You’re turning 25 this May. The age is neither big nor small. You are not at the juncture to recount your life stories; your stories won’t inspire anyone, and they don’t have to anyway. At six, you never imagined that you would think so deeply—you were devoid of avenues to reach those depths. You didn’t understand life and death and the space in between. Like flowing water in the river, which everyone takes for granted, life flows on, and it flows on without people realising that each day comes with a warning, silently whispering that they are one step closer to perishing. You wonder if everyone thinks the way you do. You marvel if everyone pauses to review their life, its intricacies, and its blessings. In the quiet evenings, when the sun almost dips below the horizon, you feel restless, inundated by the urge to talk to someone, to tell people that you are being teased by the sun, and it is imitating your existence. When you find yourself talking like that, the person next to you smiles and sometimes lets out a shrill laugh. A laugh that tells you that you are stupid, perhaps even crazy.

At this point, you question yourself: who was the last person who called you crazy for your vague talks and for your interest in untying the entanglements of life? You were starting to open up, finding the same level of craziness in Miss Silwal. At times, you sound like a spiritual guru on the cusp of death, talking as if nothing holds importance. Your ideas and your peculiar assumptions mostly lead to raucous laughter, yet you can’t help it. Of everyone in the world, you hadn’t expected Miss Silwal to laugh at your insights. “If one were to live by the lake for a lifetime, breaking the shackles of society and just watching birds and water, what kind of person would he be?” On a dry sand beach, the duck fluttered by as Miss Silwal leaned forward and took in the gravity of your question.

The small hut beside the lake was devoid of a soul other than you and Miss Silwal. Taking a slurp of wine from her glass, she commented, “You seem to be a professional overthinker and a lunatic speaker.” Her voice was getting slurry. A pair of her kohled eyes rolled in confusion and intoxication. Evading your question, she reclined in her chair, heaved a sigh, and made herself the topic of discussion: the unhealthy marriage, a grown-up daughter, her male friends, and her bold ways, so capable of intimidating men. How she presented herself made you feel like she had known you for ages. In a mildly irritated voice, she revealed why her boss wouldn’t promote her to the post of campus director. “That bastard wants to go out with me!” She flicked the ashes into the ashtray and took a quick drag.

The sonorous tone was reserved for her daughter, a shy but bright girl who, according to Miss Silwal, could devour volumes of Harry Potter. And she looked so wild and savage as she complained about her insecure husband, the one capable of torturing her online from South Korea. There, you imagined her husband in your place, calling her curses and asking why she went to a lunch party with a male colleague on a particular Saturday. Fortunately, you would never ask this question to Miss Silwal or anyone, not even your wife (if you ever get married). It’s like burdening yourself with details that carry nothing significant. People meet for reasons. Nothing to interrogate.

Like the floating clouds in the sky that are bound to merge at one point, you felt connected to her, her predicaments, her trauma. In bits and pieces, you confided in her your setbacks, compulsions, and reservations. Sometimes, pain binds people together, and when the pain becomes excessive and unbearable, the wounded souls decide to fight it together. Then, people have their ways of defining love.

If there is something called reincarnation, is there a chance she was your soulmate in a past life? But how many times have you felt like that? How many Miss Silwals had entered your life? You have loved enough girls, which was the same feeling each time. Every time you fell in love, the feeling was so superior that it inexplicably nullified your rationality. In life, you give in to love, even if it’s just infatuation. But Miss Silwal was not your lover by any means.

The cigarettes burned, wine bottles emptied, and darkness took over. Patiently, you listened, allowing her to detoxify herself, letting yourself drown in her anecdote that felt like a fictional story. Occasionally, you would speak while nodding and smiling the other times. She said she liked it that way. “You are strange, but I must say that you are a good listener.”

Your phone rang as Miss Silwal kept on saying how everyone should be a good listener. “Okay, pick up the phone. You will still be a good listener.” The dangling bulb over the table illuminated her brown skin, the elegant pair of gold earrings adding to her charm. This woman of 35 is so full and vibrant yet living a constricted life. At home, your family was waiting for you for dinner. She scrunched up her nose as you explained this to her. A slight crease on her forehead was noticeable as you walked off the beach hut towards the bustling Lakeside streets. Was she disappointed in you?

How you and Miss Silwal trudged along the sidewalk starkly contrasted the rush of the commuters. A girl sitting on the rear seat of the bike met your eyes. She was a stranger, but she must have been astounded by the reality, by the scene where a 24-year-old guy was walking with a woman adorned in sindur. Did you look like Miss Silwal’s lover while walking together? Did we both intentionally slacken our pace so that we could get to spend more time together? As we approached her hotel, a talkative Miss Silwal had morphed into a keen observer.

At the entrance gate to the hotel, you sized her up, reading the satisfaction in her kohled eyes, the excitement coursing through her body. There, all she did was wave her right hand and turn around. She didn’t look back to check if you had waved your hand. You were not even invited to the hotel’s restaurant. She disappeared up the stairs into her room, into her life where she decided her fate, talking to herself, calling her colleagues and calculating myriads of possibilities. Unable to move, you stood frozen at the corner of the street, replaying the scene that transpired throughout the day. The next day, she would attend a conference at some upscale event centre and leave for Kathmandu in the evening. Her absence would not bother you, but she would cling to you and your subconscious. For a long time, you would recall the evening in the hut, whether you rejoice in it or not. At some point in life, you would conclude that your relationship with Miss Silwal looked much like life: a bit complicated, crazy, fleeting, and meaningless.