Yukta Bajracharya


Home
All I can see outside from these rose colored
glasses
are neatly aligned boxes.
With big windows that breathe despair,
big gates that breathe suffocation,
and walking, talking sticks inside them that do
not breathe at all.
The air here stifles,
crushes,
murders,
my every thought.
Those cold faces
with hypocrisy painted over them
suck the life out of me.
Vaccum me.
But of course, you won't hear the noise
you're too deafened by the
clinking of the coins,
the rough strokes of the ugly green.
And so I sit here, wishing,
that I could fly to that place
you refuse to call your home.
Fly to that place
that I call home.
Home.
Where,
Poverty rings like temple bells
and smells like plastic full of dendrite.
Ye t ,
Home.
Where the air redolent in the smell of fresh
jasmines,
the buttery smell of sweets from the haluwai,
Warm my soul.
Home.
Where illiteracy surfaces as statistics
of people in the West,
dying of diarrhea.
Yet,
Home.
Where when you sit in the dabalis of the Patan Durbar Square drinking
eighteen-rupees-a-cup tea,
for once,
the world stands still.
You forget all your worries.
Home.
Where the streets are not paved with gold
but with potholes,
Because what fun in treading on smooth pavements?
To not trip once in a while and feel human?
Home.
Where the temple bells ring at early hours in the morning
and again at the not-so-early evening
and again and again and again
until, my spirit start to ring in unison.
Home.
With shabby houses that smile,
slanting just a little
but standing
through and through the test of time.
The narrow, labyrinthine gullies
that lead you to
courtyards of epiphany.
That perfect place of imperfection
where not everything is right,
but everything is alright.
I refute hundreds of your "heavens"
to go back home.
Because home,
is where I belong
Because,
home is where my soul
finds the voice to speak.

 

In those Book-shaped Ear-rings you get at
Baber Mahal Revisited,

write to me,
in a language only I would understand.
Describe to me:
the taste of my smile,
the sound of my silence
and what it does to you
the smell of my hair,
the rhythm in my laughter,
and what it reminds you of
the meaning of my words,
the absence of my presence,
and what it means to you.
Lock your thoughts
in bound Lokta paper
that can hang from my earlobes
and delicately dance as sweet whispers
every time I start to doubt
the intentions of a God
who created me.

 

Ocean Apart
Between the things you say
and
the things you do-There's an ocean
and you don't know how to swim

 

A Wrong Date
Coffee
after
coffee
after
coffee
after
coffee.
"How many rounds before you fall in love with me?," you ask.
I search for words that will not hit you harshly.
You have gotten me all wrong, you see.
To begin with,
This heart will never learn to love a man
who isn't addicted to tea.

 

Silence
This silence
that has taken birth
in this cold cocoon
between you and me
will soon nurture itself,
mature,
and grow,
to have a voice of its own.
I wonder,
what will its say, then?

 

Confessions of a drunkard's daughter
I thought that the dent on my parent's bedroom door had been there always
until just yesterday my mother threw a crying fit about it.
You see,
broken--broken windows, broken mirrors, broken pots and broken pans
were normal in our broken home, for our broken hearts.
As a kid,
there were days in the weeks when I always came home to my mother's tear-stained cheeks.
It was quite some years before I was mature enough to trace her tears
back to the corners of our house where the whisky bottles were hidden.
Maybe he thought we'd never find out
and even when we did, he'd always deny it.
No, I haven't had a drink this morning,
No, I don't have a problem,
No, I am not an alcoholic.
It wasn't long before he stopped working
and the whole house began to reek of alcohol, all the time
Crying and begging then shouting and hitting became a daily routine
And while I couldn't stop my tears, I found myself wishing I had enough pair of
hands to cover my
brother's eyes and to cover my brother's ears and to stop my parents from killing
each other, at the same
time.
Years passed and nothing changed
except maybe our hopes that he would change.
One day,
my brother noticed that the money inside his khutruke was gone
and then slowly along with the long gone happiness and peace of mind
there were other things that we couldn't find
inside our house.
My mother's expensive china,
my grandfather's watch,
my silver ring
As bottle after bottle piled up behind the shoe-rack, in the attic, inside the suitcase.
What else do you want to pawn 'Daddy'?
My mother's continuously working hands?
Look at what 12 years of your selfish addiction and unwillingness to change has
done?
We tried to help you 'Daddy', didn't mother carry you on her back and take you to
the hospital, the day when your hands stopped moving?
We tried to still love you.
Twelve years and nothing has changed
except maybe our capabilities to forgive you
the smell of cheap whiskey still reeks
there're still bottles hidden in every imaginable corner of this house
Here let me collect twelve years of every whiskey bottle
if I fill them with the collective tears you made us cry,
can I sell those bottles to you for a life time of our peace of mind
or what about at least half a happy childhood?
There was this time in fourth grade when we had to write in class about our idols
I want to grow up to become just like my father and to make him proud, a kid from
class had read out,
right then I thought about the person I was supposed to call my father and re-solved
that I want to grow up and never become like him so that I could make myself
proud.
I actually have to thank you 'Daddy' for the person I have become,
because looking at you I learnt all the things I am never going to allow myself to be
and I don't know about a billionaire or the president or a poet
but I when I grow up
When I grow up enough to have children,
I'm going to give them unconditional love, put their needs above my wants
and become a good parent
otherwise not have children at all.