Your Anonymous Writer

The city of Kathmandu was shrouded in a thick fog, adding a mystique to the cold month of January.

A young man, dressed in tattered and worn clothes, trudged through the streets with a small tin box clutched in one hand.

His other hand stayed buried in his pocket as he wandered aimlessly on a journey that seemed just as directionless.

As he approached the Sahid Gate (Martyr’s Gate), he felt a strange sensation as if the statues of the martyrs were teasing him, mocking his aimless existence.

“Shame on you, shame on you…!” the statues seemed to cackle in mocking unison.

The weight of shame bore down on him, and he couldn’t contain the surge of emotions building inside him.

His heart screamed in agony, and he was engulfed in a tumultuous mix of anger and self-hatred.

He was weary of life, tired of the selfish world around him, and he saw no purpose beyond the embrace of death.

Desperation led him to Rani Pokhari, where he contemplated jumping into the cold waters to end it all.

But fate intervened when a stranger’s firm grip pulled him back from the edge.

The stranger’s eyes held a question, a plea for him to reconsider. “Why do you want to die? Life still holds possibilities. Let an old man help,” the stranger implored.

In the letter, Ramesh wrote thus: “Madam, what greater gift could a servant offer on your birthday than these pieces of paper? Within them lie my emotions, woven into heartfelt poems, immortalized in the very newspapers you eagerly anticipate every Saturday.” – Your Anonymous Writer.

The young man, named Ramesh, found himself at the doctor’s home, helping with domestic chores as a gesture of gratitude for saving him.

In the midst of serving morning tea, he encountered Rashmi, the doctor’s daughter, whose sharp words and bitter demeanor had become familiar to him.

As Ramesh toiled away in the kitchen, the usual silence of the house was interrupted by a sudden and unexpected voice – Rashmi’s voice.

Startled, he turned around to find her, standing there, demanding that he go to the shop and get her a weekly newspaper. He nodded nervously and hurried to fulfill her request.

Every Saturday, Rashmi eagerly dives into her weekly newspaper, savoring each uninterrupted moment spent devouring its insightful story.

Returning with the newspaper, Ramesh approached Rashmi hesitantly. “Madam, here’s your newspaper,” he said softly, trying to avoid any confrontation.

But his efforts were in vain as she retorted sharply, “Hey, don’t you know you have to knock on the door before entering other people’s rooms?”

These bitter words were nothing new to Ramesh, as he had grown accustomed to Rashmi’s condescending attitude towards him. It hurt him, but he had learned to bear the pain in silence.

The same afternoon, Ramesh’s heart sank as he caught sight of Rashmi’s tear-streaked face, her emotions pouring out while she absorbed the words of an article in the very same newspaper.

As the night wore on, the house settled into darkness, but the light in Ramesh’s room remained stubbornly lit.

Rashmi’s sharp voice echoed once more, berating him for not turning it off.

With a heavy heart, he obeyed her command and switched off the light, plunging his room into darkness.

Lying in bed, Ramesh tried to find comfort in the solitude of the night, but sleep eluded him.

Restless and troubled, he rose from his bed and lit a small candle, casting a faint glow in the room.

In that dim light, he reached for a cherished possession – a tin box that held his deepest emotions.

Opening the box, he pulled out something, which he considered a window to his soul, revealing his innermost desires and doubts about his identity and place in the world.

In that moment, the candlelight flickering on his face, he appeared vulnerable, a soul yearning to be understood and acknowledged as he starts writing something.

The next day. It is Rashmi’s birthday.

The household buzzed with preparations, and even Ramesh felt an unusual sense of joy.

He decided to offer Rashmi a birthday present, hoping to bring a smile to her face.

Humming to himself in a joyous mood, he entered Rashmi’s room and handed her a small packet wrapped in newspaper. “Ma’am, here’s a humble birthday present from a simple soul. Please accept it,” he said softly.

However, his efforts were met with rejection and scorn. Ramesh’s heart shattered as he was once again reminded of his place as a servant.

“How dare you give me a present? You’ve ruined my birthday! Just leave!” she screamed, her voice filled with anger and frustration.

He withdrew quietly, trying to hide his pain.

“Hello Rashmi, happy birthday. Is everything okay? Why do you seem upset on your special day?” Rashmi’s friends inquired with concern as they entered the room. Rashmi retorted, “That rascal spoiled my birthday. How dare he barge into my room to offer me a gift?”

Unbeknownst to him, Rashmi’s friends stumbled upon the dropped gift.

Noticing Ramesh’s packet on the floor, one of Rashmi’s friends picked it up, questioning, “What’s this? Why was it left on the floor?” Rashmi responded with anger, “This is the packet that the scoundrel attempted to give me.”

“Let’s see what is inside,” Rashmi’s friend said opening the packet.

Rashmi’s heart quickened with anticipation as she opened it.

Inside, they found a letter, penned by Ramesh, the man she had come to know as a humble servant in her house.

As she began reading, she was taken on a journey through the depths of his soul, his heartfelt words revealing a battle he fought within himself.

The packet along with a letter, written by Ramesh, was a heartfelt expression of his inner turmoil.

As Rashmi read the tear-stained words, her eyes welled up with tears as she realized that the anonymous writer in the weekly mgazine, whom she adored, was none other than Ramesh.

A newfound sense of empathy washed over her.

Ramesh’s words poured out like a river of emotions, sharing his struggle to find his place in the vast expanse of the world.

He questioned the elusive concepts of “I”, “me” and “Beyond Me” yearning for understanding and clarity.

With a pang of sudden realization, she discovered that the cherished author behind those captivating stories she adored was none other than Ramesh, the very person she had consistently mistreated and overlooked.

There, she saw a young man whose life had been hidden behind the curtain of servitude, yearning for acknowledgment, and desperate to uncover the truth of his own existence.

As she read through the letter, she remained oblivious to the tears cascading down her cheeks, their silent journey leaving damp trails across Ramesh’s heartfelt words on the page.

The tear-stained pages spoke of his longing for validation and acceptance, hidden behind the façade of servitude.

In the letter, Ramesh wrote thus: “Madam, what greater gift could a servant offer on your birthday than these pieces of paper? Within them lie my emotions, woven into heartfelt poems, immortalized in the very newspapers you eagerly anticipate every Saturday.” – Your Anonymous Writer.

With each word, she felt an intimate connection with the anonymous writer, sensing that this tortured soul was someone she had adored from a distance.

Slowly, the realization washed over her that the mysterious “Your Anonymous Writer” was none other than Ramesh himself.

Her heart swelled with compassion, and empathy bloomed within her like a delicate flower.

She understood that the bitter words and dismissive gestures she had directed at him were nothing but walls he had built to protect his fragile sense of self.

She felt an unexplainable connection with the anonymous writer (Ramesh), sensing that this was someone longing for understanding and recognition.

Glistening with sadness, her eyes turned to the door through which Ramesh had departed mere moments earlier, while her cheeks remained a pathway for the steady stream of tears.

There, she saw a young man whose life had been hidden behind the curtain of servitude, yearning for acknowledgment, and desperate to uncover the truth of his own existence.