Back then in university, a kind of speech competition was organized. With the quest of learning and meeting new people, I too participated in the event. As I went to stage, a big flush went out from the three amazingly beautiful girls sitting in the first row (I came to know later from my friends that my paint zip was open and my shirt’s edges were out of my zip.) Looking at those girls laughing, my mouth got dry and the whole body trembled. I said the first two sentences, forgot everything else in between, and finally said the last two sentences.
Disappointed I returned to my home in Gaushala with a gloomy face. I asked mom not to cook food for me. Sitting beside the dusty window in the rainy evening, I felt as if the stars were teasing me; as if the rains were saying I am worthless; as if the clouds were gesturing I was born for mockery.
“All my life I have been a failure. I don’t think I’ll be good at anything,” I lamented. I walked to my mother-tree, a small umbrella-shaped tree which gives the conjunct smell of a newly born baby and her mother. I hugged her, “Oh Manasi, I wish I could let myself go. I wish I was never born at all.” Drunk with the overwhelming thoughts of destituteness, I slept away under the tree.
The next morning, a “Cling” sound woke me up. I saw a message request in my messenger. She was one of the amazingly beautiful girls who blushed at me in the program. Indeed, she was the most beautiful one. Our conversation started formally with ‘Hi,' 'k Gardai,' and 'Khaja Khayaw.' She was both playfully amusing and confusing. For instance, she would send only funny memes to answer my personal questions. Soon, she started to flirt with me. As a counter-response, I didn’t disappoint her. And why should I?
It was almost five years after my class 10, I have practiced celibacy like no one. And what have I gained? Nothing, but loneliness... That terrible loneliness which makes a mockery of what human life should be.
After a few hours of chit-chat, she asked me if we could meet. I said I will be fine. She asked, “How would be 7 o'clock evening today at Maya cafe?” I acted for a while as if I was busy, “Ahhm 7 o’clock, that will be fine.” By now, my instincts were telling that an unknown hurricane is on its way.
Excited but skeptical, I climbed up the dark lane in the hill of Pashupati Dada to reach Maya Cafe. It was a veg-cafe at the top of the Pashupati area in a very serene and quiet place. It was very dark then. A very dim candle was placed at the cafe. And there she was all alone in the cafe. She was wearing a brown grown and always maintained eye contact with me. It wasn’t a sensual feeling with her but a feeling of gratitude and love. She said, “Hi,” and the chatting started. But what could I speak? Nothing, I just dazzled at her eyes, and not eyes but divinity, that divinity for which you might spare your life. They were like that of a snake’s— very hypnotizing. It was as if her eyes were dragging all energies of my body. And, the Gajal, oh goddess, made it look even more mystifying. Her teeth were like pearls as if made by a great artist. Her face was like the moon, but the one with no spots. Even today when I gaze at the moon, I see her beautiful face on it. Her boundless curly hairs, as if they are gods who are there to guard her beauty. Her hands, which I asked if I could touch them with a scientific intention, were warm as if they are providing warmness to all. Her words were all that of wisdom- unending wisdom from a different world. She knew everything but there wasn't even a single word of pride. As an interruption, she smiled; and what could I do, I smiled back too. She spoke for hours but for me, it was as if only a small split of a second has passed. In the end, she handed me an old looking letter saying, “I like giving gifts to people. Please accept this.”
“Sorry, but I bought nothing for you,” said I, rubbing my fingers against my hair.
“No worries. I will myself take when the time comes,” replied she. She said many of these kinds of amusing things. But who cares about the meaning, when words are so enchanting.
We climbed down the hill. I was totally unaware of this place until she told it to me. However, it seemed as if she knew this road very well. Passing through the Vashmeshwor temple and Arya Ghat, I took her up to the Gaushala Chowk. Again, there she behaved awkwardly by not letting me stay with her while she gets a bus.
"As my lord wishes," said I and headed home. Soon after I arrived home, I scrambled the old dusty envelope and saw there was a letter written in an old brown Peepal leaf with red ink. It had only one single sentence in a Sanskrit letter “Lawourn NA Kadapi Ahaa”. It's English translation was, “Please! Never let me go.” I smelled the paper and it had a smell of blood. “Oh, goddess! It is written by blood- fresh blood.”
"Knock! Knock! Knock!" someone was beating my door.