Today, I went to visit a relative in Banasthali.
I thought it would be an ordinary visit—some conversation, lunch, familiar faces, and then the journey home.
But sometimes a road is not merely a road.
Sometimes, it becomes a corridor into the past.
As the vehicle moved through the familiar streets of Kathmandu, I looked through the window. Houses, shops, crossroads, and old buildings passed before my eyes. Yet every familiar corner seemed to carry a memory.
My earphones were playing music, but I could barely hear it.
There was another sound inside me—the sound of memories.
Tears quietly rolled down my cheeks.
I tried to wipe them away, but they kept coming.
I was travelling through the present, but my heart was travelling through the past.
Near Tilganga, I suddenly noticed a long procession of Royal Enfield motorcycles. There seemed to be nearly two hundred of them, moving together like a river of shining metal and sound.
For a moment, I watched them with fascination.
Then they disappeared behind me.
The road continued toward Gaushala.
And there, my heart became heavy again.
I saw the electric crematorium.
That was where I had said my final goodbye to my mother-in-law.
Immediately, memories returned.
Her face.
Her voice.
The moments we had shared.
There are some goodbyes that happen only once in the outside world, but inside our hearts, they happen again and again.
I continued toward Banasthali.
Before reaching my relative’s house, I stopped at Bhatbhateni and bought some gifts. Then I met my old grandmother. We talked, ate lunch, and spoke about ordinary things.
But inside me, I knew there was one more place I had to visit.
Our old flat.
The place where my husband, my mother-in-law, and I had once lived together.
When I stood before it, I felt as though time had suddenly stopped.
I remembered searching for the flat.
I remembered how happy we were when we finally found it.
We did not have much money.
There was no expensive furniture or luxurious decoration.
My husband had brought some old furniture from his mama’s house.
Yet those old pieces became precious to us.
Because a home is not made by expensive things.
It is made by the people who live inside it.
I remembered our little kitchen.
It was small, but it had witnessed so much.
We cooked there.
Sometimes my husband helped his mother while I continued my household work.
Sometimes we were tired.
Sometimes we argued over the smallest things.
There were disagreements and misunderstandings.
But there was also laughter.
There was friendship.
There was love.
There was the courage of three people trying to build a life together.
Then came Dashain and Tihar.
The little home would suddenly feel brighter.
We decorated.
We cooked.
We celebrated.
We laughed.
Those moments seemed ordinary at times.
This is Rashmi Niroula Signing off. To be continued…………
