Stories By 'Pratik Mainali'
You are destructively sentimental in your early adolescent days. You were young, that was for sure, but everything else was pure confusion. Neither a child nor an adult, you too might have been a confused but brooding mass of energy as I was.
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I spent my formative years in the village of Surunga, in the district of Jhapa, on the fringes of a forest. A road was the only thing separating our home from the vast expanse of green. I remember the tall slender trees, with branches jutting towards the sky, creating a cloud of green overhead, the gnarled tree trunks hoisting upward; the faint rustle of the leaves. The ground would always be covered with dead leaves.
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The red skies rage like firewith such sudden, solemn ireI sit still, intently gazing,from a dolorous mireMy lonely peachwith me and only me for companyMy mind, an evil quagmireHas fallen off the edge desireI want you,
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It was in the smoke and dirt filled Kathmandu that I missed Jhapa the most. Every day, I made my way to the office, jostling through a sea of people and the smoke belching from exhaust pipes, crammed in a stuffy bus. But my mind wasn’t in the city.
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The sound of thunder woke me up in a sudden shock. My eyes were soft with sleep and my body limp. As I threw away the blanket and sat upright, a flash of white came zig-zagging down the sky, striking the earth and rattling everything. For a second, the room lit up and its every detail became visible. I looked at the clock. It was 4 am. A loud rumbling followed soon after and my heart swelled in excitement.
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The hills of the west looked like gentle ripples and stretched as far as the eyes could see. Below them, in a narrow valley, the blazing sun beat down on the dust-ridden roads. An old bus rattled onwards leaving behind black smog and whirls of dust.
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