ýDayari ko Athaun Pannaý alias ýthe eighth page of my diaryý By Parijat Translated by: Nabin Chhetri Assisted by Uday Adhikari Imagine a processionýLet it beýLet us say a caravan moving aimlessly. May be I am strolling in the middle, Like me, many others are. We are silent that we do not know and we do not even know where we are going either. Let it beýthe confabulation has initiated from ýImagineý Pertaining this accord, a person had noted ýYou were not seen in the crowdý. Anyway, that wasnýt a melancholic remark. A question thus roused, what is the existence of the crowd, and what is it to be like oneself in the crowd? Are we the strong pillar of a crowd or not? Thenceforth I walked a long time isolating myself; nobody recognized me or lets say, nobody saw me. Now I do not have faith in both the conditions. Such feelings which are very abstract in nature, I have noted its impressions in my diary. You might have known my trying to (escort you) reach you towards the apex of abstractness since last ten years. If you see my diary now you will call me mad. Its hunger, I can reveal it in the form of a circle, Its sex, I can prove it in the form of a square and its sorrow I can reflect it in a triangle (You too can do, anybody to anyone). The construction of forms, a hotchpotch or lets say, Is love and hatred situated here? I donýt know and if I ever donýt believe in anything, its love. A person canýt live without love; its scribed in the books of children. Yes, since the last ten years I have failed to explain love to you. Who baptized hatred? Who found out this situationsý comprehension? Was it as easy as discovering the Anacin tablet? I mean within probabilities. Let it be, lets not say it by words; lets kill some words first. Does the comprehension also die with words? Please do not hate. Somebody must have said it to you. In that, you were astounded because you couldnýt liberate your hatred that had been adhered to you like a bug. (Itýs your feelings). During the last ten years, you have been incapable of explaining hatred. See the eighth page of my diary, that black page is such comprehension that I can never expatiate with the help of words neither will I try to explain. And after having done so, I felt bitter after having read a tome about benevolence written by an anonymous writer, like having a bread of husk. I do not know what is sympathy? In that case you also acknowledge that the words connected to dictionaries arenýt the only catalyst of our conditions. Early morning while stretching her arms she says, ýYou rave astonishingly during fever and I well know that you can not have feverý I laugh in my mind how her words were contradicting. Almost; people are like this. Impossible, my reality never coincides with her assumptions. ýDo not grumble like that from this, I care a damn about it.ý How she talks with a lot of contradictions inside, my smile repeats itself and hence I try to convince ýyou are speaking my opposing your own faithý She never understands me and I try to explain myself, within the limits of her understanding, Itýs a firsthand impossibility. Is it illegal to talk alone? Immoral? Me seems, trying to preach so many deliriums of many unsatisfied mind from the foursquare of a road my a mike, may seem like a lunatic asylum? It might not be also. Who knows what will happen? The bitter present of it not having a scope, it has its only one liberation or lets say alteration; I have thus chosen delirium for my sake. Is there ever a border in being sane and insane? She smiles along looking at the mirror and often scolds the dead things around her, and to one or two, she beats them in the velocity of anger. Meanwhile, after I leave, she turns on the pages of my diary and by seeing the hordes of cheap love songs, she feels disgusted. How will she ever know how I have collected these songs to digest the sad moments of life? ýI am very passive, please let me live in deliriumý. This statement becomes a bitter satire within oneself. She smirks, by understanding it or without it. Seems, isnýt she playing truant with me! As soon as she finds my absence, she will broach my diary and feel frustrated towards me. She never knows how to hero-worship and to speak the truth, I am not a hero. Her visage reflects some bouts of cruel smiles frequently and times and again I am dismayed. I remember, taking an Anacin at night by taking her permission, just because I had the probabilities of fever (I felt). But I had said to her that I was suffering from fever. By considering the conditions from last night till now instead of the situations being else it was turning comical. From this angle we can ridicule the life we are living. Somewhere in my innards, I feel the unease as if I have blithely taken the bread of husk. Now that she will not judge me from my delirium but from the cheap love songs of my diary. She will assume, Moreover she will be confident that the pages of my diary is my reality and that the delirium is only its wrap. A question pops ýIs everyone experiencing such? I summon her more closer and say, ýPlease believe me that I had a feverý ýBelieving is sufficient?ý The answer makes me more nervous. ýYou bored me by not feeling meý Its known, Its just a matter of talk, inside another reality exists around. (If she had felt, it would have been the extremely bore, for which there isnýt a possible point for debate). The daily sentiment is adjusted to such tunes, it seems? Today my body is deadly tired (another excuse), I utter as I turn around. She exits from the room. Immediately, I feel my present sorrow becoming lighter for a moment. A question hangs on the door, Is this sufficient for living?