every time you say that, it makes me so damn pale
that i secretly wish your ship never does sail

yes i long to see your hips sway
and the manner in which you make your way
needless to say
but that sure as hell makes my day

almost all the time i find myself looking forward to having veg. momos with you
for now, i’ll even take that over a room with a view
i aspire, yes aspire, to hop in your little scooty for another ride to Old Baneshwore
you felt the same way yesterday, i could have again and again swore

unfortunately, it’s not all about me
that matter, i suspect you really don’t see
can’t blame you there: if i were you, i probably wouldn’t even bother looking, this hair is so gray
but you make me feel as if Priyanka Chopra called me and made a booking, for the whole month of May

you know these moments don’t come often
yet you don’t let your heart and mind at all soften
i’ve been through this road before
i know excatly what happens next
therefore
can i ask you to stay?
i’ll even pray to God for a day
i’ll go out into this violent world and make everything okay
i’ll go out into the Sun and come back with the source of all of that ray
heck i’ll even go back in time and find out who shot the Shah clan
just don’t fill out that form to the University of Milan?
please?
i hate to say this and i know my bros will love it to forever replay
but baby
i’ll even come with you to Bhatbhateni Supermarket for groceries every Saturday
please don’t go.

(digging through my ‘archives’, ran into this ‘poem’ that I’d written a few years ago)

where were you yesterday
yesterday when they demanded
to be heard like a bird
when all they’ve done is talk the absurd

where were you yesterday
when they terrorized the Scooty
but let the Enfield run its course
when they congregated around the old
and let the young ones run amok
when they followed their ruling overlords
who’ve mostly got nothing but only decades of status quo to preserve
and still got the marginalized to somehow follow
what then is the difference
if this – shutting down the rest – is what it takes to unite
to divide would then take nothing but a
differently routed snot rocket?

where were you yesterday
like today
when you’re displaying pretentious rage on these roads
and threatening to out-gunda the other participant
while not following the rules of these roads
in your borrowed freedom
but were silently supplicating to the terror yesterday
yesterday when you were
hiding in your deras and your houses or in the saris of your spouses

where were you yesterday
like today
when you’re letting whoever sees know
that you are in a hurry
as if to save the world
yesterday when they stalled you
angered you but still silenced you
commanded you and humiliated you
where did that hurry go
where did that freedom go
where did that rage go
where the fuck did all that talk go

yesterday will again come tomorrow
you will have another chance to break the borrow
and free yourself from these idiots
idiots who’ve got you by the balls
and turned your life into nothing but a null

yesterday we’ve seen a thousand times before
yesterday that has come to nothing
and yet
if not one it is always the other
why wait until the last second to be up with the bother
protest protest protest
something so sexy has turned into one ugly smudge
coated with terror and coated with begrudge
forward forward forward
when shall we trudge

तानी तानीकन पानी
गर्यौ हल्का फूल्का हैंसे
होस्टे र मोस्टेपनि त्यतैकतै मिलाई
मानिकन हो की नमानि (हुन त मानेर नै होला .. तर यहाँ यसो भन्दा ‘रस’ मिलेको जस्तो लाग्यो। ‘रस’ को मानेचैं साँच्चै थाहा भएन यो सन्दर्भमा)
एक अर्काकालागी खनायौ जीवन को यो जल
अलिकतिपनि इख न मानी

कस्तो मिठो र चिसो चिसो ठाउँ बाट आएको यो प्रेरणा
सोच्दापनि फूर्यो भन्या मलाई त एउटा गाना
तर अहिलेको लागीचैं मन खुशी बनाउंदै गर्छु म अपलोड
अबुई! का आगंतुक र मेरो तर्फबाट छ मुरी-मुरी धन्यवाद
लु है होस् तिमीलाई D सम्पूर्ण त्यसको बोध

So thank you, WAVE. As a teen fighting outer demons of a classic stutter, I was a regular reader of WAVE, way, waay, waaaaaaaay back in the day and also liked to think that clutching a copy and walking across Durbar Marg would somehow get me girls. Ya. Never could I even begin to imagine back then that I’d one day contribute a couple of write-ups to them (it’s an entirely different story that none of my write-ups have been up to any par). So thank you again WAVE – especially TR – for providing me real estate on your popular platform 2 months in a row. Get your copies fast, people! You know WAVE magazines sell like Jerry-Swari! And the latest – May – issue packs plenty of punch. Go!

Speaking of WAVE, last month and this one, D came up with sketches for me and .. of me. At least one person commenting on this blog has wondered what I look like. So that-one-person, please go ahead and quickly get your copy and ogle away at the sexiness of me! One thing’s for sure – I look better in sketches than I do in person. Hurry though – April’s issue is out the shutters, almost.

On May’s issue, D once again came through (despite having bouts of “psychosomatic hysteria”) and rendered another awesome sketch that complemented my write-up. Drippings of blood was (not sorely) missing from the sketch but all in all, it is one fantastic depiction of what I was trying to say. Since I’m terribly bad at building up backdrops, you’ve got to buy the magazine and find out exactly what I’m talking about. So hurry up and get your copy already! And again, thanks much, D.

Speaking of sketches, KGB has provided me with countless, fabulous sketches to grace Nepali Dictionary, it’s Facebook page, it’s Twitter page, and someday in the next life (since I don’t see it happening in this one at the pace I’m going), my own place.

People, if you’ve already Liked the page, you know what I mean about KGB’s sketches and thanks, of course, for the Likes. If you haven’t Liked the page yet, what the hell? C’mon Like it already, will you?

Again, thanks much, KGB.

Speaking of Nepali Dictionary and sketches, D also has agreed to draw images for the site. The first one will splash across the virtual pages tonight soon (re-sizing issues and I’m not that good in Photoshop). Others will follow as these days pass us by. Is there such a thing as over thanking? No? Okay, well then thanks again, D.

There are countless other people who’ve helped spread the word about Nepali Dictionary: BD – India, AB – Nepal, SK – Sydney, PS – New York, PS – Bhutan, PS – Melbourne, LP – Nepal, SB – Houston, NJ – Chicago, SS – Columbus, ST – Nepal, JG – Nepal, DB – Nepal, TR – Nepal, DP – Nepal, SP – Nepal, RT – Nepal, PS – Nepal, BD – Nepal, etc. etc. Good friends, these. So thanks thanks and thanks some more, people. Someday, we’ll all celebrate together. No promises, just saying.

If you chance upon this blog and have helped spread the word but don’t see your initials in the preceding paragraph, call me, identify yourself, and beer’s on me .. hai ta? See ya again when there are 1000 Nepali Dictionary Likes.

A LOT =

1. stuff to do to make this life steady
2. by doing what I really want (and there’s not only one thing here – there is an entire gallery of things)

There have been decisions (two) that I’ve made in the last few months that will make or break (not completely) the financial side of me. And there will be another HUGE one that I’ll have to make tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow.

One of the two decisions I made in the past few months was:

1. to go ahead with my Nepali Dictionary project (encouragement from a wide variety of people was key here)
2. to invest time, energy, and money to make Nepali Dictionary an acceptable-quality product by the end of this year
3. to hire people back in Ilam and Jhapa (inland outsourcing, as I like call it) to help me do so

When I woke up (with no hangover) this morning, I’d decided to go someplace and work all day on this site ( way too many things have to be done if this product is ever to meet my expectations). And then, my paani-taanki decided to leak on me putting to hold any plans of mine of going somewhere peaceful to work. After temporarily blocking the leak with chewed gum, I used fevicol on a rubber (no not condoms) to permanently coagulate the gush.

Never ever had I fixed anything of such paramount importance before. Dusting off my shoulder and feeling pretty much like God, I was about to step out of the house when movement-restraining aroma wafted out of the kitchen. Cousin had apparently decided to make a चौरासी byanjan-er: bhaat, daal, achar, chicken, yogurt, and beans. The whole nine yards, in my case.

After wolfing down daal bhaat, as any self-respecting Nepali man would do on a Saturday afternoon, I collapsed on my bed under under the immense weight of my stomach. Unable to think clearly due to ‘bhaat-high’, I then let my mind wander to wherever the quietude, save for a few groans of sun bathing neighbors, would drag me.

Waking up from my slumber was a feeling that only pays me a visit on late Saturday afternoons if and only if aforementioned gourmet of lunch is there to fill up the essence of my being. A round of coffee followed, and finally did I finally get around to firing up my browser. The stats provided to me by Google Analytics was unbelievable! The numbers did to my ears what anymore extra caffeine that was not on my coffee cup would’ve done: they sprang up like mice do when they see cheese.

Reasons being: a 50-Like jump on www.facebook.com/nepalidictionary and 100% follower increase on twitter.com/shabdakosh. I was pretty sure the spike was not because of all the eating I’d done in the afternoon. Upon prodding a bit more, I found out that Mr. Aakar over at aakarpost.com had blogged and tweeted about Nepali Dictionary. This man’s blog is one of the most popular Nepali blogs out there. He has more than 3000 Likes on his FB page and a good 3000+ Followers in Twitter. And he decided to show some love to Nepali Dictionary this morning.

So thank you, Aakar: I’ve annoyed quite a few people with what I’m about to type next but I will type it anyway: Nepal Ama will be proud of you. Yessir! Also, I think I’ve said this before to you but I will say it again – will buy you beer someday – but you’ve got to remind me man. Thanks much, again.

it was no one but you who labored to introduce me here
i wanted to play by the so called rules but it didn’t quite get me there
no matter how hard i try to run away from the daily
it seems i’m only being posted here to report on all sorts of melee
unseen forces unmatched resources undeserved voices
they win they provide they say
and they’re the ones who’re always out to celebrate the first day of May

mother
i still want to learn
i still want to glean
and i want to be seen
a lean, mean, machine
i want to articulate
i have stuff to say
i know they can help me
that’s why i want to matriculate

but mother
“you can’t”, they tell me
“you don’t meet our criteria
you’ll scare the rest
you’ll only cause disturbia
you don’t look the part
maybe you should get another fresh start?
look this is only for us
please don’t stay here and cause too much fuss
one look at you and there’s absolutely nothing for you to tout
just don’t let the door hit you
on your way out”

i disagree with them mother
you know me, i’m not the one
to be outdone
i’ll have my way one way or the other
to make it just
to make it equal
for all of us
even if it means
i have to lie to them
about who i am mother

Once awake, Sabita habitually sent her left hand above her head to fetch the steel glass located atop the counter that was attached to the bed. She always made it a point to put a glass full of water there every night before calling it a night and always chugged it down first thing in the morning. This was a habit she had acquired from watching her father do the very same every morning back in Hoksey, Jhapa where she had grown up. Sabita’s father was a priest who strictly adhered to rules set by his father who was a devout practitioner of conventional Hinduism and a proud and an ardent royalist, not to mention a sincere sexist. Sabita’s tenaciously condescending grandfather had institutionalized his misogynistic principles across all of his progeny, including such pointless rituals as peering at the sun at daybreak by interlocking the index finger and the pinky of one hand to the pinky and the index finger of the other such that the thumbs securely latch the remaining two fingers of the opposite hands so as to create an aperture in the middle of the entire formation of digits; an age-old Hindu tradition, which, to Sabita was as pointless as watching a dog bark at a fly except in this case, her right eye would be antsy for the rest of the morning.

Another tiring protocol Sabita had to endure up until her grandfather died was of receiving blessings from the old man. Living in a joint family with her three uncles, their wives and their children, along with her three elder brothers, it was a procession to the veranda that housed a daybed atop which sat the stocky old man with his feet at the ready for the men to touch with their foreheads and both of his hands, as if he were warming himself at a camp-fire, for the women to come and bow to in supplication. Thanks to more than 12 years of this ridiculous early morning temple-like service, later in her life when she moved to Kathmandu, Sabita realized she was far more disciplined than the rest of Nepal when it came to queuing up in front of the ATM or in the bank or in the government offices flush with inept thus irritating bureaucracy.

Sabita dragged herself out of the bed, put on a pair of pajamas she had bought the other day from The Dharan Fancy Store in Balkumari, creak-opened the door of her one bedroom dera, and peeked out to the end of the hallway crowded with crumpled footwear to check to see if the toilet was occupied. It wasn’t. She quickly grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste from the corner shelf suspended high in her bedroom, which among her toiletries, also sheltered a glut of kitchen-related accessories. Below this shelf was a single-burner gas-stove and two gas-cylinders. One of the gas-cylinders was empty and another one was halfway there. From the dilapidated Godrej steel cabinet located opposite her bed, she gathered clean underwear, a B-cup (I think), a t-shirt that was gifted to her by her ex-boyfriend in Birtamode, and a pair of faded jeans that she had only recently purchased at the City Center in Kamalpokhari. Clinging to these possessions with one hand and opening her bedroom door again with the other, Sabita stepped out of her room, put on her slippers and hurried towards the bathroom which had a clumsy shower-head and an old-style toilet which sorely needed a good power wash; the chances of this toilet retaining its original color was getting slimmer by the day. Since the shower-head more often than not did not fulfill its purpose, two buckets, one bright red and the other one bright green, and one mug (also bright red) to splash oneself with water, served as backup. Had it not been for the landlord boring water from deep underground, neither of these buckets or the generally non-functioning shower-head would be of any use to anybody on the ground floor; besides Sabita’s room and this bathroom, there were two other rooms on this floor. Both rooms had two tenants each: +2 girls who went to Alpine Academy which was about 5 minutes’ walk from the house. As she squatted down to pee, Sabita could distinctly hear the faraway thunder of the jet, now circling the skies above Kathmandu and flying off to a faraway land.

Rubbing her wet hair with her towel, Sabita entered her room and headed straight towards the mirror that took up an almost entire door on the Godrej. Since there was no electricity, she couldn’t blow-dry her hair. Using both her hands, she curled up her hair like a twister to form a convoluted bun and ran a sleek barrette somewhere in the crux of that arrangement. Pouting her lips, she dismissed the idea of wearing any lipstick. She covered her entire face for a split second with both her hands – as if she’d painfully realized that she’d just committed an epic crime, and then ran her palms down her face with only the tips of her middle fingers touching themselves before both hands parted from her face at the chin. Sabita then gathered her purse, checked the charge on her Samsung, gave herself one last look in the mirror, let out a long determined breath, and headed for the door with her Gucci knock-off shades perched safely over her head.

Kathmandu, whether it liked it or not, had no other choice than to be ready to face one Sabita Adhikari: fair, wavy hair falling just below her shoulders (when not twisted up in a bun) with streaks of blonde, dimples that could kill the faint-hearted, slim with an almost perfect figure, lethal on the pole, streets, and crowded buses, 5’5’’, 27, from Hoksey, Jhapa.