When I first learned about H through a mutual friend, I had a strange intuition that he wouldn’t stay in Nepal for long. He seemed like someone just passing through—a fleeting presence. It is only a matter of time, I thought. Our first meeting happened on the quiet streets of Ratna Chowk. After hours of staring at a screen, I had stepped out for a break, craving a change of scenery. That’s when I met H. I introduced myself, and he did the same. At the time, the introductions felt like a mere formality, even unnecessary.

Years later, when I reflect on that moment, I feel a deep sadness for H. The confidence with which he said he was planning to go to Australia was sublime. Now I find it amusing to have assumed that the first encounter with H would also be the last. Over the years, H and I have celebrated countless birthdays together, made plans for weekends, and even acted as hosts, inviting our friends to Lakeside nightclubs. So much has changed between the day we met and today—from his dream country to the paths I chose in my education. I don’t know why, but despite so many differences, we are similar in some ways.

In 2018, the year we met, I was doing my IT bachelor’s, and H took IELTS classes. H’s room was just a five-minute walk from the flat where I stayed. One day, when we met for a walk in the evening, H proposed that I go to his room after finishing our usual rounds. There was no harm, I thought, and followed him into the narrow alley. Little did I know that the dark streets leading to his room were ominous.

The first word that came to mind when I saw the room with up to four other boys—three of whom I already knew from cricket—was ‘Hell’. Coughing and dodging the smoke emanating from the thin sticks of cigarettes, I reached the far corner of the room, where a table and a plastic chair were lined up against the peeling wall. When I looked at H, he flashed me a rabbit-like smile, a gesture kindly coaxing me to hold a cigarette.

“I don’t smoke,” I said loudly enough to startle everyone. Only H seemed disappointed at my revelation, and at the time, I couldn’t make out why there were deep folds between his brows. Later, when someone lying in the bed informed me that H was a chain smoker, he got provoked by the statement and pulled out a stick from the packet of Surya, the rabbit smile once again restored on his big, round face. I had accustomed myself to the raw smell of smoke, though my nose was already burning. When I looked out the window, I realised I had stayed longer than I had meant to. But the boys in the room, along with H, had assumed I would be staying for the night. So, when I told them I was leaving, their faces fell, and I ended up staying for the sake of my new friendship.

There were enough beds, so I guessed no one had to sleep on the cold, hard floor. But I still remember that no one slept that night—not even in the beds. Talks about life ensued. I bought my favourite wine, and the boys got their own drinks. The landlord who lived upstairs either had to be deaf or lenient, for he didn’t interfere even when the voices boomed deafeningly loud. It’s not in me to open up so easily, but that night, I ended up saying so many things I thought I would never share with anyone.

When it was H’s turn, he looked around at everyone, searching their faces, but no one seemed attentive at all. Then his eyes locked with mine. A friend sitting next to me glanced at me and remarked, “You are today’s victim. H is going to recount the same story for like a hundredth time.”

In a high-pitched voice that didn’t sound the slightest bit gentle, H blabbered on about what he thought was the worst story of his life—a breakup with his girlfriend, who had cheated on him with someone else. The others had started finding the story funny because of the repetition, but I genuinely felt bad for H that night. As for me, I didn’t share stories of my love affairs or childhood but something more profound: life, its complexities, and how time treats it. Unlike H’s story, everyone listened to my wisdom, perhaps because it was being delivered for the first time. I knew that, just like H’s story, my wisdom would also suffer from a lack of audience someday.

Now, it has been eight years since that sleepless night. H has faced eight rejections from the foreign embassy. And with how he goes about his life, I’m not surprised at all. He is still trying to flee abroad, his every attempt futile, feeble, to the point that no one takes him seriously these days. At first, it was Australia, then the UK, then Malta, Croatia...

On the other hand, I have upgraded from a bachelor’s to a master’s, but now if someone asks me what subjects I studied in my bachelor’s, I certainly can’t name them. I don’t even know their applications. I studied, worked hard for the exams, and even passed with flying colours. But the results, the theories I studied in my bachelor’s degree, have never once come in use. And I’m not the only one bearing the brunt of disillusionment. There are regrets. If only my college had connected me to the industry! If only I had chosen some other subjects! But then, everyone lives with their own regrets; I’m no exception.

Even today, I aimlessly go to university just to listen to the greying professors, hoping their monologues might morph me into a slightly better human and an informed professional. The odds are low, and the uselessness of my degree is apparent, even translucent. Even H mocked me for diverging from a technical background to a business degree.

“MBA is the most reputed degree, and it’s good for people coming from a technical background,” I tried to sound sensible, but he just showed his teeth. Even he knew I wasn’t convinced by my own statement.

Talking about H, I don’t know what country he is eyeing now, because I have lost interest in keeping track of it. Even though we meet regularly, I have stopped asking about his process, which is always underway. Nevertheless, for the last eight years, we often go out at night on weekends, and sometimes it’s just us—H and me.

H said in our last meeting that he will be gone to Chitwan for over a month, so we have been drafting a plan to celebrate his farewell—a farewell so trifling that it doesn’t even deserve to be celebrated. But all we need is an excuse.

Next week, in the quiet of Lakeside, at some rooftop café, we will be toasting for the umpteenth time—me sipping my favorite wine and H his usual drinks. In between our sips, we will ceremoniously talk about the first night we drank together. About the absurd ideas, the revelations, and the friends—some already in foreign lands, some married, and one other dead who hung himself in a hotel room.