As the years passed, I became increasingly shackled by the mundane—drained by its repetitive cycle.

To most people, I’m just another face in the crowd, someone they recognise only as a stranger—someone they don’t need to forget because they never remember.

As the waves touched my feet, rose to my shins, and then retreated into the ocean, I was reminded of a time several years ago.

When I looked into the man’s big eyes, it was as if he wasn’t seeing the reflection of the world that I or anyone else saw, but something beyond.

In the middle of the ride, the woman turned towards the window and spat, which, although quite inappropriate, is perfectly normal in Nepal, where all sorts of rights are sought for and entertained.

The superpower of bus conductors is that they always see the bus half-empty when others see it completely full.

It was my first time entering the bus park, although I had heard of it long enough to know that the new bus park was, in fact, quite old.

A few years older, and I would be part of the Walkman generation. But the iPod shuffle was the best matchmaker for my rather passive pursuit of the right melody.

Had this been in Kathmandu, I would have thought it was a weekend, mistaking the laid-back steps of country life for Saturday lethargy.

Perhaps we mistake the brief moments of bliss that grace us every now and then for contentment.

There is nothing uglier than an incomplete effort.

I enter the small room and find myself in the presence of a mountain of files covered in a thick film of dust. There's no one else in the room.

I wear the uniform of the character I will be playing for the rest of the day. There are times I wonder how an act so distant from the cravings of the heart could define existence.

If only I were rich, I used to say to myself long ago, but not anymore because in all likelihood I never will be.

What difference is there then between what I remember and what I imagine, and can I imagine what I cannot verify and still sincerely consider it as the truth?