Postmodern Surrealism

“I am surreal,” she said.

Let me backtrack a little.

I was on my way back to my studio apartment. I had gone to New Road to get my laptop that I had left for repair. I had spilled a cup of lukewarm tea over it a few months ago, and I had not bothered to get it checked after the incident. The problem commenced a few months later. My screen started flickering at random occasions and suddenly one very fine August day, it stopped working. After getting the repaired laptop and eight samosas from Tip Top, I took a Sajha Bus from Kathmandu Mall and got off at Pulchowk.

I started walking from the bus stop. The plan was to speedwalk through Jhamsikhel, pass through Arun Thapa Chowk, and then reach Sanepa, where I lived. The plan would have unfolded without any roadblocks if it were not for Madhav and Suravi.

“Ishan,” I heard a familiar masculine voice call me. I turned to the right, from where the voice had come, and saw the duo sitting on a bench inside a fruits and juice shop.

I entered the establishment and said, “what are you both doing here?” The question was a rhetorical one, for my eyes had located a mug of red-colored juice on Suravi’s right hand and a green-colored on on Madhav’s.

“Just chilling,” said Suravi. I sat down to their left. “Timi ni khau. You also have one,” Madhav proposed. I nodded and dai handed me another mug of the green-colored juice.

“What were you both talking about?” I inquired. “About surreality,” Suravi answered after sipping her drink. A crimson layer of fizz appeared right above her lips and then disappeared.

“What about surreality?” I asked.

“I am surreal,” she said.

“Okay,” I approved the proposition. “Let’s go and have some samosas then.”

“Sure,” the duo said in unison.

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