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Articles by Sameen Shakya
Fiction: The village voice
Nepal, Nov. 1 -- We were all excited when the news came. Chandra Group, the number 1 company in the country, was opening a store in our village. We would have our own Supermart. The news came the way most news do in a small town. Hearsay. Which can never be believed. But this one was different. Of course, when the talk first started, we didn't believe it. After all, the first person who spoke of it was Bajaj, an outsider. A city slicker who'd settled in the village some months ago.
Fiction: The village voice
We were all excited when the news came. Chandra Group, the number 1 company in the country, was opening a store in our village. We would have our own Supermart. The news came the way most news do in a small town. Hearsay. Which can never be believed. But this one was different. Of course, when the talk first started, we didn’t believe it. After all, the first person who spoke of it was Bajaj, an outsider. A city slicker who’d settled in the village some months ago.
Fiction park: He was the best in class. He still wasn't good enough
Nepal, Oct. 18 -- The doors to the teacher's lounge were almost entirely shut except for a tiny sliver of an opening. Behind that opening, Eklavya, coiling his body into the smallest shape possible, sat with bated breath and listened. Four men were inside. Three of them were standing, with one seated on the sofa. Those three men had been yelling at the lone seated man, the only one whom Eklavya recognised. It was his class teacher and mentor, Dronacharya.
Fiction park: He was the best in class. He still wasn’t good enough
The doors to the teacher’s lounge were almost entirely shut except for a tiny sliver of an opening. Behind that opening, Eklavya, coiling his body into the smallest shape possible, sat with bated breath and listened. Four men were inside. Three of them were standing, with one seated on the sofa. Those three men had been yelling at the lone seated man, the only one whom Eklavya recognised. It was his class teacher and mentor, Dronacharya.
Fiction: Every month, the dread returns
Nepal, Oct. 4 -- The first time it happened, Reshma thought she was going to die. And now, it was about to happen again. It had already been a month. They had told her it would happen every month, but a month seemed like a long time. Enough time had passed that she thought she had forgotten about the pain. At least somewhat. But pain like that is hard to forget. The first time was sudden. All of a sudden, there was a knot in her stomach. Her lower stomach.
Fiction: Every month, the dread returns
The first time it happened, Reshma thought she was going to die. And now, it was about to happen again. It had already been a month. They had told her it would happen every month, but a month seemed like a long time. Enough time had passed that she thought she had forgotten about the pain. At least somewhat. But pain like that is hard to forget. The first time was sudden. All of a sudden, there was a knot in her stomach. Her lower stomach.
Fiction: The town's tragedy
Nepal, July 12 -- Dear Councillor, I could say I hope you're doing well, but we both know that that would be a lie. So, I'll simply say your petty tricks will not work. You can send your men to my jail as many times as you want. You can have them beat me as much as you want, but I will not confess. No, I won't. I won't give you the satisfaction. But I do have a query. When you order your men to beat me, do you imagine I did the same to your son? Oh, you're beautiful, darling son.
Fiction: The town’s tragedy
Dear Councillor, I could say I hope you’re doing well, but we both know that that would be a lie. So, I’ll simply say your petty tricks will not work. You can send your men to my jail as many times as you want. You can have them beat me as much as you want, but I will not confess. No, I won’t. I won’t give you the satisfaction. But I do have a query. When you order your men to beat me, do you imagine I did the same to your son? Oh, you're beautiful, darling son.
FICTION: 'Let go,' she said. 'I won't,' he replied
Kathmandu, May 24 -- The most beautiful woman I've ever seen just walked into the cafe, and all I can think about is work. The worst thing about deadlines is actually having to meet them. Mine was mere days away. I found that I couldn't work well at home. Strange, because my job is work-from-home. Too many distractions, I suppose. Video games, movies, books, staring out the balcony, etc. So, I made my way to the nearest cafe, ordered a coffee, and got to work.
Without Fear or Favour UNWIND IN STYLE
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen just walked into the café, and all I can think about is work. The worst thing about deadlines is actually having to meet them. Mine was mere days away. I found that I couldn’t work well at home. Strange, because my job is work-from-home. Too many distractions, I suppose. Video games, movies, books, staring out the balcony, etc. So, I made my way to the nearest café, ordered a coffee, and got to work.
Fiction: Sameer vs the system
Nepal, April 19 -- Sameer lowered his eyes as the officer yelled at him from behind the glass cage. "The document you want renewed is due today, and you come today!" Sameer lowered his head. "What is wrong with you? This is the problem with today's youth. No sense of responsibility." Sameer could feel his hands hardening into a fist, then curling into a ball. He had never wanted to hit another person as much as right now.
FICTION: Sameer vs the system
Nepal, April 19 -- Sameer lowered his eyes as the officer yelled at him from behind the glass cage. "The document you want renewed is due today, and you come today!" Sameer lowered his head. "What is wrong with you? This is the problem with today's youth. No sense of responsibility." Sameer could feel his hands hardening into a fist, then curling into a ball. He had never wanted to hit another person as much as right now.
More Light By Sameen Shakya
More Light by Sameen Shakya captures the torment of light needling the eye, holding the body in a state of restless wakefulness. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: ❤️A big ‘Thank You’ to our supporters who made it possible for us to share this post. ❤️ More Light leaks in from out the blinds like a silver saber stabbing me. Unable to fall asleep, my tired mind makes Proustian leaps to all the lights that kept me up my nights.
HT Syndication: FICTION: Dear Mum, I met a boy
Nepal, March 1 -- Dear Mum, I met with the boy. He was sweet. I think I would like to get to know him better. We met at the Cafe near his place. I know, I know, I should've picked a place closer to mine for safety purposes, but I was already in the area, and he was walking back from the gym. We had been texting all day, since 8 am, and I felt it was right to meet him. I drove there on my scooter. I hope you don't mind. I drive safe. I promise.
FICTION: Dear Mum, I met a boy
Dear Mum, I met with the boy. He was sweet. I think I would like to get to know him better. We met at the Café near his place. I know, I know, I should’ve picked a place closer to mine for safety purposes, but I was already in the area, and he was walking back from the gym. We had been texting all day, since 8 am, and I felt it was right to meet him. I drove there on my scooter. I hope you don’t mind. I drive safe. I promise. We met right in front of the Café, and well, he is a very good-looking man.
HT Syndication: FICTION: Coming back to the city of ghosts
Nepal, Jan. 25 -- I don't know why I decided to walk home from the airport, but I did. There's no proper pathway from the gate to the main road. So, for a stretch of the way, I had to carry my heavy suitcase awkwardly in one hand, bending my body acutely to support the weight. People were staring at me, but I didn't care. I was already on my way. Outside, I had to fight off an array of taxi drivers and bus conductors who, when I told them I would walk home, gave me a bewildered stare. Understandable.
FICTION: Coming back to the city of ghosts
I don’t know why I decided to walk home from the airport, but I did. There’s no proper pathway from the gate to the main road. So, for a stretch of the way, I had to carry my heavy suitcase awkwardly in one hand, bending my body acutely to support the weight. People were staring at me, but I didn’t care. I was already on my way. Outside, I had to fight off an array of taxi drivers and bus conductors who, when I told them I would walk home, gave me a bewildered stare. Understandable.
The fool who stayed
I was sitting at a bar, drinking coffee, reading a manga on my phone, when I looked up and saw a figure walking towards me. My eyes were dizzy from staring at black-and-white pictures. By the time I rubbed and opened them, you were sitting in front of me, wearing hell on your face. I asked you what the matter was, but you’d raised your hand, signalling the waiter to come to our table. I waited as you ordered a beer and then waited some more for it to arrive.
Samsara joins a poetry club
Samsara walked up the stairs to the cafe where the Dead Poets Society was supposed to meet. He had expected a place fancier than this. The stairway was narrow and winding. The walls were yellow with cracks that could be scratched with bare fingers, revealing the white plaster beneath. A stale stench in the air was probably run-off from some restaurant kitchen nearby. Very unpoetic from the likes of it. Still, he’d committed, and he ought to stick with it.
When Anurag met Anamika
When you are on the cusp of a decision, it feels like the entire world is working in tandem to send you messages about it. Some may present themselves to persuade you, while some work towards dissuading you. Or, it could be the work of an overactive imagination that is being stimulated due to the inner workings of a mind measuring whether to do or not to do something.
Out of rage, Sarita wrote a prose
“I am a dog shivering outside some mansion’s doors where a party is raging outside. I smell the food, hear the revelling, but I want no part of it. In fact, what I want is the warmth that is surely to be found inside, in some corner, some nook or cranny between the walls, which can really be found in any house, but still I’m sitting outside a mansion.
Body To Body/Job To Job By Sameen Shakya
Body to Body/Job to Job by Sameen Shakya paints a numbing routine of modern life and makes us question if we are truly living. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: ❤️A big ‘Thank You’ to our supporters who made it possible for us to share this post. ❤️ There is an arduousness to living now that comes from how much we don’t stop. From bedroom to bathroom to kitchen then out door. Driving to work, working, then back indoors, then eat, then sleep.
HT Syndication: The herbalist's lie
Nepal, June 22 -- Drink this," the old lady said to the knight, who, though wounded, was still distrustful. "Drink, drink, you have nothing to fear from me. Look at me! I cannot harm you any more than help you. The least I can do is give you this nectar. Trust me, it will help." The knight looked her over once more. The old lady looked innocent enough.
The herbalist’s lie
Drink this,” the old lady said to the knight, who, though wounded, was still distrustful. “Drink, drink, you have nothing to fear from me. Look at me! I cannot harm you any more than help you. The least I can do is give you this nectar. Trust me, it will help.” The knight looked her over once more. The old lady looked innocent enough.
HT Syndication: You're too precious
Nepal, April 20 -- A strange occurrence had spooked him to the point where he called his girlfriend. She answered within a few rings and asked him what happened. He told her that he felt like he was being watched. Like there was some unknown, invisible, unknowable entity in his apartment that wished him harm. He told her he didn't feel safe. "Okay," she said.
You’re too precious
A strange occurrence had spooked him to the point where he called his girlfriend. She answered within a few rings and asked him what happened. He told her that he felt like he was being watched. Like there was some unknown, invisible, unknowable entity in his apartment that wished him harm. He told her he didn’t feel safe. “Okay,” she said. “Should I come over, or do you want to come here?” He thought about it for a second, looking around his apartment, and decided it’d be best to go over to hers.
Dead Man In My Bed By Sameen Shakya
Dead Man In My Bed by Sameen Shakya confronts the flaws within us, making us embrace even the most repulsive parts of ourselves, as inseparable from our identity. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: ❤️We wish to take a moment to thank our supporters who made it possible for us to bring you this literary work.❤️ I have escaped myself.
Just another day at the office
Posted On: 2024-12-08 Posted By: Sameen Shakya Health & Lifestyle Technology Real Estate & Construction EKantipur.com Nepal, Dec. 8 -- The surface tension of the water in the cup on his desk rippled as his boss approached. But Samrat didn't need to see that to know. The sound of footsteps, the overpowering stench of cologne, and the creeping tension down his spine were enough to warn him-Mr. Durbesh was rushing toward him.
Just another day at the office
The surface tension of the water in the cup on his desk rippled as his boss approached. But Samrat didn’t need to see that to know. The sound of footsteps, the overpowering stench of cologne, and the creeping tension down his spine were enough to warn him—Mr. Durbesh was rushing toward him. Before the man reached his cubicle, Samrat had already turned around, head hung in shame, fists clenched on his knees, bracing himself for the inevitable yelling.
When Veera decided to run
Posted On: 2024-11-17 Posted By: Sameen Shakya Health & Lifestyle Real Estate & Construction EKantipur.com Nepal, Nov. 17 -- Veera heard the alarm go off as she was brushing her teeth. With the toothbrush still in her mouth, she lightly rushed to her bed, where she'd left her phone, and hit snooze. A slight smirk automatically appeared on her face. She checked the time: 4:30 am. She'd woken up half an hour ago.
When Veera decided to run
Veera heard the alarm go off as she was brushing her teeth. With the toothbrush still in her mouth, she lightly rushed to her bed, where she’d left her phone, and hit snooze. A slight smirk automatically appeared on her face. She checked the time: 4:30 am. She’d woken up half an hour ago. Remembering how, when she’d just started doing this, the alarm’s ringing had hit her head like a death knell, she felt proud at how far she’d come in just a couple of months.
It was hot, we stayed in the water
Nepal, Sept. 1 -- My older brother often told me that a girl becomes a woman when she realises how beautiful she is. I'd always answer that I'll never be a woman to that statement. Flustered and annoyed, he'd go on long tirades about how pretty I was. But I knew the truth. And I'm okay with it, honestly. There's more to life than being pretty. There's more to life than being considered a woman. A beautiful or ugly one.
It was hot, we stayed in the water
My older brother often told me that a girl becomes a woman when she realises how beautiful she is. I’d always answer that I’ll never be a woman to that statement. Flustered and annoyed, he’d go on long tirades about how pretty I was. But I knew the truth. And I’m okay with it, honestly. There’s more to life than being pretty. There’s more to life than being considered a woman. A beautiful or ugly one.
'I Dream Of Lost Vocabularies' By Sameen Shakya
I Dream of Lost Vocabularies by Sameen Shakya is a poem on finding your voice when you speak two languages. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: ❤️ We wish to take a moment to thank our supporters who made it possible for us to bring you this article.
'An Obvious Tragedy' By Sameen Shakya
An Obvious Tragedy by Sameen Shakya is a poem that remembers Icarus’s triumph in flight and not just his tragic fall. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: ❤️ We wish to take a moment to thank our supporters who made it possible for us to bring you this article. ❤️ Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
'A Poem For [Redacted]' By Sameen Shakya
A Poem for… by Sameen Shakya is a poem of unwavering love that transcends life’s challenges and even death. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Sameen Shakya. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: My soul is tired: Like a song hung on drunk lips – sung in the night while weary waywards make it home (barely).
The Boy Who Fell By Sameen Shakya
The Boy Who Fell by Sameen Shakya is a poem about a tragic event that triggers a lifelong fear of death. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Sameen Shakya. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: When I heard of it, I couldn’t help but laugh Despite the seriousness that permeated the room. A boy had fell from the 7th floor Of the school, then got ripped by beams. And now we had a holiday. I couldn’t imagine it.
I CAN SMELL DEATH By Johari A. Julaihi
I CAN SMELL DEATH by Johari A. Julaihi revolves around a protagonist who possesses the uncanny ability to smell the presence of Death. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Johari A. Julaihi. ❤️ We wish to take a moment to thank our supporters who made it possible for us to bring you this article. ❤️ Death, I can smell it. It’s not as pleasant as the scent of lavender oil. Nor as repugnant as the pungent odour of underarm sweat.
Tips for when you’re kidnapped
I am smoking a cigarette in the alleyway beside my apartment complex when a petite white van pulls up beside me. The doors open in a blur, and a pair of strong hands pull me inside. A big, burly man proceeds to pull a black cloth bag on my head and then punches me right on my left cheekbone. I hear him then yelp in pain. Amateur. The van speeds off, and though the bag does a fine job of muffling voices, I still hear the man who (I assume) punched me continue to wince in pain.
'A Thing I Did' By Sameen Shakya
A Thing I Did by Sameen Shakya reflects on a childhood escape marked by hiding away to secretly observe others. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Sameen Shakya. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: When home got too heavy, I’d run away Never too far, just up and down the steps Of my neighborhood.
Anti Love Poem By Sameen Shakya
Anti Love Poem by Sameen Shakya is a poet’s envious rant against love. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Sameen Shakya. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: Poets sing of love. That is their calling, Their one credence atop a bevy of Pretty words wherein they must add meaning. But what meaning can there be found in love That poetry would add, and not subtract From? Poets sing of love, but should they?
"The Thing About The Story Of Icarus" By Sameen Shakya
The Thing About the Story of Icarus by Sameen Shakya reflects on Daedalus’s ingenuity, which ultimately granted him freedom from oppression. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Sameen Shakya. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: We all mourn the loser. How can we not? It’s quite the story. And many parables Can be, have been, made out of it: The folly of youth. The audacity of ears Turned up at the advice of age, then fell To death.
"Stumbling Towards Shore" By Emily Tenh
Stumbling Towards Shore by Emily Tenh is a poem that expresses deep inner turmoil and a yearning for solace. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Emily Tenh. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: Thought I didn’t have it in me, Though I knew this is how it should be. Just like smoke, sadness conquers my lungs, Every breath feels like I’ve been stung. Desperately, I stumbled out the door, Knowing you were what I wanted more.
Ain’t Gonna Rain Anymore By Sameen Shakya
Ain’t Gonna Rain Anymore by Sameen Shakya is a poem that reminds us about our place in the grander scheme of things. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Sameen Shakya. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: Remove existence from the equation. Remove fate. Remove God, even. Zoom out from your head. Imagine your eyes above the city you live in. Zoom out further, now your eyes are on Earth.
My Roommate Anil By Dr. P. Ravi Shankar
My Roommate Anil is an essay by Dr. P. Ravi Shankar recounting his personal encounter with ragging and a tragic incident that ensued. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this essay belongs to Dr. P. Ravi Shankar. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: I was deeply disturbed. Anil had been my roommate. He was a fair, tall guy with curly hair and the beginnings of a moustache. We had been together in the Men’s Hostel for two weeks.
Not Merely Monuments By Stuart McFarlane
Not Merely Monuments is a poem by Stuart McFarlane, that reflects on the awe-inspiring presence of ancient Egyptian temples and monuments in Luxor. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Stuart McFarlane. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: As dawn reveals Luxor, I watch ancient temples rise and, strangely, do I feel I am watched by other eyes.
'Crooked Death' By Sameen Shakya
Crooked Death is a poem by Sameen Shakya that expresses a longing for death as a release from the hardships of life. As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Sameen Shakya. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: Crooked death, why do you shyly hide From your devoted offspring? Let me Into your arms. Say, I’ve had enough Of that mistress called life. She works me To the bone, and I want to let go.
All my heroes are junkies
Nepal, March 31 -- Looking at his father snore was like watching over a baby, Karna thought. He still couldn't believe that just an hour ago, the two were at each other's throats in a shouting match and now? The old man had the most peaceful look on his face like he had accomplished everything he'd set out to during the day. Karna wanted to laugh, but he didn't. He was afraid of not only waking his father but also breaking the silence that had settled into the room.
All my heroes are junkies
Looking at his father snore was like watching over a baby, Karna thought. He still couldn’t believe that just an hour ago, the two were at each other’s throats in a shouting match and now? The old man had the most peaceful look on his face like he had accomplished everything he’d set out to during the day. Karna wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He was afraid of not only waking his father but also breaking the silence that had settled into the room.
'On Clouds' By Sameen Shakya
On Clouds is a poem by Sameen Shakya, a charming reflection on the transience of time, nature and our state of being.As per our FAQ, the copyright of this poem belongs to Sameen Shakya. If you wish to submit your poems, short stories, and essays, you may do so here: The clouds flow slowly across the sky. When last did I sit and watch them flow? When first I did sit and watched them go I was shocked to know what, static, I thought, Was moving, and now I wonder where? Do they disappear? Eaten by air.
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