We must have been just another Asian couple to their eyes. Because he could have been placed anywhere from the Middle-east to South Asia. And I could be placed anywhere from South to the Southeast of Asia.

The spirit of this festival has also been at the heart of openness to change.

By the time I finish telling my favourite umbrella story, we’ve managed to hail a taxi and gotten in. I knew it was going to be a story with a happy ending, you say.

Because the “other” is also always the “me”. The “other” is a reflection of who you are.

Over the last few months of being isolated at home, I’ve come to realise that if I have a religion, it is my solitude.

I’ve learned that it is pain that makes bodies beautiful. They give them character in how they bend or curve or hang in heaviness.

One day, she wrote Titir a long letter and slipped it under her door. It didn’t occur to her that the move would only cause her object of dedication to further stiffen against her.

You always came to me for conversations. You knew that was all I ever had, to offer. And that’s exactly why you came around this time as well. To converse. To find distraction.

How borrowed pillows helped me understand a love that comes not from a place of desire but generosity and kindness.

Treading through the tides—of memory and of the moment.

During distraught and lonely moments, I think of how lucky I am to experience a house of my own—in a world where women and girls are denied the right to personal or public space.

I let the ambiguity hang in the air. There are a thousand ways of saying no.

We fill our lives with the memory of absences, and mine is filled with Kathmandu’s images.

An ode to the trees that reminds us that beauty is still a possibility.

People like Tatai, capable of loving, appeared unreal to her. Like a mask would someday come off and a disaster would unfold.