Shona Jaiswal

Kathmandu is a valley of temples. There are thousands of temples and stupas, some grand and famous, others quietly hidden. Many remain unknown to people because they are tucked deep within the maze of Kathmandu’s narrow Alleys.

Our terrace still stands tall above the house, its stone-mixed tiles stretching wide, carrying the same view of Swambhunath as it always has. Yet, the terrace of my childhood exists only in memory.

Maybe one day, I’ll step beyond the veil between sleep and waking, and finally visit the places my heart already knows.

Now, when I think back to those Saturday mornings, a quiet ache settles in. How a simple snack used to bring immense pleasure, but now it’s just a snack.

A place that once was filled with many plants, flowers and trees is now just left with bricks, concrete and dusts of its own body. They may have shattered its body, but they can never touch its soul.

A place that isn’t just a village, but a memory box filled with joy and fragments of my childhood.