I smell pickles.
I smell tadka. It’s 8am.
I hear the water gush down pipelines
It has just stopped raining.
The incredible – for a loss of words-
View outside my window
Is a lush green garden bursting with flowers
I can’t name.
I hear kids quarreling at the top
Of their voices.
I can already imagine what the parents will
Saturdays are Sundays here
So everyone is at home.
Either planning a visit to relative’s
Or perhaps a temple they’ve been meaning to go to.
While some are thinking whether they should
Manage the meals with the vegetables turning black in the fridge or perhaps buy a crate
Of fresh eggs or maybe some chicken or buff.
Maybe it’s a good day for some curry-rice.
Perhaps take the kids to the zoo which is
A stone’s throw away from our neighborhood.
And yes, get them those pastries from hot breads.
Maybe Patan darbar if time permits?
Or should we settle for a nice time
At home? The kids look unmanageable today.
Perhaps let them watch Shin-chan (or whatever it is kids watch in Nepal) and eat chips for a change.
Before we forget we should call the grandparents.
Is it sad that it’s become a chore.
But they will insist on visiting and quite honestly everyone just wants to sleep in today.
Did I just say we?
But I’m just a girl in a new city
That has begun to tell it’s stories to me.
Making me believe I could be in them too.
Oh I should go get some milk
We don’t have a refrigerator
So we buy it fresh from the shop.
And maybe some vegetables too.
I hear the parents consoling the kids
In a foreign tongue. And they’ve succeeded.
Perhaps they will visit the granny living
At their uncle’s in Khokana, after all.
And perhaps I’ll make chicken today.
Even though I planned to read all
Day with a cup of tea. And in the evening,
Walk around Boudha, in disbelief.
I’m here, after all.