Kanchhi, don’t make any lunch for me today. I am in the bathroom. I hear my son’s voice from the nearby kitchen. I begin to think – what could be the reason for his unusual demand? Had there been, by any chance, any misunderstanding between him and the housemaid? (Actually, I should have perhaps begun this story by informing you about my son’s age, his personality and features, and my own position in this society. Will it not suffice to say that he is nine or ten years old, attends an English-medium school as a day scholar, and…

Balak baburo dwija suka nama Hoon ma pareko chhu pinjarama. [A baby-parrot I am; they call me ‘dwija’. I am caught in a cage.] Do you know who wrote this timeless song? If not, I tell you. His name is Kavi Shiromani—the Crown of Poets—Lekhanath Paudyal. He was born in 1941 BS in a village called Arghaun-Aarchalé, the eastern Gandaki Zone of Kaski District, in the month of Poush. His father’s name was Durgadatta, and his mother’s name Basundhara. Lekhnath became attracted to reading and writing at an early age. He read many books at home. He started…

Padma looked quite forlorn that day. She was having distaste for all sorts of work. That was obvious, because her own brother had come to take her home, but had returned alone. There’s a saying, “Even a dog from one’s parents’ village looks quite loving.” What to talk of one’s real brother then? Yesterday, when he arrived, Padma’s heart had leapt up with a number of hopes: of seeing her parents, of playing joyfully with her friends, and of having sleep of contentment albeit for a couple of days. But all those hopes had turned into thin air…