Thursday, January 18, 2018

The impersonator

My voice cracks with the crushing weight of the question, "Are you okay?" as my younger self asks me the question from the mirror. I try hard to hear him- the screaming of the unfulfilled promises, the carcass of the broken dreams and the echoes of failure are louder than the soft words.

"Have you done the things you wanted to do?", he asks me. My heart beats the same but sounds louder in the silence. My vacant eyes, my dry throat, and my dying soul muster up the courage in every corner of my being to just barely stand.

I tell him that fate dealt a heavy blow, that I had lost at something infinite, something big, that somewhere I did not measure up, that the battle was fought and the battle was lost, that my wings have torn and I cannot fly like I used to, that the dreams have remained unfulfilled and long forgotten.

"Are you still the person you were", he asks again.

I wish I could wrap pretty words around and tell him that beneath the flesh beats the same heart, that it was battle that was lost and not the compass, that life is sometimes a battle against gods and gods can be a little stubborn. But I don't. I tell him that I have lost the colours, that my armors are down and the wounds are on display.

I look him and question myself if he is real or I am, if he is the impersonator or I am.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Voices And The Wars

The voices and the wars continued. It is funny how emptiness feels so heavy. The heaviness crushes down my soul, every fiber of my being that warrants I should live disintegrates and all that remains is a big chunk of nothingness; wounds failing to gape with time, the words of wisdom are too weak to even make an attempt to soothe me.

In a desperate attempt to get an inflated sense of self-worth, I upload a selfie. A quick hit of dopamine will make me immune to the hurts of my scattered pieces of my bones for some hours. Facebook status for some more. Then hopefully sleep will kick in. But mornings are always the hardest- the reminder that we are nothing more than a function of who we are and we have no more freedom than the cells in our body, that we must act as we are supposed to act, we must look the way we are supposed to look, we must say the things we are supposed to say, we must behave the way we are supposed to behave and we must love the way we are supposed to love. Anything contrary will be annihilated- Honesty does not count, integrity does not count.

We fought for it, we tried to find it. But our sweaty palms, our pounding hearts, and proud brain decided to cut the strings of the kite and wave white flags on the wind instead. Then our old rusty hearts walked away accepting loneliness as forced retirement.

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Why should you walk alone?

"We are giving the power to one bad remark, one lousy comment to control us and bring us down….In any compromise between food and poison, it is always poison that wins. In any compromise between good and evil, it is always evil that wins..There may not be much light at the end of the tunnel, but it will beat darkness."

"If you give them the power to kill you, they will"- Charles Bukowski

We are living in the world where we are conditioned to be numbed by compliments. "You look so cute on that picture", "you are so special", "That dress suits you so perfectly". We become used to it, to the point where it actually becomes the source from which extract false sense of inflation of who we are.

The problem is that whenever we give them the power to make us feel good, we also give them the power to bring us down. We are giving the power to one bad remark, one lousy comment to control us and bring us down. This is the problem with trying to go for the quick fix. Since our entire confidence and image is built by others, it is too fragile to stand on its own, and down it crumbles.

The idea of walking alone has always inspired me. It means long and dark shadows but it also means not having to carry the burden of others. It means cold food and lonely nights but it also means an integral piece- not fragmented- one single theme, one single idea- not divided, not compromised. The problem with compromise is that once you know you are right and you are compromising, then that’s a betrayal to the self. "In any compromise between food and poison, it is always poison that wins. In any compromise between good and evil, it is always evil that wins." says Ayn Rand.

The idea is don’t sell yourself short. At times the world seems too big to fight against, but it can be fought, men of vision have done it. Quoting one of the best lines from Bukowski himself, "There may not be much light at the end of the tunnel, but it will beat darkness." Let others play the small game. Let them be bound by the petty constitution and laws the world dictates, don’t let them be your standard default. The world is too big, too cruel that can send chills down the spines on a sunny day, protect yourself, for everytime the world gets a chance to swing its blade, it will.

I am ending this piece with a line from watership down, "The entire world will be your enemy, prince with thousand enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first, they must catch you."

Saturday, February 4, 2017

Turning Back

We were nineteen years old and we were searching for love, like a pirate looking for his filthy share of gold. We searched it anywhere we could find, in the facebook chats, in the twitter world, in the corners of the classroom, across the halls.

We were nineteen and we wanted a picture perfect love, picture perfect happiness, picture perfect world. We were nineteen and things made little sense. Maybe we let the movies dictate our imagination, maybe we let those romantic books seep into our bones a little more than we should have or maybe it was supposed to be the way it was, we were nineteen and we got broken.

But, we were nineteen, and we were alive. Our hearts were not scared to beat faster and we could feel the weight of blood pooling in our veins. We were nineteen and we knew less of the world than we do today. We had ignored the maps and went into an exploration and things made less sense. We were nineteen and we lived the way we should have. We were nineteen and the tattoo on our shoulder shouts the honest slogan, “No Regrets”.

Saturday, December 17, 2016

The apology you deserved

Dear you,
More often than not, I have been sad in my life. That is the thing about being sad. You get used to it. You get accustomed to it. It wraps you around like a fog and you cannot see things clearly. At first, you want to see the end of the road, you struggle, but then you slowly sink in the bliss of the feeling of being numb because you cannot see the end of the road and there is no destination anymore. The fog becomes your comfort zone and you don’t want to trade it with a sunny day.

The coldness in your bones begins to creep inside your heart and finds a way to your head. You begin to replay the memories and try to find out what was real and what was not? At that moment, I swear I loved you more than myself. Now, I feel nothing about you. What is real and what is not? All those precious memories I treasured are now equivalent to the teenager’s drunk hangovers. What is real and what is not? And what if, what feels so real today feels nothing tomorrow? What is real and what is not?

As my mind races through these question marks, I begin to realize how sorry I am. I am sorry from the side of the both of us for it took us so long to finally let each other go; that we held each other so tightly, we were choking each other; that we were so desperate to feel right about our choices that we tried to modify who we were just to feed our ego to prove we are right.

You deserved this apology from the day we met, from the day we took our shining hearts and turned them into rust with our tears. You deserve this apology for it took us so long to realize that when things don’t fit in the empty spaces you shouldn’t force them in because that’s how things break and that is how we got broken. It took us so long to realize that we were unhappy and it was happiness we wanted, not the people. This is an apology for it took us so long to realize we were just bruising and making each other bleed all the time through our rusty hearts.


Monday, August 15, 2016

The Aching Heart

They made it sound tragic so that they could auction their movies based on this feeling, trade songs for this emotion, write books on this topic, make blockbusters of this manipulative pain which they injected like venom in us.

But on the contrary, heartbreak is not sad. It is not tragic. Tragedy happens when the loudest of the cry cannot wake up the person sleeping silently in the hospital bed.
People come in your life when you are ready for them and they leave after teaching everything they had to teach, after their purpose for both you and them is done.

This pain that makes your spine powder to dust, this trembling chest, this siren in your head, this is not pain, look into it a bit deeper; it is just as giving up your baby teeth, it is just as growing beard, it is just as developing a hoarse voice. It is a part of the process of growing up, it is the part of the process of living. 

Because life is not stagnant and movement comes at a different pace. You are moving at your own pace and someone out there who you think is for you is moving at his/her own pace. Sometimes you leave them behind, sometimes you are left behind. And it's okay. It's more than okay.
It’s nothing to be sad about, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You are the same person you have always been. Your barometer of measuring who you are does not depend on them. It’s okay. It’s not tragic. It’s normal. It’s normal. 

Tuesday, January 12, 2016


Today I feel small. Today I feel that if the breeze was to blow even just a little harder, each of my cells would be scattered and my blood spilled so much that the Pacific would forget it was once blue. Today, I am realizing that it does not always take water to drown. You can drown in so many things: poetry, memories, love, your own red blood. Today the scars are all opening up and my soul is a balloon penetrated with a thousand bullets that are no longer scared to bleed. Today my heart is a bleeding machine manufacturing red paint because it has ran out of blood so long ago.

Today my pulse ranges from sounding like gun shots to a flat silence. Today my mood swings. Today I am about to collapse and my world is crying for a time machine that takes either to past or even to future because today is too much to handle. Because there is a limit to the pain the nerves feel. Today the body is pouring everything out because the chest cavity has a limited space to hold on. Today the word "forever" in the post card on the drawer feels like a bad joke which one cannot resist to laugh.

They say to stop a wound you need to stop touching it. But today I want to scratch every rash, magnify every scratches and show them to god and question his justice. Today my body is a witness of a living cadaver.

But today does not even feel like an exception, feels like everyday has been today. Today has now begun to feel like a friend. Today feels like home.

Monday, November 30, 2015

Bullets And Blood

Today the sky is filled with the vapors rising from the tear of the woman who lost her son who couldn’t get hold of the pills that could get his heart pumping. Today, the clouds are filled with black smokes because of the flames rising from the body of the police officer burnt alive. Today, you and I have lost all our colors like the woman who lost the red sindhur in her forehead on his husband being killed in his uniform. Today the red of rose does not remind anyone of the spring but of the blood of that innocent child who bled his life out in your clash. Does this sound like the music of triumph to you?

The owl now roams during days because it now takes a only a genius to differentiate between day and night. Today, the neighbor far away sits with a remote control watching our misery like a soap opera fitting into his dirty games. While the streets are painted red, we are still busy tearing the flesh apart of each other till one of our sternum has become dust. The marching line of empty gasoline cylinders resonances with the rib cage pulled inward because of air failing to make a push to abdominal wall. The news seem more of a horror movie than anyone ever watched which leaves the soul paralyzed like a tired tree waiting for winter to take it. Does this sound like the march of victory to you?

But my dear friend, the war does not bring peace. It brings blood. Physics says, when objects strike, only clash among them is possible. Whoever taught you, the strike brings peace, taught you wrong. For proof, look around you, the blood of our own brothers is everywhere.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Fighting Death, April 26

(After experiencing a massive earthquake of 7.8 magnitude and numerous aftershocks,I wrote this article within the tent I was residing in.)

The ghosts of death are flirting with us. We are trying to run away from it. Every single inch of us still wants to live even though life has always been a tear machine.We try to live so hard. But every other day, we choose death to life, we choose beds to table, tv to real world. Is it only the death we are scared of or is it the absence of life? Is it the trauma calling death which makes our bones creek like a cascade or is it the fact that death is the final whistle.

I feel like I am writing my own death note right now. Just when we thought we had conquered every last inch of nature, the nature has given us a bitter reply to each of us that we are her children and it has always been this way.

Some of the old folks said it was the god. Science says it was the tectonic plates. The angels of death are roaming around each of us. Each single moment we breathe, could be our last. The air which enters our lungs could be the last wisp of breath we can ever have. The buildings collapsed like cards in front of us.

We desperately hope that our bones and muscles are stronger than those cement and bricks. We hope that there are many sunrises waiting for us. We hope that we will be able to tell our grandchildren how me it through. We hope that this nightmare tomorrow after it is over will give us a glimpse of hope and courage instead of mourns. We hope that we will be able to cheat death, and we desperately hope that every single moment thereafter we will keep on choosing life over death. We hope nature will have mercy on its children.
-Samrat Babu Koirala(3:56 PM, 26th April 2015)

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Hide And Seek

"I've spent ages hoping for sun to forget to comeback, hoping for moon to win a battle, hoping that the pores in the sky will not heal back so that stars can still reside on them."

Its 5 AM and people are now switching the lights on. The sun must be tying its shoe laces. The moon seems pretty tired from signaling the sailors the proper way, of radiating poems for poets, of providing romantic stuffs for lovers, dictating time to some cave men out there. The roosters signal  their lungs to be ready. The plants are all ready for the sunlight and their chlorophyll is warming up. They are all prepared. They are all ready. For them its new start.

But for me, the rays of sun on pupils does not fall like feathers. It falls like jail bars. The sun crawls on my back leaving me more colder than the freezing cold of the night. Take me back to the time when moon resides, back to the time when its dark. Coz for me, its not a new start, they are still moving. They are moving more quicker than ever and things tend to fall apart in the presence of light. In the dark I am all alone and I feel safe when I am alone, the ghosts hunt on days in crowds, not when you're alone and not at nights. The ghost does not live inside the bed, nor does it live inside the head, it lives somewhere in the crowd hidden and appears all of the sudden somewhere in the laughter of the class when I say the wrong answer, somewhere in unanswered text messages, somewhere during the movies when I realize its not her warm hand I am holding onto but the damn popcorn, somewhere in the newsfeed when I realize I wasn't called in one of my friend's birthdays. I've spent ages hoping for sun to forget to comeback, hoping for moon to win a battle, hoping that the pores in the sky will not heal back so that stars can still reside on them.

But then again, how can I wish for something new when my fists have always been closed like a frozen cascade refusing to get opened and I am out there still asking for something to hold on to, when the truth is that my hands have always been full. Full with all the gutter I want to get rid of, full of all the people I don't like, full of memories I want to erase, full of wrinkled jammed bones I wanna move. I want my hands to be free, free like the wings of birds when they fly, free like the butterfly is free from being caterpillar after ages in the suffocating cocoon, free like the hand of the painter moves on the canvas, free, free!!

So, no I am no longer looking at my calender like time bombs made from the gutter I've collected which I want to get rid of. I've always been so busy with filling things that I've forgotten to get rid of the dust formed occasionally which now is suffocating me. Its time to loosen up and let things go. So ring up the sun, will you? Yes, now I am ready!!

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