PRABINFO

The undeclared economic blockade imposed in Nepal by India is now in its third week. I wish Nepalese government had responded timely and effectively to these matters which have put daily lives into a grueling test for its citizens. Only Nepali news agencies have been publishing the original stories about the ongoing political unrest in certain regions and the embargo. Also, different solidarity movements have helped Nepali people fight back the bossy attitude of the Indian Government. On the contrary, the roles of international news agencies have been quite ineffective in delivering the right message and information about current issues in Nepal. The sole role of media is to speak out the truth. It is not true that citing an authority is bringing out the true story to the public. Especially in case of politics, where matters can never be analyzed forthright, ‘citing and authority’ can be highly refutable. Now, in the case of the embargo imposed in Nepal by India against the treaties...

A 14 years old Muslim kid, an engineering enthusiast, brought to school his home-made clock to show to his teacher. Despite being applauded for his creation, he was arrested by the police because the teacher thought the device was suspicious. One glimpse of the device will not knock in your head what exactly it is. It is a tangle of wires, some boards and other electrical connections. It could have been a bomb, or a clock or any device that has not yet been invented. Ahmed’s clock. An electrical device made by a Muslim kid does not necessarily mean it is a bomb. The job the teachers had in hand was just a simple interrogation with Ahmed eliciting the device details and a meticulous assessment of the device. The obfuscating device would eventually turn out to impose no harm. But wait. There is another more important question here. Would the case have been different, had the inventing kid been white? I think straight ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will not make a good answer. While the frantic rea...

Just as I was flipping through multifarious channels in search of something worth-watching, I was led to the BBC channel which was airing a documentary covering the astounding aspects of Mumbai city. India, being a neighbor to my home land and a country set to become an epitome of development, technological advancement and economic utopia never ceases to dumbfound me. The documentary I watched was about a small service provided by the Dabbawalas in the Mumbai city. The English translation of Dabbawala is ‘Lunchbox delivery person’. A lunchbox is called Dabba in Hindi. The reason I called this service small despite its large coverage in the city area is that it has a small function. Nonetheless, the service is deemed very important in the bustling city where over-loaded trains are the key means of commuting on daily basis. During its peak hours in the office-rush time, it’s a humongous task just to get into the train let alone carry a huge lunchbox with you. This small service that I...

ROSHAN KARKI Last Christmas, I gave away my spit but the very next month, the DNA results came back making me feel: Not-So-Special “Who am I?” This selfie question often reverberates in my head, even more so at times when my Nepali identity (ego) is questioned, challenged, or brushed aside by an Indian stamp far away from home. Over the years, this insecurity has been fueled by overtones of ethnic federalism—an idea entrenched on differences we possess as Nepalis, along the lines of caste, creed, color, and culture. The ambiguous talks on identity issues by journalists, scholars, and op-ed writers from Nepal have done little to ease my dilemma. The question resurfaced again in one of those Chiya-Chats at my Alma Mater in Connecticut among the most diverse, passionate, and intelligent Nepali students I’ve ever interacted with. Beyond the usual fervor of Mount Everest and Buddha, we seemed perplexed about our Nepali identity: whether to associate with our country, align with our eth...

Banging my head against the couch placed in the drawing room, I was murmuring unusual things. I thought those were murmurs, but it was just a feeling given by hodgepodge of random thoughts running in my mind. There was desperation to take a glance at something. My mind was completely dazed, not by the bangs but by the same thoughts. My shudder went too strong making it hard for me to stay firm. At the same time, I glanced back into my past and wondered how great it would have been like if I had got a chance to reorient it. The thought was like a powerful virus capable of reproduction a thousand times each second. Its effect was all over my body in seconds. My hands and feet were icy, and my lower jaw was fighting with the upper one. My gaze was uninterrupted like that of a perished guy, and something had stuck in my neck which I wasn’t able to gulp down. My thoughts were still within me, intact and unspoken of. I couldn’t know what to do. Every thought and idea was tangled like...

She bid me farewell and waved. She did not say me a word, but it was what I realized her inner heart wanted to utter. She just kept smiling, standing at the edge of her front yard. I waved back, but said nothing, just as she did. Kanchi, as they called her, was a pretty little girl of 9. I met her in Bhumidada, a village situated in Karnali district. I was there, along with three other friends to collect different data of students from the village schools. All of us loved social works. With the motto of serving people, especially from remote villages, we had assembled together, back in 2005, to establish a social service organization. On my journey to Bhumidada, I was fed up with the hassles that had come into my way. But, as soon as I got there, I found it to be a picturesque place, so I helped myself take its photo saving it into my heart. The scenes had made an impression on me. Something more impressive was unnoticed in the villagers by me. Their hospitability was compelli...

The woods are even darker by night than they are by day. Shadows lurk among the trees, waiting for a foolish prey. No light, no peace can be found here, only fear and pain and everlasting darkness. Hellish screams fill the night, and the worst thing is, you are alone. In these woods there is a house. The house is old, built in the time of the now dead, and left by men to be haunted by the harsh wind, the shadows from the world beyond, and the cold breaths of times long past. You find yourself in front of this house, and the worst thing is, you are alone. As you enter the building, built of rotting wood and crumbling stone, the chill you feel is not from the cold. The once heavy curtains are now shreds of cloth, the glass windows no longer provide you with glimpses of the outside world, as dust and dirt have spoiled the view. What furniture there is left looks ready to fall apart, and you don’t dare touch it, afraid of what evil it will awaken. And the worst thing is, you are alone...