I want to read some good stories. Please recommend some unforgetful stories that you have read in past or recently in Sajha .

Anyone? I would dig into the history but I don't know what to dig in for.

Hey soktim,
i do not know many of them either as i haven't read them myself. but lately, i have developed some interest on reading literary works by some of the writers in here. to tell you honestly, in sajha, i am more into stories that have a genuine "nepali" flavor in them which i don't get from my personal library :P

on that note, i would recommend you to read these. taste may differ so i would like to make it clear that these are my personal favorites as of now.

1) A cold Jacket -- By sum_off
2) Bharyang muni ko rana -- By Amber

I think all Sum_off stories are amazing..u should not miss it :) Also there's Juggy's thursday episodes..
John_galt, Amber, simplegal..

soktim, my friend, if you dig into some names, I bet you'll find tons of mind-blowing fictions, non-fictions and poems. It entirely is upon you on what kind of articles you would love to read. Here are some names which you might want to look into.

1) mindGames - A flawless writer. Simple yet so meaningful! I bet you'll love his articles.

2) czar - Thoughtful writer.

3) John_Galt - What can I say more about him? You can flow with his writings!

4) oys_chill - A master of memory lanes. You'll find lots of emotional waves in his stories.

5) Nirman - Fame was bound to knock on his door with his ' Unspoken Love'. A poet and a writer.

6) sum_off /sajha_gazer - Awesome writers.

7) Sitara - The name speaks all!

Regarding Nepali section, I bet there are number of good writers - Birkhe-maila, rahulvai to name few

You can google their names to find their articles. Happy Reading!

.

I would like to add one more name to the list.

8) Rythm - This girl is gifted with writing skills!

.funny Nepali stories by Deep

Does this stream of subconsciousness count? From Sajha Archives

drinking tongba and chyyang is more pithy
Well then let's hear the tales of the dingy taverns and smoky ceilings, slurry voices, split millet spewing sweet juice, like the rosy cheeks of the sahuni, wanting to bite 'em.

she smiles showing her gold tooth, a quick flash of that pink tongue, and all the cavities yonder. You don't care as she throws out a maggot from the fermenting bag, refills the tumba, its dirty you want to think. But now its the highlands and the air is thin, and with every breath you take you smell her perfume an eclectic mix of churpi and yak hair.

Every nanofiber of you is concentrated into this moment. But there's just the millet, the tumbler, comically customized for you, this must be some cosmic joke you think -- so ridiculously inadequate.

All it needs is the muster shepard back yourself dissipating in the musk of this highland sally, into the texture like the chew of that tender churpi, into the forests of black hair with dazzling flecks of dandruff. Conduit to himalayan ecstasy running through the folds of that dirty baakhu, so beautiful the way its draped, and those patches of dirt, damn lucky dirt so close to her...and hell no I am drunk.

The Place:
This was indeed a hole in the wall, set in in a non descript building's northern facade, no sunshine ever, and easily escaped eyes. And in winter, a half a mile hike to this place was, an absentminded walk through the Lang Tang Valley of your minds. Such chill in the wind. So budget, those rectangle walls, exposed bricks, no paint, and a dirt colored screen door. if it meant transporting back from Lang Tang of mental scape and so bare in this chill, you'd rather choose a hole in the ground.

You dive in through the door. A cloying smell, of oil, of garlic, of skukuti blackening in the line, of tongba, of chyaang, of tharra, and the noise, overwhelming buzz a stove, guzzling kerosene, rounding the smell. Today its the husband that's your maitre d'. Puffed up face, probably a liver condition aggravated by the pool of tongba that he lives in, sucking on incessantly...A beelzeboob, barely coherent, here because the gold toothed sahuni, knows when to peck his head, at those awful, hurtful, schizophrenic moment of dissociations. She does not stop yakks on and on and then he slaps her, regrets, because she is so warm under the covers, they make up, and in feeling of a warm cheek and ringing ear, she thinks how much he really loves him. She feels neglected if she doesn't get the whack. Such is the realization. he dresses up to greet the guests down stairs.

Would you really see so much in those puffy watery eyes with bits of chipra stuck in the cornbers. So dirty, nauseating because he probably picks on that and goes into fry your chilly. but forget it. sit down as he brings over a thermos, and awaits instructions for buff chilly, the back half of his mind is already gone, in the bouyant, saline solution, cash is only what keeps him here.

Regardless he is the conductor, and tonight too he will deliver. The millets are splitting and the chalky strings of juice bubble out. You take a sip, and peer at the innards of the kitchen two doors away, a flash of bakkhu and you recognize it, but its so early and its two doors away. In between sits the sahu counting his wad of business, with every flip of the paper, his head enlarges, "pop" image of Johnny walker, "pop" the seiko from hongkong market, "pop" sahuni pouting lips, heavy lipstick, escapes boundary, goosebumps. He curses under breath, miscounted. But he wouldn't mind and go counting forever

Where does this happen really? All this narrative? All this while you have been talking with this friend who is sitting in front of you. "I am building a ship, a rickety ship. With some luck, I think it will float. I am gone baby." Its bobbing and floating, something moved, as sahuni walked out of the kitchen, her ample breasts, in a stern voice she talks with the sahu. You freak out, "I am barely afloat. Will this raft float her too?"

Svengali, you are the best! Few can carry off a second person POV with such skill.

I used to wonder where you disappeared all these months.

Sitara

Where have you been?

This one was pretty good too but the author just vanished from sajha....

http://www.sajha.com/sajha/html/OpenThread.cfm?forum=2&ThreadID=39150

now with the clickable link:
http://www.sajha.com/sajha/html/OpenThread.cfm?forum=2&ThreadID=39150

Hey Sitara,
All these months, I have been wandering in the self imposed exile from pseudo-literature. Saying things like that is also another way of hiding this brazen attempt to get some attention! and I got busted by you anyway haha! Kudos for your penetrating observations and for saying that I occupied for an instant the undulating waves of your idle imagination and wonderment

Who knows where inspiration lurks, what recipe concocts epiphany!

Hi Shirish ji,
Where have I been? Nowhere really, I still haunt the threads at times. How have you been?

Svengali,
"self imposed exile?" depriving us of fine literature? As for being busted, my dear, you've occupied my not-so-idle imagination for a long time, with your writing, of course! I hope you continue to write and regale us with your wordcraft.

Arko pani jawos, hajur!

are yaar mero pani story haru kaam chaina hai:P
yeso pade huncha :D

Sitara,
much obliged for the curtsy, surely you jest but i am up for the masquerade

Not to hijack the original thread, perchance the search could yield stories, Of chappal singh, of Sattal singh, Badarni Maiya and all

stories from times long long ago of the dark ages, before television, there were dusky evenings remnants of the light, submerging the eyes into a dream like state...urging you to huddle even closer than the towering mountains of Kathmandu, that seemed to tuck you within the deep folds of its underbelly

In that haze, puntured with limpid yellow rectangular doors and windows, you craned for a signal, checked your fears, yearned for adventures, and there it came a whistle...from yonder, to the north behing the morose shadow of the school building, is a field, you can see in between the houses, bright halo

the red glow that pulsates, is a fire...

the smell of wood smoke, mixed with the musk of bubbling starch of the conoction that becomes fluffy rice on your plate, is still time away, as you plot the egress... by the gulley where out side the bhatti sinewy men talk in loud slurry voices, their stories?
turn right by the cavern of a pati where bearded old timers come into existence in a blazing ember of their hookah stands..what is their deal,

down the gravel path, encased by old houses, glazing at you through the fretwork window of crisscross frieze, inside some women absent mindedly digging through her matted hair for gold as a pot bubbles away in the corner

the smell that stirs the craving in your stomach, warms you up even in this post autumn gust and then as if you stepped right into a reflection of a tattered cloth shone upon a wall with raging torches from behind,

you are in the field, stars in inky black above and sheets of dark shadows cast by houses that eclose this field, pocked yellow by the doors and windows that cast the light,

in one corner is that orange glow that you sought, debris of corn stalks, dried up hedges and all and sometimes even tires, douse kerosene light a fire,

and these tykes, the sons of migrant laborers, no care in the world, only a decade + 3 old, sing and curse like they were some sailor, sing on
"sisnoo ko jhaang muni ago dan dan, kaloo...." I leave the rest up to you all

man i must have some time in my hand to churn out this drivel

svengali - I'm loving it! What a craftsman you are!

Hey Soktim

U m0therfu(ker... I remember u.. bloody a$$hole... Salaey Dhoti... You are the one who disrespect Nepalese living aboard..

Maacchiccknee R@ndi ko bhan... Just get the hell out of our sajha.com... It's not for you...
U want the old memories... I know why u started this topic... U want to check whether the sajhains still remember you or not..

I have two words for you






F U C K Y O U

And I rest my case, Svengali! ;)

...and into squilching mud you step with your old BATA chappals, fetid, sometimes putrid decaying humus seeps into the crannies between your toes. As the ground moves, you shift your weight forward, fighting with the suction of the the heelo as the chappals refuse to yield to your will. Flash floods come and go as you step over rivulets, meandering around waiwai chow chow wraps, bits of straw and and plastic flotsam, while you look for a flat piece of stone, anything to salvage your frayed denim hems from the blotting fecundity. And as you screw up your face in disgust and look into the sky, another pailful of rain showers down your face, your neck, your t-shirt and disappears into the weaves and folds of fabric. And for a moment, just for a moment you forget the decaying carcass of the dog lying upstream, bloated and ignored. Just for a moment, you inhale the distant aroma of corn on open grates, roasting, sometimes charring, sending gustatory organs into orgasmic fits. Asarai Mahinama.

Hey Svengali, thanks, thanks thanks!!!!! It's been ages, since I've been moved to impulsive writing. And surely, I don't jest! You are very good.

Hi Flips! :)