A Literate Child in the Western World

“Tomorrow is a peak of vision, creativity, and an open view for the mind's eye”, my father said.

I remember that specific day when he said this; he was reading an old dusty Muna Madan paper. To this day, I wonder to myself of how and when I can show the world my perspective and share my words. I also remember the exact words from the works of Laxmi Prasad Devkota. However his writing is originally written in the Napali language, but underneath is the translation in print. I’ve never asked father why or how he has gotten access to such things, but I am sure grateful that he shows them to me. In fact I am actually astonished of the specific detail that this writer wrote about a man’s ability to care, and a woman’s strive and suffering without her husband’s presence.

 My father is never home and mother is not fond of it, but when he is home, he creeps into my room to tell me amazing stories about his life away from home. If mother knew about my father’s stories that he tells me, I’m sure she would curse the heavenly father’s name aloud.

My mother refuses me to be exposed to the world at such a young age. For she if frightened by the diseases that come about in Western Europe, such as the smallpox infections and the deadly bubonic plague.

Alongside, it’s her own belief that I am too young to know about the hatred that comes and goes in our country. I am only 12 but I have an understanding of why she keeps me trapped and abandoned in this thick cobwebbed and cell like space I call a room. Doesn’t she realize that we are in the rise of modesty? Can’t she see that the world is becoming a more superior and mindful place? I live in an isolated four wall dungeon with a bible size window and I can still notice how the world is shifting and blooming into something extra. I open the foggy window so far that it can go, and then I breathe, attempting to get the dusty air from inside out.

I like these moments where I can feel different winds in different days. It’s odd when there is a change occurring in the world and nature is aware of it.

Each day feels like centuries and I am beginning to feel older than my mother’s existence. I hope that one day I can tell her what I think and what I feel, than she will let me go out of this room and let me live to express my prose. I rehearse that desired moment of the day when I shall be released.

The End

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