I had this strange habit of counting the number of our meet-ups. No notes, no diary entries of the event, just the number. They somehow carried the memories of the instance- some vivid, some vague and some void ones.

FORTY-TWO

The alleys of Basantapur are one of the liveliest places in Kathmandu, full of vibrant people and colorful interactions; temples and flags, pigeons and prayers, old houses and new coffee shops. A breath of fresh air in the city of dull grey concrete that covers everything from high rise apartments to street sidewalks. After all, it’s the spaces that shape life and relationships.

I was late once again, but it hardly mattered. Maybe because it had already been two years since our last meeting.

Two years and she still looked the same. Her face was filled with mixed emotions, of joy and anxiety. Her hair had grown really long and thick, and the curls often fell on her face while talking, which she would elegantly push behind the ears with her fingers.

We sat on the stairs of an old temple. The earthquake had destroyed a lot of these heritages, and some were still being renovated. Network of timber struts and formwork supported the falling structures. Long iron nails held broken pieces of wood together with all its might. At breakeven point, is keeping up with the illusion the best choice?

FORTY-ONE

She left the country for further studies. I gave her a couple of her favourite books. We promised to stay in contact with each other.

FORTY

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY

TWENTY

FIFTEEN

She was still too shy to hold hands together in public.

ELEVEN

We met for the first time after confessing our feelings. She had a surprised look on her face when I told her that I was counting the number of our meetings, and will do so till the end.

TEN

FIVE

ONE

…..

….

…

..

.

Forty-two, we were still sitting in the stairs of the old temple. I looked at her, and at this meaningless meeting to save whatever left between us. I watched how the timber struts were giving up trying to save the falling wall. I am not really a fan of metaphors.

Conversations. We talked and tried to speak sense among ourselves. But words don’t have an end. Inane sentences, string of empty words without reason. What is the point of it all? Language is a scam.

A bitter ending is better than an endless bitterness.

I had read that quote somewhere.

We walked down the stairs. A slight crack, the wall collapsed­ in harmony with the sound of breaking timber supports. We continued walking in our own paths.

The count died at forty-two. So did the daydream. Eye contacts, giggles and madness. Endless conversations. Haikus, lazy notes and cliché poems. Maple leaves and wild flowers. Canvas. Autumn winds. New dresses and haircuts. Smell of perfumes that don’t go away. Last row of seats in Sajha yatayat. Crowded Durbar Squares. Coffees in the evening. Bipul Chhetri’s songs. Cold pizzas and torrented movies.

However, the clock did not die. It ticked through seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and seasons. There are times when life feels like an enigma. You sense the numbness in your stomach, and everything seems to be slowly dying around you. Time is a ruthless thing. But they do say- the best thing about time is, it changes. Does it bring them back from the dead?

With time, I realize that you fall in love with things only when you start really noticing them. You notice how your mother calls you every-day to make sure you are eating properly. How your siblings talk with you for hours about things they like. How your friends always cheer you up through their stupid jokes. You fall in love with how the sky changes its colors during sunrise. How the birds chase the rays towards the horizon. How the neighbors’ dog wags her tail at the sight of pigeons gathering at the balcony for breadcrumbs. Like how the dandelions grow through the concrete in the backyard. How things have courage to live and blossom. And when you fall in love with these things, you fall in love with life again. What seemed like an enigma now feels like an open book that you were too hesitant to read. The book that brings the dead back to life.

I often observe how all processes occur in a cycle. From our basic daily routines to the movement of celestial bodies in the universe. Day and night. Phases of the moon. Seasons. Eclipses. Life and death follow the same, both within our physical and spiritual forms. You keep the cycle going with your courage to battle the curtains. When things around you are dying, you celebrate the dead by cherishing the things that make your life worth living.

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