Dalli Maya sat on the handrails of a steel parapet at the entrance of the café. The café was on a cul-de-sac, with alleys wrung in all directions. She wore a red ribbon around her braids, and locks of her hair shone colourfully in the languid September sun.

Goloman stood five feet tall and his head was shaped like a potato. For ten years, he had served as a secretary to the Department of Rights and Duties; the appointment for which was acquired by his late father who upon his retirement from public affairs had invested skillfully towards establishing important personal connections with important kangresis.

The copper gilded finial of Nyatapol Deval gleamed in day light before fawning tourists who, fascinated by the nuances and mystique of Newari architecture, continually snapped photos with visible glee and smiles on their faces. Tourists, sporting Aladdin trousers and Thamel’s printed tops, made their way to Taumadhi Tole which had only just welcomed the arrival of spring with the Bisket Jatra. The tole felt restful with a gentle breeze dancing westwards.

Kumal was merely fifteen when he was accosted one afternoon by his elder brother, who told him that a family in Kathmandu required his services.

I used to be a Byronic hero plagued with melancholic and pensive temperance.

“….with certitude, Dai, I confide in you that I shall commit suicide at some point of time, plausibly at twenty seven, not because I would get all depressed or heartbroken but that, I would feel enough of love. Maybe too much love will kill me,” I said, rather dryly.