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(The portrayal of a toxic relationship between the capital and someone reminiscing from far, in their hometown.)

Here lies the last bit of respect
For myself, my dreams and my woes
For I have forsaken all of those
To get you to see me

Kathmandu, can you hear me?
On the land of my ancestors, I feel barren, alone, forgotten
Nights with soaked pillows, my self-hood rotten
You go around town, groove along the melody of the west
Nights with parties, liaisons with adversaries
White teeth glowing, the night glows young
Brighter than the crystals in the club.

Kathmandu, can you see me?
What beholds before the eyes on the hill?
Floundering zombies bow to the golden gajur
The mindless heap utter “hajur” to suzerains that spare a glance
From on top of their white chariots, stained with tears of their vassals
Forgotten is the soil they birthed from
Under the burning sun, under the diligent raindrops
Harvesting the growth, nourishing the crop
Stolen is the grain of these flesh,
Stolen and bargained until nothing remains
Sold back thrice the price, they quietly sob.

Kathmandu, who am I to hate you?
You forgave me when I killed my lover,
Noticed me when I wore my Versache cover
Showered me with crystal watches
Dined and wined at hotels with exotic carpets
Left me when I sold my last bit of wage
For the price of my birthed suffrage.

Kathmandu, who am I to love you?
The stench of a dying river
The remains of a dying community
The taste of your abuse intertwined with
The necessity of care you refused
In this post-modernist view, the wretched denotes
Weep, wipe and worship all your banknotes.

Let’s go uptown like we used to
Dazzling lights around, violins and pianos surround
Feast on cash, fear and empathy maps
Soil tastes of concrete, water flows like rum
What is not you is either barren or inopportune
Nothing held is dear, to be honest is to fear
Nothing held is dear, to be loved is to be feared.

Let’s go downtown like we used to
Drown me in amethyst haze, lure me with colourful lies
Worship what is white, banish what is impure
Under the reflective sky, the wood is feasted by lice
Feed the hungry with lies, feed the gluttons with mutton and rice
Shout your slogans from the centre of the world
My city, you are the centre of your own world.

Here lies the remains of withered hope
The crowd is blind and Bhupi is gone
So, I lie here singing your song
Kathmandu, please call for me.


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