From a distant I could see the dying rays of Sun brightened only my house. The evening sun looked warm and charming as if it were smiling at me. My home seemed to smile back at me. On the courtyard of the house close to the road, a smiling grandfather had stretched his both hands; his body little bent luring a toddler who seemed to have just learnt to walk to come to him. I wanted to believe the sun would have a similar face if it were to take the look of a man. On the corner where the main road bade bye to a small path leading to my home, the wall read ‘Punk is not dead’. I do not know exactly what does that mean, but I like it somewhere, I like the way ‘Punk’ is written, the way ‘P’ is bulged. If Punk is not dead he/it/she is being lived by somebody else. I read that line whenever I realize there it is written, I take ‘is not dead’ to inspire myself. ‘Long live death metal’, a line that comes attached to signature in every mail from a friend comes in my mind. I like that passion, his passion in spite of the fact I run away from heavy metal etc.
At home the living room with books spread on the floor welcomes me. The unfinished homeworks of Sarita stares back at me and I take it for granted that she has sneaked into the other room to watch tv programs. I do not know which book is that but the image looks familiar, not even the image but the color, light pink. The image of the book vanishes and there gets stuck the image of cave-men roasting meat inside the cave. Their monkey looking face, wire like beard and their eyes focused on the fire brings before me the bare nature of the man, his greed. That is the image from ‘Social Studies’ book I studied when I was in grade 3, almost 16-17 years back. I am there in the living room bent, my body resting on my bent knees, pencil moving in my hand. I remember the golden tooth, the brown hair of my teacher, the gap between the teeth. She smiles back at me, soon I am in my 3rd grade classroom. Soon the noise fills in, few known faces few forgotten faces brighten up the whole environment. ‘Tukk Tukk’ a thin stick pats the blackboard. The golden tooth, the gap, the brown hair, the fair face and the stick have become inseparable in my memories. Once my brother told me a woman had recognized him, asked him what I was doing telling she had taught both of us. He didn’t remember her name, I asked him if she had golden tooth, fair face, brown hair, gap in the teeth. I must have been silly she might be looking completely different now but deep down I thought it was her. The next day I went to the shop described by him but didn’t find her, no one knew someone like her, someone with name ‘Ambika Shrestha’, I must have gone to wrong place or I must have guessed wrong. She looked so different from my mother except that she shared her first name with my mother I found her similar to my mummy. Why are few pictures, few people, few events get permanently written in our memory. The squatting cave men, the cave with faint carvings I cannot identify, the fire, the pink color and a steel lunch box of a friend whose name was carved in it (I don’t remember the name) they wag before me. I remember few faces and remember few names. Has time treasured these things inside its embrace, I wonder. My dog who had been taken out for a walk runs toward me after smelling my presence. Slowly the noise become silent, the image of the cavemen and their cave gets wiped away, the same image that was in Sarita’s book is there again. The golden teeth, grey hair, thin stick and the gap everything vanishes. Sarita comes gathers her things and I sit alone in the empty room refreshed, rejoiced but still missing things.
At home the living room with books spread on the floor welcomes me. The unfinished homeworks of Sarita stares back at me and I take it for granted that she has sneaked into the other room to watch tv programs. I do not know which book is that but the image looks familiar, not even the image but the color, light pink. The image of the book vanishes and there gets stuck the image of cave-men roasting meat inside the cave. Their monkey looking face, wire like beard and their eyes focused on the fire brings before me the bare nature of the man, his greed. That is the image from ‘Social Studies’ book I studied when I was in grade 3, almost 16-17 years back. I am there in the living room bent, my body resting on my bent knees, pencil moving in my hand. I remember the golden tooth, the brown hair of my teacher, the gap between the teeth. She smiles back at me, soon I am in my 3rd grade classroom. Soon the noise fills in, few known faces few forgotten faces brighten up the whole environment. ‘Tukk Tukk’ a thin stick pats the blackboard. The golden tooth, the gap, the brown hair, the fair face and the stick have become inseparable in my memories. Once my brother told me a woman had recognized him, asked him what I was doing telling she had taught both of us. He didn’t remember her name, I asked him if she had golden tooth, fair face, brown hair, gap in the teeth. I must have been silly she might be looking completely different now but deep down I thought it was her. The next day I went to the shop described by him but didn’t find her, no one knew someone like her, someone with name ‘Ambika Shrestha’, I must have gone to wrong place or I must have guessed wrong. She looked so different from my mother except that she shared her first name with my mother I found her similar to my mummy. Why are few pictures, few people, few events get permanently written in our memory. The squatting cave men, the cave with faint carvings I cannot identify, the fire, the pink color and a steel lunch box of a friend whose name was carved in it (I don’t remember the name) they wag before me. I remember few faces and remember few names. Has time treasured these things inside its embrace, I wonder. My dog who had been taken out for a walk runs toward me after smelling my presence. Slowly the noise become silent, the image of the cavemen and their cave gets wiped away, the same image that was in Sarita’s book is there again. The golden teeth, grey hair, thin stick and the gap everything vanishes. Sarita comes gathers her things and I sit alone in the empty room refreshed, rejoiced but still missing things.
