During my childhood, I received more care and affection from two of my family members, my sister and my mother. I wonder what my childhood is like in their memories? I, on the other hand, don’t remember too many stories from my childhood.
I haven’t forgotten when I got influenced by my friends to swim in Karnali and the current took me far away.
I haven’t forgotten when I almost blinded my eye while breaking a log.
My leg is still scarred from when I picked a heavy axe.
Yet the most difficult wound was when I fled and reached India, which I can never forget.
Wounds from India gave me courage. The trust of villagers: encouragement. Due to which I could move to Kathmandu. Could understand and learn a lot. But, I don’t have the guts to move back to my village. I’m not even satisfied with how much I have.
I come from a community where we’re scared to dream big, we tremble while walking alone, we stay silent and accept our fate even when we’re not satisfied with things.
If Kathmandu doesn’t turn me lazy, selfish, overly greedy, and discontented, then I will soon return to my village – to support my father and mother.
To guide on the right path, my father shared his experiences, aspirations, enthusiasm, passion, anger, hopes, dreams, and regrets with me. I am learning the rest, by myself, through relationships, observation, and participation.
I’m fond of writing.
That’s why I created this website.
I’ll post things I write, here.