The air was thick with smell of warm earth mingling with rain. Ashraya gingerly opened up her umbrella as she waited for the bus. Her home was at a walking distance of fifteen minutes from where she was stopped, but the roads were muddy and she didn’t want her new sandals to get any dirtier than they already were. She looked around. There weren’t many people milling about, owing perhaps to the heavy shower. Usually, there would be hardly any space to stand on in this part of Kathmandu and today, she appreciated the space. Finally a bus appeared and Ashraya signaled it to stop. It wasn’t crowded and she found a seat reserved for women in the front row. Seated by the window Ashraya found herself relaxing, peeking out at the roads and occasional trees, awash with rain and greenery. But mostly, what she saw was concrete, and it put her off.

Pokhara, where she was originally from, was different altogether: Full of greenery, fresh air and lakes at a walking distance. She had spent a large part of her childhood and teenage years at Pokhara, walking around the shops in Mahendrapool, and having lunches at Lakeside.

Ashraya shook off her nostalgia and got up as her stop neared. Struggling with mud and puddles, she walked up to her house, no longer caring if her shoes got dirty. That ship had sailed just like her times at her hometown, Pokhara. She could reminisce about her hometown without tearing up. The view from her room in Pokhara had been soul-stirring, with mountains and hills standing majestically whenever she parted the curtains in the morning. The scenery was part of the charm of her teenage days, but it was only a fragment of it.

As she went down the memory lane, a face with dark eyes and newly-grown stubble appeared before her eyes. Even after all these years, the memory of the face made her skip a beat and deeply long to turn back time. Yes, she reflected, Pokhara was beautiful not just because of its natural beauty but also because of her ties and tribulations with the town, especially the time spent with the boy with a newly-grown beard, Arbindh. Tall with brown skin and thick, carefully combed hair, Arbindh had features that would send girls crooning. What she would do, she mulled, to be with him right now—wandering around Lakeside and laughing y at each other’s jokes, baffling their friends and onlookers.

Pokhara stood in her mind as a backdrop, while Arbind was her focus. He would be laughing with ease, the skin around his eyes crinkling with merriment; her memories of him were vivid. The long strides that he would take walking around the streets like he owned the town would always leave her following him with quick steps. His plans for future were detailed and precise and she would take in all of his words: A bachelor’s degree abroad in Literature, then possibly a grant which would mean he would have time to write and occasionally travel around the world, mostly Europe. Rome, Paris, Madrid, Amsterdam, Copenhagen…

He would indulge his travel wishes with her and she would wonder if he imagined himself alone or with her by his side. He talked in soft tones and she almost always found herself angling closer to him to catch his words as if they were honey dew. He was widely read—from Tolstoy to Faulkner, from Dickens to Hemingway. His favorite writer was JD Salinger whom he worshipped. He loved the fact that J D Salinger was a recluse. “Just like me,” he would say, and she would mentally take a note to read Salinger’s works. He wrote beautiful poems but rarely shared it with the world and she felt lucky to get a chance to get glimpses of his remarkable writing. It was mostly written in English. He rarely wrote in Nepali;when asked why, he just shrugged but she guessed it was because of his brief stay in United States where his family lived for about five years while his father was completing his PhD.

Her eyes stung with tears every time she remembered those notes scribbled in paper napkins which were carefully folded. Every once in a while he would take these pieces of paper carefully out of his wallet and read out loud for her. In return, she would listen with genuine interest and pride. She knew he would be successful and, most likely, a famous writer, and she couldn’t wait to see him gain accolades that he deserved.But the truth was he never did.

Fate separated her from him in the cruelest way imaginable. Her dreams came to halt suddenly that one day. It was a rainy day, just like today. He was on his way to Begnas, on a bike, she later found out. And next thing she knew was he was no more. All his dreams, and seemingly, Ashraya’s too, breathed their last there. The fact burned a hole in her memory and nursed a raging anger in her heart. His time in this world was cut short and she was left alone, with shared memories, visions and unmade plans. He had died at 20, the month before he was due to attend college in America to major in literature.

As much as fate was cruel, Ashraya had moved on, but memories do what they do best. They haunt, in the deep recesses of mind, wreaking havoc in the hollows of the heart.

To bear life without him, Ashraya sought a different city, Kathmandu. It was in Kathmandu that she buried herself in grief and studies. She was a good student, always had been, but memories are hard to delete especially of the ones you love.

Once home, Ashraya kicked off her shoes and went straight to her room and changed into comfortable clothes. Among trinkets of jewelries in her dresser, there were carefully folded napkins and she unfolded one of them and read a poem that was engraved in her heart. It was his last poem, his last legacy and her last shared memory with him.She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. She sat down at the desk and opened her laptop and clicked upon an email which was a confirmation of her flight and an itinerary for her travels. Rome, Paris, Madrid, Amsterdam, Copenhagen…