I have returned to the city I always abhorred. Houses, everywhere and anywhere. Contracted and wrung between each other. Like the residents living a life nigh void of expression. If foreigners want to know the people of Kathmandu well, all they have to do is observe the housing, dangling electric lines, patched roads and menace the pedestrians create. People, idiots, lunatics, killers and rapists all living under a same rummage and scavenging of others souls. All feeding in psyche of others, nourishing and stuffing themselves with love that was never theirs to savour. It is ironic that Kathmandu is called the city of gods and there are gods, innumerable and unlimited. Pagodas and stupas, glorious and pieces of art, all paying homage to the gods who have long abandoned this unyielding land where toils are chastised. Only the people haven’t marooned them, the eye of Buddha has witnessed it all.
Ghostly reveries engulf my consciousness as I enter the city and all roads lead to perdition. It doesn’t matter where I go and if the end meets the means. I take a stroll down the uncanny streets, it strikes a chord to me and I audibly say to myself, ‘….someone should just take this city and just… just flush it down the fuckin’ toilet’. This city needs a beat down, heist, a confusion, a desolation, an atomic bomb that doesn’t go off so easily. A better class of criminals, necessary evils. Love is born from the bosom of vice. Such love doesn’t exist in vain, they persist and transcend humanity. Maybe Kathmandu needs a authentic and callous villain so that heroes may be born.