Often I feel like I don't know how to speak or I could say I couldn't speak and I made the pen and paper the common station of my feelings and experiences. But, these days I am shocked, looking at his life.

I feel very sad, seeing her silence. However, she is definitely not silent without knowing the letter. But, sometimes it seems, how much life is being lived. If she knew how to break letters, she would have been the best writer who wrote about the art of living, not living. 

That's right, my mother's voice is very sweet. When I was a child, I used to listen to the songs sung by my mother when I went to the fairs and grass cuttings. However, my mother did not become a singer or this state could not create the environment for her to become a singer. Would this society have accepted him as a writer even if he knew how to write?

000

This morning when the clock struck 4:10, the mobile alarm went off. I woke up with an alarm. The room is dark. In the dark as if by such a mistake, near the window at my head I saw the red sparks of the fire flickering with each breath.

It didn't take long to spot the glowing red object. 'You came to someone else's room so early in the morning and lit a cigarette?' The counter question was, 'Have tea?' I asked for hot water. 

My mom and dad's wake up time is usually the same. Baba gave me hot water and said, 'Your mother has not slept all night. Only today! I didn't feel like sleeping any other time.' Today has been very difficult. I know, it's not easy at other times, but what happened to mom today? "I was surprised that I had a fever and my heart hurt," said Baba. I listened, but did not respond. 

Hey! How could I not have known that it was so difficult for my mother? I went to the kitchen. That day mother was working with her right hand in the kitchen. She mostly works with her left hand. I thought, my hand hurts too much! Mother went to Susedhanda with pained hands and father went to Aran. And me on my own. Even though he was going to work, his mind kept going to his mother's peace. A flood of questions came to mind. I felt cold. My mother's silence hurts me. Even today's silence kept shooting arrows through the heart.

000

It is when children like me often sing the praises of mothers, explain sacrifices and sacrifices, and make a great agreement! The faces of those who declare their mother as the pillar of the family and walk proudly like mine. Today I am deeply surrounded by self-pity for not trying to release the knotted compulsions in my mother's chest, but walking around humming her. 

Poet Raju Syangtan's poem 'Ama Tu Maat' may have understood the real meaning today. Today, I also want to see my mother drunkenly shouting against this system. I have also written some letters like poems dedicated to my mother. But how incomplete those poems are, before the life lived by my mother. I think the life lived by my mother is a grand poem.

In a life like poetry, perhaps there is no need for words and dialogue! Why does my mother speak so little? I don't know if he spoke except for normal household dialogue. Just like a mother does housework and necessary communication, I also express my feelings only by staying at home.

Although I am at home, I often see my father less often. Where are you spending so much time with your mother, talking for hours and exchanging joys and sorrows! Mother was not allowed to speak by this society. It was necessary for him to use his hand to light the stove in the morning and evening. That's why mother got used to talking less. 

000

8th grade district level exam with good marks and after passing   I started in 9th grade without enrolling, but my days at school started to stop when I was told not to come to school without registration. In the beginning, friends would bring the news that the teachers asked when they did not go to school.

Who should I tell my sorrow? My heart was very knotted. It was very hard to read. I was considered a good student. But who to tell the lack? Desire on one side, compulsion on the other. I was burning with the dream of reading, father and mother with lack and only lack. 

I grew up watching my father make tridents and idols. I remember my mother getting burnt after selling those idols and trishuls (gods and deities). That's why I was sure that these deities made by my children could not satisfy my hunger.

I was thinking, the gods created by the Father do not understand my lack, they do not listen to my sighs. Even the faith in God that was left in the heart had disappeared after he started to understand the pitfalls of caste discrimination. All that was left with God was the complaint of making the poor and Dalit. 

That's why I don't remember calling God that much since I found out. When I try to remember it in my mind, I remember that I prayed to God three times with difficulty. When I found out that my brother was sick, I prayed that nothing would happen to him.

And when the street drama I wrote for the first time was staged, I wished that 'every audience would like it'. And, probably the last time I called her, was when I stayed at home without going to school. However, the God created by my father did not listen to my pleas and I never wanted to hear them again.

000

Time flies. I heard the news that my friends gave the first trimester exam. The news that my friend was the first to be named just after me was heartbreaking. I sat cursing my own 'luck'. I had to go to school anyway. 

The news of an NGO in Kathmandu providing free education to the daughters of the poor and underprivileged Dalit community came to my ears from afar. Find out about that organization. And decided to go to Kathmandu alone. 

This is how I decided to take the first flight of my dream alone. I myself am the witness of the first destiny of life and I myself am the victim of it. Just me and my dream of reading. I decided on my own, the first trip of my life. But, did not know where Kathmandu is? 

I didn't know whether I would reach Kathmandu or not. It was only the courage to follow the dream of reading. That was a lesson of life. I told my mother to go to Kathmandu. Mother was unresponsive. She remained silent, but tears continued to flow from her eyes. Maybe that was what my mother said. That's why my mother's tears did not make sense in front of my insistence. She didn't stop me either. Perhaps his dreams were and are connected with mine.

Mother did not eat that day. I knew because mother didn't like food. I also did not want to leave my parents. He didn't want to let his brother out of his sight. The peach tree behind the house was my friend in every happiness and sorrow. He also had to leave. Mother's tears knelt before the compulsion and I walked to find the dream. 

Today another twelve years of life have passed. In these past years, I did not get a chance to observe my mother closely. Even today, I have not gathered the courage to look into my mother's eyes. What are the graves of his eyes? How many desires buried in the depth of those eyes? I don't know if the vast ocean can compare to my mother's eyes.

But, I know this - there is no difference between the depth of the sea and the hidden emotion and longing in my mother's eyes. Even today, I don't have the courage to look at his wrinkled face. Perhaps even today I have not been able to understand him. Maybe I can't. To break the story, it was this arrangement that made the mother a great covenant. Mothers are not taught to laugh freely. I am reminded of the 16-day campaign against gender-based violence that we just completed with grandeur. Campaigns like this don't cover my moms. How to include