There is a dislocation in this location. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s not them, it’s us. It’s not the natives with their wares, nor the sahibs all aware. It’s the in-betweens, seeking meaning, meaning me, me, me.

Asan

I came to this place a long time ago. When I returned, everything was illuminated. I thought I saw a reflection of myself, and others like myself, that pleased me. I stayed.

I became a part of the place, a rootless non-believer barnacled onto the disintegrating hull of a medieval cosmos. Where others saw the spirit within, I chose to subsist on its sculpted skin.

Boudha

There is no guilt to speak of. As things fell apart, we’d only sought an anchor. But sometimes there is a sense that I am repeating myself, creating patterns I tire of as I begin to recognize them. Where does the circle end?

Bagmati

People keep asking what is sacred to me. My inability to repeat myself in my responses may speak of an emptiness, a faithlessness. But it also expresses a space that an inherited or borrowed faith cannot fill. In this, at least, I am free to grow my own.

Written by Rabi Thapa
Kathmandu, Nepal, March 25, 2016

Excerpted from Iterations of the Sacred