By the time Mita arrived at the tea-shop, a dozen of Bhairav’s ‘friends’ had already ‘liked’ his Facebook post. He enjoyed this virtual validation – he felt good, influencing his ‘friends’ with positive thoughts and energy.

Aahva had run away from home at 17, packing nothing but some clothes, some food from the kitchen, her dead mother’s diary and three thousand Indian rupees that she had found while rummaging through her father’s drawers.

A morning in June. Kathmandu Valley woke up to its monsoon nightmare to discover that the city had transformed into a latrine.

My husband was never there when I needed him. During our life together, he was away most of the time, crossing high mountain passes. He never really had time to spend with me, though his desire to have sons did rekindle the love we had earlier lost.

I stopped being insentient when I considered Bhauju’s life and began questioning my own mother, father and brother. In what way was my home different from the cemetery hill near the house? Why was it that my father – whom I saw as the most intelligent, good and loving person in the world – was like a frightening tiger to Bhauju?

I’m no good at accounting. But I’ve kept accounts of all the little debts owed me by the village in a box in my mind. And when people say they love the village, it makes me laugh. It makes me want to tear Bistini Bajai’s blouse in the middle of the night, and shake the village with my laughter.

When a rumour spread in the village
that stars had drowned
in the river
he picked up his fishing line
and left in the early dawn.

Scissors run along the stitch
at times left
at times right
at times up
at times in a semicircle
and
create a recognizable shape

“If you really want kheer, you need two litres of milk for every quarter kilo of rice,” said an assertive voice that suggested a face with deep-set eyes. “For our rice we need about ten litres.”