Suraj and Bijay are childhood friends. One wishes to stay in the country, and the other is trying to leave.

While navigating the bustling streets to the museum, a stranger left a lasting impression on my heart.

As Anil and Bikram entered Thamel, a rumour spread like wildfire: thieves were among them, stealing from the festival-goers.

She was supposed to attend a business conference at Hotel Indrawati, far from the neighbourhood.

I wanted the calls to stop. She wanted to disappear. But sometimes, even a wrong number leads to the right questions.

In his five years on the job, Samrat had never seen his boss pass his desk without yelling, glaring, or making a snide remark.

As the years passed, I became increasingly shackled by the mundane—drained by its repetitive cycle.

The more classes I attend, the more I feel out of place, like living in a village where the language feels foreign.

In the predawn hours, she collides with a drunk driver’s car, setting off a tale of vengeance.

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.