The clock tower rings seven bells. Aama must be waiting at the dining table for me, I think. I pack up, put a few files into my bag and leave the office. The guard jots down the time in the register. I walk to Ringroad, and wait for the bus to Koteshwor.

The dark—it frightens, it soothes. The light—it resurrects, it hurts. The mirror—it troubles, it reminds him of what he has lost—her.

I am in love with my balcony. I am in love with the universe and everything inside it. I am in love with my town which is a small part of my country, which itself is a little piece of our tiny planet. I am in love with the chaos of the day and the peace of the night.

I was and in fact, still am an unusual child. I neither acquiesced to idiocy nor was I confrontational; I just questioned—a lot and used my own logic to work things out.

In a universe of more than a hundred billion galaxies (yes, that is a one with eleven zeroes) and still counting, one would have to zoom in 40 times to see the Milky Way, 4000 times more to see our nearby stars, an astounding 20000 zooms to see the solar system and 10000 more to find the Earth along with our Moon. This small sphere comprises everything we have ever known, everyone we have ever loved and all the places we can call “home”.