“You are a grown-up man now. What do you want to make out of your life?”

“So, what’s next? Are you planning to prepare for the public service examination or applying for abroad?”

These are the common questions people hurl at me when I pass by them on the streets, in parks and on my way to unplanned hikes. All I do is offer a silent smile, a way of evading the subject matter for a brief instant. Every time people pose a question concerning my career, my mind swirls and I dip into the abyss of cynicism.

If I speak my heart out, the person listening to my answer might deem me an aimless loafer, for I don’t know what I want to do with my life. The one thing I know is that it’s better to be honest and not fabricate a story about your bright career. It’s funny how people prefer cherished lies over naked truth.

Once when I confided in my teacher that I had no ambitions in life and that I was just studying to pursue a degree, he told me that I should not have studied. What I didn’t say further was that I’m still 23 and exploring my life, that I’m craning my neck to find what’s better for me.

“You are wasting your parent’s money,” he had said. The whole class glanced at me as if I was a criminal. The ones who declared their lofty ambitions have now gone abroad, completely diverging their avenues. And here I am, stuck and confused, as always. Truth be told, at 23, I’m yet to decide my next move if I’m even willing to take a step.

One of my friends, whom I always meet at the ground in the evening, often used to ask me for a drink in earlier days. He thought that I was refusing to join him for a drink but when the next friend intervened and explained that I never drink, he finally gave in, eyeing me like I’m some alien.

I tagged along with him one evening at Friend’s Cafe in Damside. There, he ordered a bottle of wine for him and a bowl of pasta for me. By the time the cafe’s owner called it a day, the table was occupied with so many bottles I lost interest in keeping the count. That day, when he told me about his love story, I felt like I was not the saddest creature by any means.

Unable to move on, he had just held on to memories shared with his girlfriend, who left him for another guy. It’s not her mistake anyway. No one loves being with a guy who binge-watches movies all day long and smokes eight cigarettes a day. I should not be doing it but I can’t help finding solace in his obnoxious lifestyle.

Once, I had shared his story with my ex-girlfriend. “Oh, you better upgrade your yardstick,” she had suggested. “You shouldn’t be befriending someone like him,” was what she had said. The funny part is that she had long left me.

Not long, actually—I think it was after she went to Turkey under the Erasmus Mundus scholarship for her master’s degree. She always used to convince me that we both go abroad, finish our studies and then return to Nepal to marry. My parents have always believed that when one leaves his country, then they are highly unlikely to settle back in their native land.

Being a single son, I had no option but to adhere to my parents’ ideas. And staying in Nepal means being fenced by frustrated youths who have either faced the ordeals of visa rejection or failed the public service examinations.

Like every other mother in the world, my mother wants me to get settled and stand on my own feet. My father thinks that I should do some business as he always maintains that jobs don’t yield great success in life. When I told my father that I looked forward to pursuing an MBA, he didn’t oppose my decision and asked how much it exactly cost to finish the degree.

“Do you think you should be doing a job while pursuing your degree?” my mother had once asked with the hope that I wouldn’t put much pressure on my father. “No,” I said and they didn’t ask further.

What I have promised my parents is that even if I don’t make money in life, I will continue to study, that I will once be a promising sensation that everyone is bound to know, whether they like it or not. I remember a guy bringing his mother during the admission session for MBA at the university.

I remember how she had flaunted her husband, a doctor running the city’s private clinic. I was so sure that she would ask me about what my father does, whether he is a doctor or a professor. To my surprise, the woman just asked what vehicle I had driven to get to the university. I didn’t have to ask to verify that she was driving a posh car.

At that moment, I sketched an image in my mind: my parents working in Nagaland, India some thirty years ago, trying their best to save every penny for the future of children yet to be born. My father always says he was unfortunate that he couldn’t remember his parents, for they died when he was small. He always looks stern when he mentions that he always wanted to study. “There was no means,” he often says, adding, “that’s why I want you to study as much as you can.” It never bothers my father that I have not started earning.

Society points out that no one at 23 studies with the parent’s money, but my father loves me and he is ready to leave no stone unturned to give me a good future. My mother can’t even write her name, and that is the reason why I’m keen to learn as many words as I can. When I see a woman who’s not educated but just as hardworking, I always remember my mother.

When I see a frustrated youth who thinks his future is doomed, I always imagine how his mother will feel if she knows her son is on the verge of defeat. When I find a young man who has lost his way and is into something ill, I feel bad for him and his family. My friend, who has still not recovered from his breakup trauma, has received enough lectures already.

I always tell him that it’s okay to love someone with all your heart, but it’s insanity to waste your life thinking about a girl who has already started her new life.

Honestly, I had many girlfriends and I had bad breakups—but I have not lost the grip on my emotions. As for my other friends, I know everyone is on the same page. Almost everyone is anxious and confused; some dare to speak honestly, while some conceal their sufferings by telling lies and stories.

I remember it well, an Irish friend had once told me, “If you are breathing fine and giving your hundred per cent to whatever you are doing, then you should not feel worthless. A human life is a blessing already.” I’m not sure about where I’m really heading, but the only thing I care about is not letting my parents down and giving my hundred per cent.

Well, it’s not necessary to be far-sighted and serious about life all the time, so talking of the next week, I have a plan made in my mind—I’m heading to Lalitpur to meet a companion whom I have been talking to on Instagram for four months.

When I meet her, most probably, I’ll vent out the crisis I’m going through. She will ask me to lean my head on her shoulder as I explain to her about my problems. She might do the same.

The next day, we will bid each other goodbye and get back to face our own set of problems. Maybe, it will be the only time we get to see each other. When the raindrop splashes against the pavement the next monsoon, she will remember my touch and the comfort she once found in my soft palms. Perhaps I’ll forget her—I’m not really sure. I’ll continue to live with only a few people around, struggling yet battling with my agonising life. Even at that instant, I’ll hope that it’s not just me who feels both—empty and determined.