Every Dashain I write a reminiscent note,
one that smells of nostalgia;
the days that were and thus can never again be.
This Dashain I wanted to write
anything but nostalgia,
but when the October sun struck
both cold and warm,
shivery and humid at the same time
it ushered an unnamed feeling.
Something happens to the city
when it gets silent
like an anxious mind sleeping
as the bygone days return.
The skies are blue,
the wind is misty;
and I travel back knowing yet
that forward is the only place
I can ever truly go.
Happy Dashain.
I drew the kites flying picture a few years back while I was still fiddling around with drawing apps and drew with my fingers over the tiny phone screen. It looks childish and perhaps that is why it fits perfectly every year as I go back in time. Every Dashain (also known as Vijayadashami, Dussehra, Dasara) – the biggest Hindu festivals, I write a piece mostly about how wonderful it used to be in the past. As COVID-19 swept over our lives in the last two years and the Dengue outbreak continues to trouble more and more people in Nepal, Dashain has a different feeling each year. I often thought it was because I was growing up and could now see things I didn’t before. I now assume it is much more complicated than that. More than anything, I am learning that I can only stay in the present. The layers of time and culture peel themselves to be visible, and the first thing I can do is write, and thus I write.
The Wordcastle 