Anshu Subedi

  I have always dreamt of a pink lehenga. Not because I loved the color...No, pink always felt too delicate for a girl like me.  But because they said it was the color of a girl who knew her place.  Gentle. Soft. Desirable.  A shade that bends but never breaks.  They said, “One day, you’ll look perfect in pink.” And for years, I thought that meant I would look perfect when I was myself entirely. You know, it starts long before the lehenga.  Long before the turmeric stains your skin, before the gold sits heavy on your neck.  It begins in the whispers of women at weddings. “Her mother must be so relieved. Finally, someone took her.” Took her. Like she was a burden too large for one household. I have seen those women, their bangles jingling as they serve tea, their voices lowered to match the sound of their anklets.  They talk of their husbands like gods and their sacrifices like hymns, but if you look close enough..closer than you're meant to..you’l...

  I wonder if the stars ever feel cheated. They hang there,so far away, so shiny, so beautiful..only to watch lovers beneath them give their light away to someone else. I feel like that sometimes..a silent witness to things I will never own, moments that aren’t mine but haunt me as if they are. Did you run your fingers through her hair the way I wish you had only run them through mine?  Did you tuck it behind her ear with the tenderness of a sculptor perfecting his masterpiece?  Did you hold her hand just a little tighter in the cold, like you were trying to keep her from the frost?  I keep wondering..was your breath also in sync with hers just as mine ? Did you pull her closer in sleep, not as a conscious thought but as instinct, like the earth pulls the moon into orbit you know just the way you do it to me.? Did you buy her roses, or lilies, or something softer, like daisies?  Did you smile when you handed them to her? Or maybe you placed them on her pillow? I...

  मसान म शून्यको काखमा एक्लो मसान, न धुँवा,  न आगो,  न त जीवनको प्रमाण। सपनाको छालले बगाएको म एक अर्थहीन कथा, बाँच्न खोज्दै एक जिउँदो लास। कुन व्यथा लुकाऊँ,  कुन आँसु पिऊँ? भोक त मनको थियो, तर पेटै रित्तो भयो। घामको झुल्कोले मलिन गरा चुम्दैन, न जूनको किरणले यो निश्पट्ट हृदय छुन्छ, म मौनताको बादल, गहिरो कालो, जहाँ बिजुली पनि चम्किन डराउँछ। म शब्दको नदी,  तर हराएको बहाव, भित्रै गुम्सिएर शून्यमा विलाएको प्रभाव। कुन काव्यको गीत गाऊँ? कुन स्वरले यो निशब्दता तोडूँ? म ती पुरानो शिलालेखका अक्षर, जो समयको धुलोले पुरिएर अर्थहीन बने। एक जीवनको, एक मृत्युको, बीचमा उभिएको म, न यो पारि न त्यो पारि। म एउटा गोधूलि, जहाँ न त दिनको उमंग छ, न रातको शान्ति। कसैले सम्झनु पर्दैन मलाई, कसैले बिर्सनु पनि पर्दैन। म ती ओझेलका घाँसका बीउ, जसले ढुंगाको मुटु चिर्न जान्दछन्। तर आफ्नै जरामा सखाप हुने नियति बोकेर। मलाई अब न केही चाहिन्छ, न केही खोज्नुछ। म केवल एउटा मसान, जहाँ  जीवनको कथा र मृत्युको मौनता संगै सुत्छ।

  What if I won’t be here tomorrow?  What if tonight is the last time I breathe in this world?  Would anyone notice? Would anything change? My coffee cup..it sits there every morning, waiting to be filled. What will it do without me? Will it gather dust, forgotten in a corner, or will someone else fill it ? And my scrunchie..faithful, constant, holding me together when I’m falling apart. Who will it tie to? Who will wrap it around their wrist and feel the  promise of a better day? My water bottle..it knows me too well, waiting patiently for me to clear it by 1 pm. It won’t understand why it’s left untouched, half-full, abandoned. And my floral dresses..oh, those dresses! Waiting eagerly for me to pull them out, to layer them with sweaters, to bring them to life. They’ll stay in the dark, their colors fading. Then there are my earbuds, begging for my bomb playlist. The songs will go unheard, lyrics echoing into a void where no one’s there to hum along. And my iPad..it...

  The Cracks in My Sky Do you know what it feels like to live inside a glass jar? The world is there so close, but I can’t touch it. I scream, but the sound bounces back, trapping me with my own voice, my own despair. They say I’m fragile, but they are the ones who throw stones. Each crack in the glass is a scar on my soul, each shard a piece of me they took. Then there's a voice, it rings like thunder, telling me to step out into a storm I didn’t ask for. She calls it love, but love isn’t supposed to make you drown. I wanted roots, a place to grow, but she handed me wings and shoved me into the wind. And there's him, his hands were maps of discipline, but they never led me home. They only left bruises, reminders of the places I didn’t belong. I look in the mirror, and I see their portions carved into my skin. Too much, too little, too broken. A nose that doesn’t fit, hair that glistens with shame, eyes that still beg for approval. But what do they know about this chaos? This s...

   Yes, novels cost money, and yet the pages, filled with worlds unknown, call to me like old friends waiting to be rediscovered.  Yes, Red Bull might spike my heart, but there’s something about that brief rush that makes the world feel alive for a moment.  Yes, cigarettes when I'm too stressed or battling anxiety attacks feel like a fragile shield. The smoke swirls around me, and for a moment, I breathe easier, even though I know it's not the answer.  Yes, late night scrolling leaves my eyes heavy and tired, but in those quiet hours, I find a kind of peace in the chaos of thoughts. Yes, chocolate may leave stains in my skin , yet in its sweetness, I find comfort.  Yes, coffee races my pulse and makes my hands shake, but in the warmth of the cup, I feel a connection to all the dreams yet to be chased.  Yes, staying up until dawn leaves me tangled in exhaustion, but in those quiet hours, when the world sleeps and I’m alone with my thoughts, there’s a ce...

       You need to help yourself.People throw it at me like it’s a solution, like I’m some broken thing that just needs to be fixed. But I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know what’s wrong anymore. I just know that I cry. Over and over and over again. Until my throat burns, my chest aches, and my eyes feel like they’ll never dry. But it doesn’t stop. Even when the tears do, it doesn’t stop. The pain just sits there, quietly gnawing at me, like it’s part of me. Like it’s all I am. My head feels like it’s going to split open. It pounds and screams, louder than my thoughts, louder than anything I could ever say. But no one hears it. No one sees it. I’m so tired. So unbelievably tired. I sleep just to escape it all, to drown myself in nothingness for a few hours. But even that’s not enough. I wake up, and it’s all still here. This crushing, suffocating weight that reminds me I’m alive when all I want is not to be. Sometimes, I think about not waking up at all. I...