an escape

i had planned to write this on the bus while returning to kathmandu. but it never happened until now. even now, i’m skeptical if i’ll finish it. back then, i felt certain about writing it down. now that i’ve started, it feels strangely heavy. every sentence seems like it needs to be pulled out instead of flowing naturally.

i was returning to kathmandu from gudadi, my maternal uncle’s house—my mamaghar. i visit mamaghar at least once a year, sometimes twice. but never in my life have i willingly agreed to leave for kathmandu from there.

when i was younger—maybe nine, ten, or eleven—I would stay there for about a month. as soon as ghatasthapana came, i’d already be thinking about it. i would leave for mamaghar with my father; he’d return home, and i’d stay there until tihar, when my mum and dada would come to pick me up. those month-long stays were the best days of my childhood. i was truly happy there—maybe because of the air, the way aama loved me, or the laughter of my friends and cousins. probably all of it.

now that i’m eighteen, i look back on those days and picture them as an orange-colored evening. i still remember the “deep” river that seems so shallow now. i can’t tell if i’ve grown taller, or if the river really has less water. my mamaghar was made of mud and stones. we weren’t allowed to jump on the second floor because it would shake the whole house. but i liked that. when aama or buwa walked upstairs, i’d look up from below, dust falling into my eyes. i’d blink fast and rub my eyes until the sting faded, only for it to start again—a little cycle of chaos i somehow loved.

good old days. i feel so old saying that. the chaos i caused in that house is long gone now. it has been replaced by the magar family who lives there. i hope they have a child like i was—someone whose cries echo through the hills, who swings on the pillars, falls down, and makes a big fuss, who comes home late in the evening after a day of building dams in the river or lying in the grass beside it.

these days, we live near the highway—or maybe just off to the side. it’s fun in its own way. late at night, i watch cars, buses, and jeeps rush by, people walking home, lights flashing—it all feels so alive. still, i feel like i go to mamaghar to escape from this life in kathmandu. the cars, buses, and unfamiliar faces here don’t frustrate or bore me. but i hate that mamaghar is slowly starting to resemble this city. it’s not that i dislike kathmandu—I just love mamaghar more.

there are many differences now, but the most special one is my little—well, not so little anymore—brother and my two-year-old sister. they fill our concrete kathmandu home with so much life through their cries, fights, laughter—everything. sometimes it scares me to think about those old days without them. my brother was there, but he was too young to remember much.

life seems to have quietly moved on, but some parts still stand where they were, stubborn as ever.

it amazes me how strong my bond with my friends has become. they’re the highlight of my year. they fill the void of the group i always wished for. i have no hard feelings toward any of them—I love them all, purely.

this year, my mum broke her leg—a funny story, but also serious. she was on her way to her usual yoga place one morning. she decided to take a different route to catch a glimpse of god kuseshwor. just as she greeted him, she slipped, heard a crack, and thought her umbrella had broken. but it wasn’t the umbrella—it was her bone.

all the chores she used to do became the responsibility of dada, baba, and me. she still can’t walk properly. we didn’t celebrate dashain this year. between mum’s injury, my 10–13 hours of screen time, and the absence of the festival, i felt drained. ten to thirteen hours of daily screen time had made me sick of everything. i craved green—to smell the fresh country air, to see fields and trees, to feel the quiet rhythm of village life again.

that’s when i decided to go to mamaghar—to breathe again and to celebrate my birthday there. it fell on laxmi puja and kukur tihar this year, and honestly, it turned out to be the best birthday i’ve ever had.

i went there in a microbus with my father—just like the old days. the road was smooth, and the view from my window seat was serene, like something an airplane might miss while flying too high above. i’ve never been on an airplane, except for one in the aviation museum. but i like to think the view from a microbus, winding through the hills, is more fun anyway.

down here is the note I wrote when I was in mamaghar (I thought id write something out of it but ig not)

ever since i have come here i have wanted to note down things

like the local bus conductor

deusi bhailo

my friends

wooden bridge

the beauty of mountains and hills

the sound of pataka from my bedroom

the leech in asal and birajas leg

birthday surprise

tass kritika and ukrit and subrat

seeing aama (mathi ghar ko) after years she has become so old recognizable but old

a visit to the old house so nostalgic i was back in parii

water

beautiful people dancing and enjoying bhaili and deusi

people arriving to celebrate

just a never lonely highway

being called beautiful by little kids

sunlight hitting on mountains

the big rock i step on the way to pool from bharlepani

the awe in eyes of small children when they see me,an unfamiliar face

warm hands of my aama and her strange way of loving by giving me extra milk , rushing to get me 200rs from the total of her 500 and always waiting for me bringing me blanket when i sleep on the couch her making me tamatar ko aachar because i like it very much

my view from the balcony

madi river with friends

panipuri evenings love life live life.