The old rotting prison was made by the Ranas. Nothing much had changed since its inception a hundred and fifty two years ago. Except the fact that it was painted once by the Shahs. Nothing thereafter. And in that very prison resided Prachanduh. This particular day was one designated to make a severe dent in … Continue reading Prachanduh

I am a बाख्रा

न्यानो अङ्गालो र चर्किएको मुटुले भरिएको यो मेरो शहरमा रुमल्लिदै म आँफैलाई एउटा ट्याक्सीमा पाए। शायद यो ईतिहासको प्रसंन्सनिय खेल थियो या शायद यो दुई बटुवाको मेल थियो। मलाई थाहा भएन। थाहा हुनु नि थिएन। ईतिहास रचिरहेको थियो। कसैले नटिपेपनी। कसैले नकोरेपनी। मेरो के नै छ र ईतिहास, जब थाहा हुन्छ ईतिहासका गाताहरु लेख्नु नि … Continue reading I am a बाख्रा

Salman Khan does not equal to happiness

The storage room was filled with tools and weapons. A pickaxe, a spade, a hammer, a couple of nails of varying size, a rusty khukuri, and an even rustier sickle with a silver handle. Chudamani remembered the baari that grew gourds of all sorts - especially during the monsoon. Ghiraula, karela, lauka. They did not … Continue reading Salman Khan does not equal to happiness