Old weak stick

Old Stick

Old Stick ( Found it in google)

Handful of time fled away

Leaving a wrinkled body and a soul at unrest

Eyes are shrinking and vision dimming

Legs are weak now, needs a stick.

“Don’t worry, our son will be it”, Proud me always said.

But where is he, when my feet are trembling?

A dead wife.

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The Photographer

Published on April 15, 2012  in “The Kathmandu Post” –

Picture of Old Woman don't know who took it but matches with the story

Picture of Old Woman don't know who took it but matches with the story

I have never seen a camera as big as the one he has in his hands

in these seventy five years of my life. He is young, well-built and smiles continually as he clicks away at his big camera; its lens pointed towards me. I have never seen such a wonderful young man in my life, apart from you. What’s with age? He proved that I am more beautiful than these young chuckling girls by taking hundreds of pictures of me. Something amazing happened while he pointed the “straight” camera lens right at my face—it reminded me of our unification.

It’s you whom I saw in this young man. Who knows I might still be awaiting your arrival. I have waited fifty years already. I have never put on white clothes because no one has bought your dead body to me. “Dead,” thinking of this makes me suicidal. But again the hope of your arrival has kept me alive till today—till the age of seventy-five. It’s you whom I saw in this young man. Is it that you died and were born in the form of this man? Is it that—in the form of this man—you came to meet me? Or is it that you married some other woman and this is your son? No!! No!! These things can never be possible—I console myself.

“Aama please smile,” the photographer says.

“Please stay in the same position,” he demands.

“Don’t go away, please wait Aama,” he stops me as I try to turn away.

I smile from ear to ear. I am shy; I hide my face with the edge of my bright red dhoti. I move my head. What is this young man doing? Why is he taking pictures of me? Why does he like me so much? Why does he ignore these young girls and come after me? Am I that beautiful even now? Why would I not be beautiful… my ears are decked with gold earrings that have lightened my face all these years. What about the gold necklace from my marriage? Does this young man not see that I am a married woman? A line of sindoor parts my head—proving that I am married to someone else—I belong to someone else. What will he do with my pictures? Will he hang these pictures on his walls and look at me day and night? But why? Am I more beautiful than these young girls? Is he fascinated by me, like I with him? Can I be compared to these young girls now when I am a 75 years old? Well I was young, some fifty years ago. But now, each year my skin loosens, my face is shrinking and my cheeks are no longer seen. Continue reading


Parasmani ~ the touch of yours turns iron into gold or anything into gold ~ how can I not chose to turn into gold for the single touch of yours? 

Here we are again~ the bank of Sunkoshi welcomes us. You can call me “Sunkeshari” today ~ the eternal princess, as the golden rays of eternally glowing sun has lighted up my hair today. Something is special today I feel ~I look at the mirror of the flowing Sunkoshi and try to fix my hair, put a veil because I want to keep you waiting to see me, feel me and praise ~ beautiful me~ today? The face glows today because it is the first day of my womanhood. The moment is just that I have just left my childhood back and have taken a step forward to become a woman, your woman. One thing is to be done by you~ the unlocking of my womanhood, without which I can’t move forward.

The morning is growing slowly with the sky turning crimson and rosy. The sun is spreading its color all over sky and it feels like the sky is menstruating for the first time. The sun has just arrived and washed its crimson face into Sunkoshi and is slowly and gradually turning golden.  Continue reading