I often walk alone through the streets of Kathmandu. Morning light, afternoon dust, evening shadows, time passes, and I pass with it. The city moves endlessly around me, yet I move quietly within it. I feel shy in its vastness, like a thought not spoken aloud. Sometimes I wear a mask, not to hide my face, but to protect my solitude. It helps me disappear just enough to exist peacefully.
Kathmandu is full of people in motion. Everywhere, dreams are being chased, lives are unfolding, stories are beginning. Some walk with confidence, enjoying the calm that comes from being alone in a foreign place. Others carry a visible weight — especially those who have recently arrived after their SEE, hearts still tethered to home. I see myself in them. I recognize that silent longing. I know what it means to be far from where you belong.
It was June or July, just after my SLC ; when it was still called SLC. That was my second time in this city. The first weeks felt light, almost magical. Everything was new, unfamiliar, alive. But novelty fades quietly. One day, without warning, the streets felt longer, the nights heavier. That was when I understood distance , not as kilometers, but as absence. I’ve lived that ache. I’ve carried it.
And so I walk ; with my bag.
An old bag, about two feet long, holding my not-so-old laptop, its heavy charger, headphones, and mouse. Together they weigh three or four kilograms, sometimes more when books and jackets join the load. The weight rests on my shoulders, familiar and constant, like a reminder that I am carrying something meaningful.
I bought this bag two and a half years ago, online, without expectation. I did not know it would become a companion. Since then, it has traveled everywhere with me. It has returned to my hometown, Kapilvastu, countless times. It has witnessed devotion in Kedarnath, silence in Panch Pokhari, exhaustion and wonder on the Kapuche trek. Whenever my hands are not enough, my bag is there , ready, patient, reliable.
I don’t call it just a bag.
It is a memoir.
It cannot see the world the way I do, but it carries what remains of me. It holds fragments of days, unspoken emotions, quiet victories, and tired hopes. From chaos to calm. From classrooms to rented rooms. From crowded streets to mountain trails. From office desks to the comfort of home. Through every transition, it stays.
Sometimes, I think my bag understands life better than most people do. It doesn’t ask why the load is heavy. It doesn’t question the journey. It absorbs the weight and moves forward. It endures — quietly, honestly.
It is not just something I carry.
It carries me.
A witness to my becoming.
A keeper of my memories.
A reminder that even when everything changes, something remains.
Wherever I go, it walks with me , holding not just my belongings, but the story I am still writing.