Stories By 'Pratik Mainali'
The soft and potentially explosive sky shimmers as the sun reddens the floating clouds. The rippling empty hills, jutting towards the sky and tinted in gold, are beginning to lose the details of their crevices as the sun sinks behind them.
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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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