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Snowflakes welcomed us no sooner did we reach there. A throng of tourists was clicking and capturing priceless and speechless beauty in camera, I was contemplating the journey back that we could have died any time like the bee. I felt so powerful, but that was a fragile feeling.

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अहिले रारा यस्तो छ हिउँकि रानी जस्तो छ। मेरो साथी आनन्द खड्का त्यहाँ पुगेर खिचेका केही तस्बिरहरु। तपाईंहरु पनि हेरेर मज्जा लिने होकि।

Since then until now, he missed everything: his home, family, land, cattle, food, garden, flowers, neighbors, and siblings. He missed how tiny little things grow bigger without a notice. He missed local markets, local chickens, fresh meat, fresh vegetables, and the cornucopia of sounds. He missed the street vendors, people in the street walking, people in the farm sweating, chatting, laughing, and yawning. He missed the characters of the countryside where he grew up, their gestures, movement, language, tones, rhythm, metaphors, symbols, and interaction.

It was dusk and the snow-clad mountains were glazed with golden color that pulled the strings of my heart. The breathtaking mountains were priceless and so was the deep river a thousand feet below.

The house stored beehives and bees; I used to run eating and sucking honeycombs with both of my hands, honey dripping off of my elbows and my mouth painted with sticky layers of honey, which when dried coated my face with a filmy layer of translucent sweetness.

This is a story that reflects on the effect of Maoist war.