un-playing football

My school was atop a hill. ‘A mighty king’ they said- was stationed there, once upon a time. He dug trenches to hide his forces. And then, in the dark of the night, he attacked un-mighty kings, in a show of force.

I never really understood this, but he was mighty I was told. I did not question it.

And this hill was covered with pine trees that reached to scratch the cloudy sky. The ground was covered with Pine leaves. Pine leaves are beautiful. I had never seen leaves like that. But they were leaves alright, my science teacher said. “They are special, they serve a purpose.”

This, I understood. 

It was okay to be a leaf that looked like a needle. In fact, it was special to a leaf that didn’t look like one. My strategy professor would call in competitive advantage, I should ask him sometimes.  

Our school was atop a hill, nestled in a pine forest. The top was leveled because of the boys and the girls who needed a ground to play. The ground was on the edge, therefore the ball would roll down the hill after every powerful kick. Some boys were really good at those- the powerful kicks.

The ball would bounce around and would get stuck in the bushes. Every time this happened we chased it down the slope. 

We slid down the path, dotted with pine trees tall

the same path that the water carved

As it too went down- looking for a ball

We stumbled in rocks, slipped on pine leaves

Faced the trees as we broke our downhill speed.


A year or two later, the teachers put up a net around the ground.  The ball stopped rolling down the hills. And then the boys stopped rolling down the hill. Well… the boys kept rolling, just not down the hill.

Then the boys and the girls were really thankful. They could play longer- didn’t have to chase the ball downhill. 

This, I never really understood. What was the point of having a football field on top of a hill if the ball wasn’t to roll off the edge every now and then?  For me, football was the whole; from chasing the jocks to murdering the socks. The bushes and the berries. The trees and the pine cones. Football really was a vertical game.  

Ever since the net came up, my will to play football went down.


Who’s this guy?


I am tired
and I am sick of
looking for this man.

My girlfriend looks for him
My boss looks for him
Some of my god damned friends look for him
My mother has been looking for him for
years so many she can’t count it in her hands
Even the government looks for him
The society looks for him !

But, where is this man they keep talking about?
A man just like me.

Sometimes when I am drunk
they say, you can find him only when you’re sober
And when I am sober
they say, you gotta be filthy drunk to see him.

On my way to being drunk,
when I was half drunk and half sober,
when my head was drunk and the the heart was alive,
I decided to stop looking for this man.




To walk into a bookshop

Wide walls filled with dildos
and flesh lights,
some for fiction, some for fantasy,
some non fiction and some blow up bullshit.
to walk into a bookshop
is like walking into a sex-shop.

They walk slowly through the shelves
race their racy eyes,
and try to match their fetishes with the covers-
they feel the front and then the back.
Most know –
those that shine above the rest
the chains and whips-
they are expensive,
and like jewelry, they are mostly limited in use.
If you want to play safe,
the classics are usually a good value.
They check the spine, they check the bleed,
check the edges to see if it cuts.
Though they browse
through a lot of books
flip through a lot of pages
they make only a few choices-
the one they will use in leisure,
the one they will use for pleasure,
and the ones, they may eventually share with their loved ones.

They usually present one or two to the cashier,
often in a nonchalant way
but their gut is gnarling like a dog before the bark,
they appear calm
but their legs go cold as if
they are asking someone out.

to walk into a bookshop
is like walking into a sex-shop.

…and like the sex shops,
the cashier wont judge-
may be a little,
but the cashier will understand
we all need to party alone.

The woman from Dillibazaar

​She measured the earth in multiples of the distance between her home and the farthest city she has ever been to,Dharan.  She asked me if where I came from was farther than her reference town. She looked at my face as if she could see the dirty ponds and the dusty streets of my home town, I looked back at her trying to find traces of Kathmandu, the city that has spawned her whole ancestry, but all I could find was a small intersection,one among many of intersections of Kathmandu, at most I could see parts of Dillibazaar .

When she smiled to bid me goodbye, her smile didn’t look like Dillibazaar, it looked like Dharan.

I wonder if, when I look into the mirror, I will ever be able to recognize the city I carry in my smile.

The it factor !

He sniffed himself
more often than not

Some times he wondered
if other people smelt it too,

In fancy hallways he felt at home,
Vanilla that rose up from white china cups filled the air,
These cups were full of it as well.
And he would wear all these bright clean clothes,
with saturated colors,
big bold rich names stapled to them.
He would wear these beautiful sparkling things,
that shined more than gold,
glittered more than the March night sky,
His clothes were full of it as well.

His speech was like an assortment of fresh green salad,
his acquired accent like salad dressings, overpaid for, from convenient stores,
These stores were full of it as well.

His walls were decorated with well composed landscape pictures
You could find him somewhere in the frame as well,
tiny and almost invisible, but some how he felt very big about this,
His engineering degree hung by the side,
As if someone had put a reflector in his sockets,
his pride glistening in his eyes,
Even his walls were full of it

He walked down the road with spring in his feet,
His hands in his pocket,
A well measured smile in his face,
Even his walk was full of it.

He sniffed himself more often than not,
He worried if other people smelt it too.

He saw me in the mirror the other day,
He said, “sh…
Don’t you tell,
don’t you tell nobody about it.
I am doing my best to hide it.”

I said- “Don’t worry bro, it’s not just you, everybody is full of shit.”

Recurring martydom

I was killed by the “rising sun”

that promised me

land to yield and a place safe

i was instead given a tongue less mouth

even which i kept

then i was asked for a few years

to make things right

i said”why not”

a few years will pass out

swiftly like a summer night.


years later nothing changed

then i was told,

it was all but lies

i do not believe what i hear

but i gotta believe my eyes

there was no tongue in my mouth

no sense in my head

no guarantee i would not be taken a prisoner

while i wake from my bed

i said”ah hell ! this has to change ”


and change it did,but i didn’t see

you see,  i was the foundation of what you have with thee

i marched the street like a mad dog


i was armed with slogans

while i was facing bullets

my words would pierce hearts

but couldn’t stop them damn bullets


in the end i was shot,

in the leg first and when i fell

in my head, bang bang

two shots to make sure.

i wouldn’t rise again

killed like a mad dog.

again and again.


duihazar sixtythree ,  dui hazar fourtysix and dui hazar-seven

i am your recurring martyr

i die again and again.


-May 17, 2011

Trade Deficit

What we are doing love, it does not make sense to me.

Why are we making these horrible trades, oxygen for oil, life for paper ? We gave up kisses and we gave up hugs, we gave up our loved ones for pictures and jet journeys. The years of our youth for AC rooms, for whistles and beeps. Why would anyone give up chocolate and take only the fancy chocolate packaging in return? It does not make sense to me. What I wish is we looked at stars the way we look at cars. I wish we looked at hearts the way we look at malls and marts. I wish we looked at tree like they were jewelry. What we are doing love, it does not make sense to me.