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In the depths of my soul lies a darkness,

A chaos that balances the world outside.

The concrete walls absorb the color of my being,

Leaving only black, in and out.

No palette to play with, no colors to paint,

Just the darkness consuming my very being.

Hope and reason seem far away,

As I surrender to the comfort of this void.

But I find solace in the darkness,

For in it, I can weep and be free.

No need to pretend, no need to act,

Just the darkness, the chaos, and me.

Life’s colors may not be mine to hold,

In the darkness, tears wave a tale of silent plight

Longing for the warm love and care that the inner child deserves,

For a touch so kind 

A tired heart seeks solace in the dark.

Pratikshya Aganja

In the quiet of solitude, I ponder alone,

Yearning for company, yet on paths of my own.

Friends beckon, laughter in their call,

But dreams whisper louder, urging me to stand tall.

A friend in need, a friend indeed they say,

But should I forsake my dreams, come what may?

In the dance of life, a delicate sway,

Between camaraderie’s warmth and ambitions fray.

Yet in the midst of this existential ride,

I find solace in dreams that I confide.

For in the pursuit of what my heart deems true,

I discover friendships anew.

So I'll walk this path, both bold and free,

Embracing dreams, wherever they lead me.

With friends by my side, laughter in the air,

I’ll chase my dreams, knowing they’ll be there.

Yusuf Shrestha 

BBM 7th Semester, United College

Dance is the element in my life that makes my mind, body, and soul alive. Dance is my passion, my therapy. It is the language I use to express myself when words can’t.

I am a trained belly dancer; it is the oldest dance form that dates 6,000 years back. It is believed that belly dancing was a fertility ritual. It’s also believed that belly dance relieves menstrual pain and aids in easy childbirth. Hence it was passed on from mother to daughter. Listening to stories of great dancers motivates me to do something magnificent. The Reda Troupe, which was founded by Mahmoud Reda and Farida Fahmy, started with only 12 dancers and 12 musicians and gradually grew, and made history, encouraging me to do something exceptional.

Dance inspires me to go against the grain. Looking up to Mahmoud Reda, whose choreography was inspired by a combination of Traditional Egyptian folk dances and Western-style dances like ballet, urges me to think out of the box and experiment with my choreography. Once I combined cultural Nepali and belly dance steps, draped a sari (Traditional Nepali Outfit) as a skirt, wore a hip scarf, and danced to a Nepali folk song. Dance helps me to be creative. I feel every beat of the music and decide which steps go with which part of the music. When I hear the music, I know what theme to choose and what prop to use. I know what costume and accessories will elevate the beauty of my dance.

Dance is my refreshment, exercise, and meditation. I feel alive when I dance. When I mix Maya, Taqsim, Wahda-wa-nus, Chest pop, Egyptian shimmy, Chest shimmy, Hip rolls, Hip glides, and Grapevine in Traditional Egyptian music, my soul nourishes. Dancing makes exercising fun for me. I don’t even have to push myself to dance since I start grooving as soon as I hear the music.

I don’t limit myself to just moving the body while dancing. I explore the history, cultural, and health significance of my favorite dance form (belly dance), and research inspirational stories like that of the Reda Troupe. I polish skills like creativity, critical thinking, observational skills, analytical thinking, etc. with the help of dancing, and most importantly I nurture my soul while dancing because dancers know, “The soul dances and the body just copies”.

Sarwagya Bhattarai

Our last day's adventure at the Jungle Island Resort (read previous story), Bandarjola, Chitwan National Park, was a sightseeing tour of the Magar crocodiles and the inimitable Gharials. That meant almost a two-hour ride in a narrow dugout canoe in the Narayani River. It sounded great to my family but me. It was a no-go for me flat out because I was too scared of water—virtually to a fixation.

I had reasons for my fear of water, and the story behind it goes like this: Once, in the lake city of Pokhara, I went fishing in a narrow two-person dugout with a local guy in Lake Phewa. Everything was going fine, and we managed a few catches, too.

But the weather turned sour without any warning, and we were caught unawares by a massive thunderstorm. Barely had we made half the distance to the banks across the lake when the narrow dugout started filling with heavy rainwater almost to the level of the hull.

Panic-stricken, I frantically bailed the water out with a small bucket we carried while my local guide furiously worked the paddles. Suddenly, I realized that I didn't know how to swim!

After what appeared like a half-hour, the dreadful ordeal ended, though. The rain fell back, and we made it to the safety of the banks. Phew! "That was a close call," I mumbled to myself. From that day onwards, I never considered doing a boat ride again and steered clear of even a swimming pool in the bargain.  

I walked my excited kids and wife to the riverboat yard and waved them goodbye as the canoe slid into the water. I had two hours to kill before they would be back. I spotted a shack with a few chairs and benches close by. It turned out to be a tea shop.  

The tea made from buffalo milk had that typical Terai hallmark—thick and cloyingly sweet. I could not resist and went for a second cup. As I was about to sip my tea, my eyes fell upon a distant elephant hulking down in my direction. At a closer look, the mounted figure looked very familiar. Wait a minute! He was none other than Kumal and the elephant, every inch, Laxmikali.  

I greeted him with a wave and asked him to join me for tea. He was all smiles to see me and broke into a chuckle when I told him sheepishly my excuse for not joining my family for the canoe ride.

As our chat followed, I suddenly observed a scar running on his face from the left side of the lip and cheek to almost the side of his temple. I missed the scar the previous day when we were on the mind-boggling elephant ride. I could not help asking him about it. And my jaws dropped when Kumal recited the story that took place several years ago.  

"The incident took place while I was doing a routine safari ride for two foreign guests," Kumal said. "I had with me the same elephant, Laxmikali." Kumal pointed his finger at the nearby Laxmikali, tugging at a patch of sod with his trunk.

"Shortly, we ran into a sloth bear right on our track," he continued. The bear stood guard for her cub perched on a Jamun tree (java plum) branch some 15 feet above the ground. Jamuns are a favorite of bears. Kumal's long experience in the park's forest told him a lone bear, except for a brief display of aggression, did not pose a genuine threat to humans.

But a mama bear in her cub's company could turn into quite another story—the most unpredictable. She can turn nasty and is as often as not likely to attack, even if the least provoked.

Instinct made Laxmikali stop in her tracks, but she did not take alarm. Such encounters were not uncommon during safari rides. Kumal thought it better to give the bear a wide berth, though. The last thing he wished for was a face-off.

It was too late! Without warning, the mother bear swung around towards Laxmikali and charged at a run with a blood-curdling growl, baring her fangs.

From 15 yards, the mother bear closed in on a bound and kept coming! She stopped at a few paces, stood on her toes, and snarled. Laxmikali froze, so did Kumal. 

The moment of truth had arrived, thought Kumal. The silence behind the howdah also spoke about the guests' plight. As Kumal's concern was their safety, the only course left for him was to make a slow retreat. But as he nudged Laxmikali with his toes to step back, the bear struck, taking a nasty bite of her trunk. Everything happened in the blink of an eye.

Before Kumal knew it, mayhem struck, and Laxmikali went berserk. She retaliated with an ear-splitting trumpeting that shook the ground, the sound tearing for miles into the dense forest. Still, in a befuddled state, Kumal watched in dismay as Laxmikali bounded for the tree instead of turning up on the bear. She lashed her trunks onto the branch to pull the terrified cub down. The guests watched from the howdah, stunned.

The drama seemed unrelenting as the desperate club clutched a tree branch for dear life. Stupefied by Laxmikali's unexpected onslaught, the bear wavered and backed off but resumed her vicious lunges again. Thank heaven. So far, no harm had come to the guests, mused Kumal, sweat running down his forehead, almost blinding his eyes.

However, he realized the situation was getting out of hand. He tried his best, but no coaxing or sharp clouting worked to curb Laxmikali's fury.

Frothing at the mouth, she flailed her trunk wildly to knock the bear cub down. Meanwhile, the mother bear's challenging huffing, woofing, and lunges appeared feeble. She likely thought better of it against the animal ten times her size.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack. Before Kumal could gather his wits, a stout branch came crashing down, hitting him in the chest. Another hit the side of his face, almost knocking him off Laxmikali's back. He blacked out, a searing pain gripping his chest.

The traumatic state must have lasted a few seconds before Kumal recovered. He instinctively felt for his face to find a bruised lip and a deep gash on the side of his face. His fingers came back sticky with his warm blood.

Alarmed, he turned back. His eyes fell on one of the howdah supports, broken in two. Horrified, he looked at the guests. His guests, though almighty shaken, remained safe. He took a sigh of relief.

With blood streaming down his face, he tried to size up the predicament. Laxmikali's hulking flanks still twitched with intense rage, and she seemed prepared for another attack. The drama took a sharp turn, though—the cub hurtled down to the ground and scampered to its mother. Two meters from Kumal, the mother bear held her ground and continued the face-off. The little cub cowered, huddling behind her.

Providentially, two safari elephants converged on the scene for Kumal's rescue at that very moment. Guided by the shouts and commotion, they had decided to dash to the spot. Upon seeing two more elephants as backup, the bear thought it wise to slink away with her cub, ending the gory drama. "I had to have seven stitches to my face. It took over a month for me to recover," said Kumal.

As Kumal wrapped up his story, I could still feel the hairs on my arms stand on end. After an exchange of pleasantries, Kumal left for his quarters with Laxmikali striding along proudly. The duo soon disappeared into the vernal woods as I ordered a third cup of tea.  

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