Stories By 'Prateebha Tuladhar'
Weary. Weary is the word that comes to mind when I think of Mam. She used to run errands for Mamu when we still lived in that little house on the hillside on the outskirts of Boudha. I’ve been trying to recall her name and I cannot, because I think I was never taught to know her by her name.
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The man cannot talk. To anyone. Not even his mother. He is a man of schedule. He can only function as he has been taught to. Under the guidance of the social norms of right and wrong.
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I’m four. Maybe five. I’m visiting my grandparents in their working quarters in Nuwakot.Socialising with neighbour-colleagues after work, is a part of life at Trishuli Colony. I’m part of this for close to two months of my winter vacation. I’m mostly the entertainer in the household.
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I didn’t sleep very well last night. My feet felt like a furnace and there were pins and needles on my back. I tossed and turned until I fell asleep again. I had fever dreams— they were fragments of our Mahankal home. It left me wondering why we’ve never had a conversation about that house. After all, it is where you began to take shape inside Mamu. It’s a different story that we’d moved by the time you arrived, and no one ever thought of visiting the place again.
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I sat on the commode, dripping like a tap for what felt like an eternity. And I’m not making this up. I was dripping blood, a couple of drops per second.
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1. The air is thick where we stand. 2. The sky is heavy, like it were on the brink of tears.3. I suck the air in and it tastes like water.4. The rain has stopped. It’s time we left.
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Tags: rainfall