Prateebha Tuladhar

Tuladhar has worked as a journalist for over a decade, with affiliations to Kantipur TV and German Press Agency.

Latest from Prateebha Tuladhar

Short shorts

With some people, you can never tell. That’s how it was with her the first time he saw her. He could not tell who she was, what she did or thought, or how old. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed her. He saw her standing outside the bookstore. She waited for a bit and then she walked off in haste and was gone. Not important enough to take notice.


Weary. Weary is the word that comes to mind when I think of Mam. She used to run errands for Mamu when we still lived in that little house on the hillside on the outskirts of Boudha. I’ve been trying to recall her name and I cannot, because I think I was never taught to know her by her name.

Looking in

The man cannot talk. To anyone. Not even his mother. He is a man of schedule. He can only function as he has been taught to. Under the guidance of the social norms of right and wrong.

Memory interrupted

I’m four. Maybe five. I’m visiting my grandparents in their working quarters in Nuwakot.Socialising with neighbour-colleagues after work, is a part of life at Trishuli Colony. I’m part of this for close to two months of my winter vacation. I’m mostly the entertainer in the household.

A house of my own

I didn’t sleep very well last night. My feet felt like a furnace and there were pins and needles on my back. I tossed and turned until I fell asleep again. I had fever dreams— they were fragments of our Mahankal home. It left me wondering why we’ve never had a conversation about that house. After all, it is where you began to take shape inside Mamu. It’s a different story that we’d moved by the time you arrived, and no one ever thought of visiting the place again.

Period Paranoia-II

I sat on the commode, dripping like a tap for what felt like an eternity. And I’m not making this up. I was dripping blood, a couple of drops per second.


1. The air is thick where we stand. 2. The sky is heavy, like it were on the brink of tears.3. I suck the air in and it tastes like water.4. The rain has stopped. It’s time we left.

Remembering a rock called Miss Hawley

It was the day of Bhai Tika. He could not hope to rush things like he desired. What he did desire was to dash to Durbar Marg, where he would be interviewing for a job. But that was not happening. His sisters fussed over the procedure. Over the special meal. Over the garlands and the lights. And he got delayed.

This is how I die

My earliest knowledge of death goes back to the time I was a little girl. It was a Saturday morning and I think my parents were probably not in a hurry to go anywhere. I remember being half awake as I heard them talking—sipping tea—about death.

Conversations are all

I sleep in the room exactly above the one my grandfather sleeps in. My bed sits in the same position in my room as my grandfather’s in his room downstairs. We fall asleep, when we do, in the same corner of the house. Me upstairs. Him downstairs.

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