come into the picture. The talented pools of students with wonderful ideas aren’t the part of policy sphere. The economic policy of a nation heads toward failure. The second pool of students, who are executive officers, general managers and project leaders, also don’t come into the picture. They are the ones with economic visions. These are the people with the new ideas. These ideas never surface. The policies also lack the practical implications. The third pool of students that is superior in practicality is never the part of the decision making.

What does the rest of the class do in this scenario? Or what do we do in the scenario? We usually complain.

We complain about the ineffective economic policy. We complain about corruption. We complain about drinking water problems. We complain about ineffective government. We complain about the faults in the system. We complain about dirty politics.

Politics is dirty. It’s filthy. There is corruption. There is power struggle. There is manipulation. It’s a gutter. The system is faulty. The government is ineffective. But complaining alone isn’t going to solve the problems. Standing by the side of the gutter with our hands on our nose doesn’t help. The solution is a simple one. If we want a clean gutter then we should clean it. We should enter the gutter itself and clean it inside out. If we want a clean politics then we should be a part of it.

Politics is defined by the type of people in it. If it has morally incapable people indulging in excessive power struggle, we term it as a dirty politics. If it’s in hand of very capable individuals it’s a clean politics. Gandhi defined politics in his own way and so did Mandela. Martin Luther Kind Jr. is another shinning example who dared to redefine the politics itself. Gandhi introduced Satyagraha to the world. Mandela introduced freedom in it. King cleared the racial partisan that existed in American politics. Politics requires new visions and ideas once in a while. These ideas often change the way we perceive about politics. And if we think that politics is dirty in our nation or region, we should be the ones redefining it. If we have visions, ideas or policies we should be fighting for the implementation of such policies. Complaining alone doesn’t help. Watching from the shore alone won’t change anything.

I have seen many guys shrinking their noses when they hear of politics. It’s too dirty for them. But I have also heard them ardently argue on corruption, nepotism, failing government, failing policies and faulty system. They are unhappy with the system and want it to change. Change is only possible when we are the part of change itself. We will have to change ourselves for a change. We will have to part of politics to change it. Politics is dirty. It stinks. It’s a gutter. We all know that. But we will have to enter in it to clean it.

-Tilak K C

How does the world work?

2008-04-19T06:28:00.000-07:00

In a race, Legs run hard. The heart pumps the blood. The muscles burn hard to propel the body. The hands swing by to give the momentum.

And when it comes to collecting the award, the neck leans forward. A big medal is hung around it. Legs, heart and hand watch by.

-Tilak K C

Human

2008-04-19T06:22:00.000-07:00

I was born god.

The first time I opened my eyes I saw my mother crying in pain. I looked around. The world was full of suffering. The people were killing each other. They were fighting. They had big wounds. They had cut limps. They were crying in pain.

And suddenly I too, was infected by this disease. My limbs started hurting. I was in pain for first time.

One day, I was hungry. I was exhausted from the day of fiddling in my cradle. I wanted to feed from my mother’s. I let out a cry. But like any other days, my mother didn’t appear. I cried and waited for her. She was nowhere to be seen.

I was angry with her. I had experienced anger for the first time.

One day, my friend bought a magnificent doll. He kept on playing with it. I was envious of him. I wanted to play with the doll. I wanted the doll to be mine.

I was jealous of him. I had experienced jealousy for the first time.

One day, I accidentally stepped on the tail of a dog. He was mad in pain. He came howling after me. I was very afraid. I ran inside and hid in my mothers lap. I had experienced fear.

One day I stole a five rupee note from my father. I wanted to buy some marbles.

“Son, have you seen my five rupee note.” My father asked me.

“No papa” I answered innocently.

He believed me. I learnt deceit that day.

Yesterday I was walking by the road when I saw a gorgeous lady. Her blouse had a revealing back. Her skirts were too short to hide her legs. Her curves and flesh were neatly visible.

I experienced lust.

And this is how my friend, I finally became a human.

-Tilak K C

Perspective

2008-04-19T06:16:00.000-07:00

I am traveling.

I am in the last seat of the bus. The vehicle is full of passengers.

The first row of the bus is full with a doctor, engineer, government officer and a teacher. The doctor is grimly pondering over something. The engineer is tensed. He is intently gazing outside the window. The government officer is repeatedly checking his watch. The teacher has a pile of papers on his lap.

The second row of bus has students on them. They have big bulky books opened on their laps.

The bus starts moving. A small miniature figure enters the bus.

The money collector is no more than ten years old. He is small and dark. A big yellow T shirt hangs on his shoulder. A small scarf is wrapped around his forehead.

He starts collecting the fare. He cheerfully asks for the fare. He then requests us to hand him with the proper changes. A lady complains about the fare. He smiles and explains that it’s the rate that’s been decided upon. The vehicle stops at another stop. Few of the passengers get out. Few of the girls are walking by. The bus moves on. He whistles at the girls. The girls turn back and smile. He blows few kisses in the air. I could see the girls blushing. He has a wide grin on his face. He continues his job with the same smile and juvenility.

The doctor, engineer, government officer, teacher and students are still doing what they were doing. They still have grim faces.

This small fellow keeps on smiling. He keeps on doing his job.

-Tilak KC

I love you

2008-04-17T03:48:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I went to the market. It was a busy place. People were busily buying the necessities. The vehicles were randomly moving. And passersby were hurrying towards their destination.

And amidst all the crowds I saw a face stopped everything in its place.

She had the eyes of deep blue sea. She had the color of the fair snow. Her smile was freezing everyone on their way. I couldn’t stop myself.

“Oh, the fair one, oh angel, your incomparable beauty has in captivated me. My heart has fallen for you, oh, maiden I love you.” I said

She turned back. And I saw a smile flash across her face. She left the market.

I moved on.

After few of the steps I saw another of the god’s masterpiece.

She was angelic. She had the heavenly beauty. She had the juvenile walk. She had the childish grace. Every passer by was turning back to glance at her. Dimples flashed across her cheeks as she smiled. She was a diamond oblivious of her own shine.

I couldn’t stop myself.

“Oh, the master creation of the god, your creator must be very proud of you. I have never seen such an innocent beauty. You are a living angel. Oh, my love, I can’t tell you how much my heart longs for you.”

She came to a sudden halt. I saw her rosy cheeks turn red. She turned back and curiously gazed at me. Then she too departed.

I moved on.

It was my lucky day. I saw another of the mesmerizing beauty ahead of me. She was the perfect imagination of an artist and perfect poem of a poet. Her dark oval face had searching brown eyes. She had perfect symmetrical nose. Her rosy lips were dry and oddly tempting. The two lines of white teeth flashed as she smiled about. She was searching for something in the shop.

I couldn’t stop myself.

“Oh god, thy heaven must be joyless for your angel is here in the earth. Oh, dear maiden, your grace is infinite. I can not tell you how much I wish to love you.”

She stared me with those calm brown eyes. They neither had hatred nor compassion in them. They were oddly curious. Soon, she too departed.

Today, I came back to the market.

There came the first angel.

“Oh dear poet, your courage has caught my heart. Your praising has given me a sleepless night. So, my dear poet, I am in love with you.”

She departed. Soon the second angel arrived.

“Oh dear boy, you have stolen something from me. I have never felt this before. I feel my heart longing for something, something beautiful. My heart longs for you my dear, you have stolen that from me, for that I am madly in love with you.

She departed. And the third angel arrived.

“Oh dear, your words have caught me, yet life isn’t just about words. The words shall be lost in happiness and sorrows of life. They shall be forgotten and buried. Love isn’t just about words. So, my dear, forgive me but I can not love you.”

Soon she too departed.

For some reason I was deeply in love with the third angel.

-Tilak K C

Love

2008-04-17T03:22:00.000-07:00

For my distant angel.

I look,

Out of the window,

And there,

In the black winter canvass,

A shine is shinning,

Happily and blissfully

Dear moon,

I ask,

The night is cold,

The winter is treacherous,

The darkness is winning the battle,

You shall,

Soon be helpless

Soon be pitiful

Yet,

You shine,

You cherish,

You smile,

Why do you smile my friend?

Dear friend,

He replies,

I smile,

For I am happy,

And I am happy,

For I have an angel inside me,

I shall be cold,

It shall be dark,

I shall be gone,

But, I shall be happy,

For I have an angel in my heart

I look down,

Feel my heart,

It beats softly and slowly,

I feel closely,

I feel the warmth,

Warmth of shine,

Warmth of joy,

And warmth of an angel

I open my eyes,

I see,

An angel,

Small, beautiful and majestic,

In my heart,

Smiling,

Cherishing and loving.

I shall be gone,

I shall be cold,

I shall be in the dark nights,

But I shall be happy,

For I have a reason to be,

I have a dinky in me.

I look,

At the ground,

Amidst the thorns,

Above the coarse ground,

The silver pearl is shining,

With the golden rays of morning sun,

Happily and merrily

Dear dew,

I ask,

The thorns are sharp,

The rays are warm,

The ground is coarse,

You shall,

Soon fall to coarse ground,

And be gone,

You shall soon vanish,

With the golden rays,

Yet,

You shine,

You cherish,

Why do you smile my friend?

Dear friend

He replies,

I smile,

For I am happy,

I am happy,

For I have a reason to be,

I have my love far away,

She sends me golden rays,

She sends me smiles and hugs,

And she sends me lots of love,

I shall fall,

I shall perish,

And I shall vanish,

In my love’s warmth

But

I shall be happy,

For I have loved.

I smile with him,

For I am happy.

I remember,

My love,

My dinky,

Her smile,

Her giggle,

Her big bag of love,

Her childish walk down the road

She is far away,

Yet,

She sends me,

Loads of love,

Hugs and kisses,

Along her golden smile,

Along her warm touches

I shall fall,

I shall perish,

I shall vanish,

But I shall be happy,

For I have loved.

-Tilak KC

Lets give maoist a chance!

2008-04-15T13:04:00.000-07:00

By Tilak K C

I am usually a political pessimist. I never thought that Maoist would come to dialogues in the first place. When they did, I came up with another excuse. They would never agree to participate in election. They agreed for that too. I was left with no choice but to come up with another excuse. I never thought they would get this much of the political response. They have done it. And for the final time I have come in terms with reality. Nepalese political scenario is changing. And Maoists have done it. They have done what non before them had managed to do. They have fought a decade long war, came to dialogues, came into democratic election and actually lead the election.

It’s often easy to criticize. We just write on. We just say on. We are neither accountable nor responsible for what we say and write. I have read and followed many people who had written off Maoist in this regard. The thirteen thousands of killings cannot be justified. The displacement of millions will never be forgiven. The pain and scars of this civil war will always haunt Maoists. They all make sense. Maoists have done that. They have fought the war. They have done it questionable way. They have done it in inhuman ways. I never believed the ways Maoists had taken. I never believed in the ways of violence and death. And I criticized them for that. But I like many others had missed one very important point. Maoists were doing something. They were getting the results.

Changes were necessary in the society. And Maoists were changing it. The villages were like the ocean before the storm. When you looked at them you felt the calmness. Yet there were numerous friction and tides rising and splashing against each other beneath that very surface. The friction in the society was very much there and it was only in a matter of time before it exploded to its full capacity. There were thousands of stories to be told. The exploitation was very much there. I vividly remember the incidents when few of the Kamis were thrown out of the house because they couldn’t afford to pay the interest on their loan when they had a bad harvest. I vividly remember people working for Jamindar for free. I vividly remember a woman being beaten to death by the families of Jamindar for the reasons I couldn’t understand. Then the Maoist insurgency started. Those exploited found voices. Those unheard soul found a message. And like any bomb that explodes, they exploded blasting anyone within their reach. They not only took the people that were responsible but also the people that were not with those blasts. The process went on. The insurgency went on. It cost life and property. They kept on fighting and the society kept on changing. Now whether we like or not, Maoists have built a much more even society. They have done the same thing in ten years that would have taken millennia for education. They have envisioned a society free of caste, creed and religion. Feudalism has weakened. Society had to change and they have initiated a change. They have to be credited for that.

The need for change in the society is must. We talk about democracy. We talk about the freedom. But the most fundamental necessity of democracy is often lost during discussion. We need plain battlefield for democracy to work. We need the equality between people for democracy to operate. Democracy isn’t just a process of voting but it’s the process of voting among the equals. It’s that belief that each and every citizen is capable of changing the scenario. Our society lacked that. We had heavily dominated Hindu patriarchal society with few of the feudal on the top. Our power structure was pyramidal in nature. Few people had access to those opportunities and belief while most of us stood in the bay. Maoist insurgency has changed that to some extent. That power structure has collapsed. I won’t say that it has completely changed. It is still there. But it’s much weaker. The Madhesh Andolan was a chapter of chaging power scenario. The Badhis in Singhdarbar was another of such chapter. The Newa mukti andolan and the Tharuban andolan were similar chapters in the changing power structure. This is a good thing for Nepal. The political field is getting even. The people are fighting for a change. And Maoists must be appreciated for being the front runner of such changes.

Maoists are winning the election. There are various reasons for that. The most prominent reason is people’s need for a change. They want something different. They have tried congress and they have tried UML. They haven’t done much to people’s aspiration. They now want someone new in the place. And they have found perfect alternatives to those. They have found a party with whom they could relate to. They have found a party who talks about change and who promises them what they want. The second reason for the Maoists win is the new generation of the voters. It’s been long since we voted. And many of us were children in last election. Many of us are voting for the first time. The EC estimates nearly 35 percent of the population to be first time voter in this election. And this population swung the elections. The youths have stood for a change. And they have voted for a change. This has swung the pendulum towards Maoists win.

Now, the scenario is interesting. How will Maoist lead the government? Will they enforce the absolute communism? Will they go for socialist democracy? Or will Prachanda be next Hugo Chavez? There are few instances in which the Maoists are being compared to next generation of Nazis. I don’t think Maoists will go for absolute communism. The reason is simple. They won’t be able to withstand the international pressure. The communism is falling elsewhere in the world. The Russia has fallen and so along with it have the east European countries. The Nepal’s dependency on India won’t help either. India stands much more for capitalism as Russia stood for communism. And it would be virtually impossible for Nepal to coexist as a communist blog beside a giant capitalist power. Communism is weakening and Maoists know that. Prachanda has repeatedly said that he is willing to modify values and principals to match the changing world scenario. So I believe complete communism isn’t the option available to them. Now the second scenario, will they go for socialist democracy? I believe that they will. Their election Manifesto primarily indicates towards this direction. They want a federal state with a powerful central government. They want a prime minister elected via parliament to go with executive president elected via general public. They want to expand state welfare policy. They want the state to fund the basic necessities such as education, health and housing. They want to provide benefits to the old and needy. They want to expand economy and employ people within the nation than send them abroad. These are all the features of the socialist democracy. They have picked up Switzerland as their modal. And if everything goes by their plan we might see a federal government with an executive president in Nepal very soon. Now the third option, will Prachanda be next Chavez? It’s a possibility. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. If Maoist can come up with high majority in the parliament they will have the prime minister of their liking. And without Girija Prasad Koirala as a competitor, I don’t think anyone else would come close to Prachanda in presidential election. He can hold the power as long as he wants with parliament in his hand. He could be next Hugo Chavez. However, this stagnation of power in one party hand could be prevented. The opposition will have to act as one. Congress and UML would have to give up their old ways of fighting with each other and for once will have to walk in hand in hand to check the power of Maoist. This is absolute necessity, if they are to prevent one party rule in Nepal. And now the final question, are Maoist same as Nazis? No they are not. Nazis had nationalist and racial propaganda. They believed in superiority of a race or a nation. They believed in complete dominance of one nation or race by another. Maoists are different type of force. They believe in multi racial and multi ethnic society. They believe in co existence of all races and castes in the equal footing. They are the nationalist forces however. They believe in minimum interference from outer states. They believe in high national secrecy and sovereignty. They are the socialist forces rather than pro Nazi forces.

We have got a new power in political scenario. People have sought and voted for it. They have seen a gleam of hope on them. They have seen a chance for them. We might question the ways in which they did it, but we will have to acknowledge the fact that they have done a lot. They have fought a war. They have made the changes- some good others bad on the way. They have given the hopes to the exploited. They have given a dream to unemployed. They have given the vision to youths. And Nepal seems to have embraced it. They have promised a lot. They are now in position to deliver those promises. This is the best opportunity Maoist can ever get. They have got the chance to write their own script. They have two options. They can go fighting down the barrel as most of the parties do and be lost in the history as a power that almost did something or do something they have promised for. If they can fulfill the visions and aspirations of people, they would be remembered in the history as the best thing that ever happened to Nepal. Now it’s up to them to choose the path. They are in the position to write the script and it’s up to them to write.

For me, I am optimistic for the first time. I believe that Maoist can do something. For the time being I can just wait and watch political scenario unfolding. I can just pray and hope that these new faces will do something new and good. I am willing to take the risk. I am willing to give Maoist a chance.