In a village, an old man clings to memories of his sons, hoping they will return. But as festivals approach, he knows he’ll face the holiday alone.

In Copenhagen, two Nepali friends face a growing chasm of mistrust, revealing the fragility of relationships.

I enjoyed nature’s symphony while she disappeared into the world of literature, oblivious to everything around her.

I wandered without direction, letting my thoughts drift. Raindrops clung to the leaves, shimmering like tiny jewels.

To most people, I’m just another face in the crowd, someone they recognise only as a stranger—someone they don’t need to forget because they never remember.

Caught between her Nepali roots and Indian identity, Tamang recalls the day when democracy and violence collided.

The rain may have dispersed the crowd, but the stories remained, lingering in the air, shared over coffee and a copy of ‘The Great Gatsby’.

I look around and see a lot of familiar faces. So, this is what an informal college function looks like?

The dusty curtains of his room blocked the natural light coming in. Unkempt beard and long hair were the signs of his depression.

I pictured us meeting by chance, perhaps in a quaint café. He’d look across the room, our eyes would lock, and the world would fall away.

The long-awaited day had come for Ramesh—the opening of a new community library in his village of Lamagaun, a little settlement in the hills of Pokhara.

Priya felt a surprising and profound tenderness for Vincent. His presence was a beacon of warmth in the dimly lit hospital room.

The dusk has settled, and it’s late, getting darker every second. The sky is a deep purple, almost violet, like the ink I used for my sixth-grade homework.

As the waves touched my feet, rose to my shins, and then retreated into the ocean, I was reminded of a time several years ago.

Christo was exhilarated by the thought of being considered eccentric. He had come to Nepal to experience and observe, not to seek comfort.

I reached out, and in a breath, I was transported to another place of existence entirely, a realm far beyond the mundane purgatory of the Tribhuvan International Airport.

As the night unfolds, I discover more about Maya. She shares her adventures, her aspirations to defy societal norms, and embracing life to the fullest.

When Aarohi emerged from her shell and wrote a story about a monkey, she wasn’t just a storyteller; she was a conqueror of her doubts and fears.

The doors open in a blur and a pair of strong hands pull me inside. A big man pulls a black cloth bag on my head and then punches me.

Nita, a so-called good girl, was my parents’ favourite. They often compared us but I didn’t like her.