Prem Srem at Galli Salli

It was her on the phone: “Bring my photo and silver sikri and come to the galli.

May be the year was 1985. It was an obscure time to love.

With a lump in his throat, he opened his old steel box. He had glued her photograph onto a cardboard and punched a hole through which he slung her silver sikri, for safekeeping. It was his favorite, but it belonged to her


“At the Galli, I saw her with a bunch of women. Their faces blurry like photographs of moving objects . My heart and eyes were focused on her. Only her”


“I borrowed 10 rupees for a taxi, called him through a public phone , gathered my friends to demand myself back.”


That evening at the galli,she left him. He didn’t say a word. He was giving himself away too.


Then, one fine Falgun evening, he wrapped an American Cross ballpoint pen in a shiny paper, put on his ironed white shirt, black pants, polished shoes and walked through the same galli to get to the place where her wedding band played.

( This is my first try to write something Post Modern though it is very small. It was written for a Project called Galli Galli and published in the Kathmandu Post)


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