Stories By 'Prateebha Tuladhar'
It was the day of Bhai Tika. He could not hope to rush things like he desired. What he did desire was to dash to Durbar Marg, where he would be interviewing for a job. But that was not happening. His sisters fussed over the procedure. Over the special meal. Over the garlands and the lights. And he got delayed.
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Tell me a story, didi,” I hear you say from the back seat.
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My earliest knowledge of death goes back to the time I was a little girl. It was a Saturday morning and I think my parents were probably not in a hurry to go anywhere. I remember being half awake as I heard them talking—sipping tea—about death.
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I sleep in the room exactly above the one my grandfather sleeps in. My bed sits in the same position in my room as my grandfather’s in his room downstairs. We fall asleep, when we do, in the same corner of the house. Me upstairs. Him downstairs.
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I can feel her breath against my cheek. She blows every time she talks to her friend, hot air that speaks of the residue of a hundred things.
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Tea

Prateebha Tuladhar, Sep 02 2017

The word ‘tea’ leaves such a nice aftertaste in your mouth, long after you’ve said it. Teea…like some vowel might follow to complete the word.
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