There’s no one to talk to
in the buzzing streets of Kathmandu,
everything has frozen in this town;
no calm even in the mannequin eyes standing
erect in the fancy boutiques along
the termite-eaten streets of the city.
Swirling dust and choking fumes infuse
with the breath of pallid roadside trees.
The landscape changes as the rain fall
and the leaves smile again.
Isolated raindrops, expelled lovers
before their first kiss lie
along the twigs of the branches
— round, sparkling globules
— undulating without descent.
And then everything changes again
when the leaves fall, everything changes.
Once they touch the ground
they turn into ciphers
the sublime truths of life
beneath their layers.
The barriers people create between nature
and windows, walls, doors,
are not really barriers in Kathmandu
for you can talk with all. And you can
never be bored, you just have to sit
and look at the people passing by
and there’s so much to say.
Gazing deep into Buddha’s serpent eyes,
one feels like being in a Time Machine.
But sometimes, there is silence,
utter silence of a sadhu’s stare
into the infinity in Kathmandu,
silence of old mansions
where only a caretaker kills time.
And the civilians of the nation disappear
like the water sprouts of the valley
choking my soul to the core.
There is not a person that I can talk to
in the rustic streets of Kathmandu.
I am as forlorn and lonely as a man snoozing
on an unused railway tracks
in some old Indian town.
I hardly ever go out now.
I am fed up with the squalor of urban life
where everyone is not what they seem to be.
I should have stayed back
at the banks of the river Sunkoshi
that festoons my village
chewing the pebbles
of my pristine dreams.
These days, I leave my home
only to meet Yuyu, chat up nonstop over
endless cups of masala tea
at Shreejana’s White Lotus Book Shop,
watching the poems turn into
colorful serpents and climb the murky trees
enveloped in grey mist.
I leave my home only to meet Yuyu
and share a joke or two,
listen to his sharp one-liners.
anecdotes of his travels from
the shores of his dreams
and laugh aloud
celebrating full-blooded flame
lighted in honor of his vagabond Muse.
His words little by little entrap you,
enwrap your soul in their singing silence,
at the end of the day feeding my shriveled soul.
And often as we wave goodbye,
he delves deep into a silence
that soon turns into a river of endless vigor.
The poem dangles from
the edge of his serene mouth.
And dreamy prose
dances over his misty eyelashes.
And the silence
an ode to the Kathmandu Valley.
If one dares to pay heed.
Bio of the poet: Bhuwan Thapaliya is a prolific poet writing in English from Kathmandu, Nepal. He works as an economist and is the author of four poetry collections – Our Nepal, Our Pride, Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected, Verses from the Himalayas and Rhythm of the Heart.
His poetry had been published Internationally in various literary journals, magazines, and anthologies such as WordCity Literary Journal, The Poet Magazine, International Human Rights Arts Festival, Life in Quarantine: Witnessing Global Pandemic Initiative by the Poetic Media Lab and Center for Spatial and Textual Analysis at Stanford University, Poetry and Covid: A project funded by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council( University of Plymouth, and Nottingham Trent University), Longfellow Literary Project, VOICES( Education Project),Poetry Life and Times, Valient Scribe, Poets Against the War, among many others.
He has read his poetry and attended seminars in venues around the world, including South Korea, India, the United States, Thailand, Cambodia, and Nepal.