6:00 Am in Thamel

On June 10, I attended a workshop on creative writing. Where, our mentors made us write about an object important to us. I didn’t give it much thought, and I started to write about something I lost almost a year ago. So, I tried to imagine that object in front of me. This is when I saw something that helped me whenever I really needed it. I saw an object which stayed with me despite the fact that I treated it like shit. Every time I think of it, I remember the cold morning, I remember the streets of Thamel, the street where I was helpless, tipsy and super sleep deprived. I remember how not seeing it in the place that I left it in sobered me up. I remember the blue morning when I shared a cigarette with a homeless guy, drowning my sorrows in the last bottle of beer I saved to drink while I was going home.

Thinking about it now, I realize how crucial it was for me. But it wasn’t the same back then, I hated it. It was rusty, old and most of all not mine. I took it from my cousin, just for fun. I cursed it, because I had to repair it on a daily basis. So, why is it so important to me now? I honestly can’t say. Maybe it was the aftermath of it being stolen. Was it looking at the disappointed look on my parents or the frown on my little cousin’s face? Truth be told I still can’t figure it out. But I’ll never forget how it turned my life in a completely different direction. To this day, I haven’t figured out if it was for good or for bad. I never thought that it affected me, however, turns out it really really fucking did. I realized it as I am writing about it, because of the way it’s making me feel. I feel like there’s a bottomless pit inside my stomach. So, why can I not stop writing about it?

Before I started to write this, I thought maybe I’d write about my handy lighter which gives me life by lighting all of my cigarettes. However, I don’t think it would’ve been the same. In fact, I loved this particular object so much that there was no way I could write about something else. I get a fresh perspective every time I write a new sentence as if I’m writing about myself. Maybe it somehow became a part of me in the short time we spent together. Maybe that is why I cannot let go of it. Or maybe it is the helplessness that I felt when I lost it that I cannot let go of.

I sometimes think to myself, what if I could have a conversation with this object. I like to imagine that the spirit of it would come up to me and let me embrace it, like how I used to embrace it on a daily basis. It would definitely curse me, heck if it could, it would beat me up like a little child- bawling its eyes out. It would remind me of that rainy day journey we had, reeking of cheap cigarettes and alcohol. It would remind me of my failures as an owner. How I did not lock it or how I left it alone sketchy places.

Yes, we didn’t spend much time together as my little cousin did but we sure as heck understood each other. At least that’s how I imagined it to be.