Note to my dad:

20 years ago it was in Bagbazaar,
Every night I would go to a grocery store,
And buy a raksi for my dad. And four,
Sikhar churot.
Raksi was named GGP, golden grape brandy
I did not know what brandy meant?
And there was nothing golden about it
but it was expensive,
It was most expensive bottle in that dukaan
Seventy-five rupees, you know?
Can you imagine?
 
My dad would drink while
listening to the radio
We did not have a TV
No paintings either to stare
Yeah, not even a picture
Just a dark curtain and a lone
calendar in a color bleach wall
I would finish my homework and we
would eat, whatever he had cooked
Daal, bhaat, and curry; meat when
we were lucky
It was just me -and -my -father
A table and a chair for me to do my homework
A bed and a kitchen rack
Living room, bedroom and kitchen in one
(Yet, he would drink most expensive bottle
He had a taste. Now......, I guess)
 
Yet, the room was bigger than palace for us
There was a smell of unconditional love
in that chair and table
It was there to remind us that we would never
leave each other
Bed was there to remind us of an end
that until death, to each other we will depend 
There was an eternal faith in that kitchen rack
Where we would hope to have enough food for us
There was no God but it was a heaven
to a father and a son
 
I used to sleep next to him
Always one hand over his chest
I can still feel how it move
Up and down while he breathe
He would tell me a story then
But soon, smell of his sweat,
cigarette and brandy, would make me dizzy
(I too reek alcohol and cigarette now,
may be I want to smell like him, I guess)
I would sleep midway through his story
And probably he would weave a dream
for his son while I was asleep.
(I wish I knew his dream, I never knew
when he would fall asleep)
 
I would wake up to the sound of kerosene stove burning
Tea kettle hissing, pressure cooker whistling
Breakfast ready for me on table
As I would get ready for school
I had to share one toilet of the house with twenty people
To save some time, he would shave himself in the kitchen
Well, in our room, I must say
Looking at a tiny mirror he had
and making a sink out of stainless bowl 
The room would smell like a cheap aftershave
but his chin would look clean
(I smell aftershave now in the morning, I keep my
beard clean, probably I have matured like him)
 
I would leave for school and he for
whatever day he had to face
Probably to sell his dignity inside Singha Durbar
That’s where he used to work, then
Now I can picture,
Him kissing thousand-asses everyday
So he could keep those motherfuckers
happy who supposedly gave him a job
and not fire him.
I can picture him, begging for a raise
every month so he could buy his son
a new school dress.
I knew he never had enough money so
he probably thought of robbing a bank too.
I can picture him crying then, and it makes me cry now
I can picture him giving up
Or shooting everyone at Singha Durbar,
but he moved on for his dear son
 
Just so he could feed me and pay my tuition
 
And today, after twenty years,
I have become just like my Dad,
I too see the same fear  
for my son sleeping on my bed
I too weave a dream and shed
tears, for dreams differed  
 
But, I want you to know this dad
that I have always realized
what you have done for me
And I am very sorry  
and I apologize.....
about your dream dad 
 
-Aswin Bhusal