Making Gods in the Streets of Kathmandu

January 26, 2018
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Into the bitter end of my heart you will find conundrums. Wrapped up and hidden like all these legacies you talk about your god. I walk down the busy streets of Kathmandu, and every time in all these years I have missed your god. From little mobile cuisines making momos to brick stacked walls, people are seeing gods, embracing him, yet I seem dazzled wondering when he’ll disrupt my silence. In many ways, I think the God you talk about and me are quite alike.  Just like him, I am empty inside. Like Sherlock, your god is the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and obnoxious thing that no one has ever met. He is dismissive of oneself, unaware of the beautiful and uncomprehending in the face happy. To end with a cliché; doesn’t exist at all. I find God beautiful. Not the virtual anatomy you are expecting, but the whole idea. 

The humankind claims itself to be aesthetic and over the years of sound of new civilization progressing insolence has wrapped us and the whole idea of god just might have just come to the rescue. The dust boned city of Kathmandu is completely lifeless, although, every day the daily chores of the ignorant city are surmounted by the hymns from the great Pashupatinath Temple. The whole contradicting idea of the good and the holy with the ones calling themselves “atheists” ends when a pyre is burnt near the Bagmati River and heat blows through our face sweeping all the fears away.

Sometimes I wish to crack a human skull and learn everything it wants from the inside. How it is our brain is so different than any other animals? Don’t the tigers question our reality or don’t they get awestruck over some chemical secretion that is compelling them to mate?  Just like love, is our existence mutable? These conundrums keep hitting me and I flush myself into a deep slumber, the only time I fly with no sky above me. Sweet dreams, dark dreams, fickle dreams, unquestioning dreams, answering dreams, deceiving dreams. The concrete around me slowly fades away and I lie in these arms of me. This time I don’t wish to meet your God.
Dear God,
I imagine your existence lingering in the streets of Kathmandu. Her eyelashes drained with mascara are filled with insights of you. In the vendor stalls and rivers, local vehicles and cheap alcohols, rolling balls and sailing highways, little red stoned carvings and pictures, my ethical and holed out part, I have imagined the dreaded part of you. I wish to know much more. Every evening at the edge of their bed, with a cigarette burning between their thighs millions of people contemplate hoping everything they are doing would mean much more. I hope you show up once and for all.

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