'The best pictures are uninvited, they're suddenly there in front of you ... easy to see but difficult to catch. Some people take pictures, I find them. These pictures are the real me.'
So do stories. Waking up in-between the night- running to Swoyambhu. Counting steps- one, two, three… three hundred fifty three. Panting, sweating heavily. Slightly frightened, little excited. That's how the night continued. Two days later, I was on the rooftop again. Cold, shivering and without anything but a pen, a notebook, that my brother gave to me to use in college, and a cell. But I couldn't even write. I'd no words- there I sat silently.
The dark blue sky was nothing unusual- but I was. Careful, and just feeling things. I'd already lost my words- all my words in the last few years. It was a slow process, the chrysalis. Now, time for the search. Like rising from the ashes of Berlin bunkers. From the cloistered mountains of Bamyan. Devil or God! But it was cold. Soft, silent. Smell of moonshine. Irritating. Breathe. Provoking to rain, legs, sounds and attack of knowledge. Thirst, quest.
And, there again ecstasy turned into works. Works. Dreams continued on old grounds. Plans. Flames were not new, naught. Adventures ceased at Kantipur. So it's time to think-travel. Travel- oh yeas. I'm in search for those early words that revelled my childhood. It's time to move on- and into those early years. Letters. Cards. Songs. But with a new meaning that awaits them. Yes, always late. Sorry, never on time.
But I'm finding real me- and I'm lost midway. Not a picture anymore, not a story here.
Kathmandu is quiet these days amidst so much chaos and complaints. I'm working on a new site. On my life. Before the untimely jujube ripened by worm-nipping falls suddenly, I'll leave you something to find. Like they had before me.