Step Into My Shoes..

The movie starts at 18:00. What is the correct time to get to the theater? What is the correct attire (if there is one)? I get there at quarter to. My date doesn't reply the message. I call him, he won't answer. Why isn't he answering? He said six pm, didn't he? I'm being stood up, am I not? Hell, I'm being stood up by someone I have never even met in doing something I never intended when I woke up this morning. Why are there so many people? Oh God, I should've worn something better. Where is the ATM machine? Where is the toilet? Why did I never come to the movies before? I would have known where to go. All these people are giving me a dapper headache and this popcorn smell is overwhelming. I don't want coffee but I think I need one ASAP. And this guy hasn't even gotten on the train yet. Oh he's here. And he's late by 15 minutes! Of course I recognize him, and there's no way he won't recognize me. Good. Where the he...

A thought occurred to me: If my life had been a movie and you were the audience, you'd probably say, bitch had it coming. Now this is something I wouldn't want my future potential employer to see: I never learn. Work wise I am a "fast learner" or so I say in my resumes. No, honestly though, I do learn fast when it comes to thinking-things or doing-things. But feeling-things is where my panache ends. This blog isn't going to look like one of those articles you read in random magazines where women tell-all about their relationships. I am going to stay discreet and sketch my life out in a vague manner (because why the heck not). I am in my late twenties already and by this age, most of my "friends" have settled down (or so it looks like to me) with a spouse, a baby and a career (?), and this is the age where people from the west (you know the goras, American and stuff) have already traveled the world, and had a massive career and a long figure income....

My life for quite a number of months now has been one hell of a roller coaster ride. I would've loved to tell you I've been feeling up more than down, but then I'd be lying to you. I have felt all sorts of feelings right from dizzying heights of happiness to the nauseating lows of insignificance. I am not proud of saying this but I have realised that such erratic changes in the way my feelings have tread is because I have anchored my happiness to other people's behavior. Fortunately or unfortunately, I am not alone in this. I have noticed a lot of people whose very existence depends on how someone or another treats them. And why is that a bad thing you may ask. Or some of you might think, yup, that's exactly what you get for putting your heart out and  letting your emotions rely on someone other than yourself. Now, I have pondered a lot. As someone has aptly pointed out, I am an over thinker. I should not be let alone with my thoughts. But one cannot help...

When I first arrived in Sydney two years ago, I had in my mind a list of what I ought to expect of a country so far down from home. While I wasn’t disappointed by the development and the better system of things being done, albeit not without a sense of wonder for a considerable amount of time, I have to admit there were things I wasn’t prepared for in any way. Not books, not movies, not even the Internet prepared me for the things I witnessed and experienced down under. Some of these experiences can simply be blamed on the ridiculous lack of knowledge on things on my behalf, and the rest on the difference between everything Nepalese and Australian. Let me start with the accents. I should have expected an Aussie accent at least. I did not. The result: complete bafflement. Aussie accent is beautiful, I must say. The kind of a person I am, I should have caught on this accent by now. I have not. The reason: Sydney is essentially a city of immigrants. I lived in the suburb of Rockdale...

I have a theory. Beautiful has many interpretations. The most important is your own interpretation. Every single day, while I am outside, going to and from work, lectures, with friends, you name it, I make it a point to catch a glimpse of myself in every possible reflective surface, be it a passing train or a cafe, anywhere really, that has glasses that will give me a slightest view of how I am looking like on that particular moment. If I think I am not looking good enough, I go about trying to right the wrong and continue to scrutinize my looks until I am satisfied with the look I carry and that amazingly makes my day. It doesn't matter if the wind ruffles my hair afterwards, if my shirt is upturned some way or if my bag looks lopsided. You can see a pep in my step as I walk like I am ready to own the world. At the end of the day, it is I who is my worst critic. If I satisfy me, it doesn't matter if I don't look the best to anyone else. I  know  so because I have be...

I have a theory. Facebook is for the happy people. But it is just a theory. And like any other theories, this deserves to be tested, proven, slandered, rethought about, rewritten.  After months away from this awe(some/ful) social media, I cannot say I missed it. I have personal reasons to be away from this phenomena that everyone seems to be part of. And if I have so decided to just deactivate my account and walk away, and seem to be happily have taken a place in a world untouched by it, why pronounce it to be something for happy people. This is where my theory comes to play. I have an Instagram account where I post as happy pictures with thought provoking captions as possible. And I have my twitter account that has seen 18.9k of my erratic posts. And all these to an audience of strangers (and to a handful of friends and acquaintances). What is it about sharing about your life and thought processes to a bunch of people who you don’t really know in real life? What makes it so ...

Every now and then, if we are lucky, we get to experience moments of immense joy. The following post gave me nothing but. Stumbled upon in goodreads.com by sheer chance, I could not not share it. “You should date a girl who reads. Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve. Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn. She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. I...