Today I flirted with death. I had enough with life. I was tired of the frustrations. The dejections. The anger. Tired of the horribleness of life....so today, I flirted with death.

I took my pistol out of the attic that I had bought a few weeks ago. And for the first time in my life, I stuck live bullets in the barrel. One. Two. Three. Three live bullets just for me. Whee!

I walked outside behind my shed. I crept low, so as not to attract the neighbors attention. I had hidden my gun underneath some clothes. It was unnecessary. The pistol would have just as easily fit in my pocket. I don't know. I guess people do silly things when they go towards their death.

So I went behind my shed and while I toyed with the gun, my fingers slipped and I locked a bullet in the chamber. I turned this switch and that knob. But I just couldn't unloosen the locked bullet. Now I was in a dillema. I lived in a residential neighborhood where a person couldn't just fire a gun. And yet, I was not going to walk back into the house with a chamber-locked gun. What to do? What to do?

As I sat wondering what to do, I felt frantic. I wondered if a neighbor would show up and smile and ask how I was doing. Worse, I didn't want them to see me with my gun. I didn't mind them seeing my dead bloody body. But I didn't want them to see me with a gun. And for the first time in my life I fired a shot from a pistol. It rang loudly. There was an echo. I became self-conscious. I hid the gun in my pocket and returned back to my house pretending like nothing happened. One of my family members had noticed the shot. I shrugged at them and said, "Not sure what that was." They seemed unsure. But let it go. Good.

I debated whether to go forward and kill myself. I thought of my family. I thought of friends. I thought of the world that I no longer cared to impress. That's why I didn't even bother penning the eloquent suicide note that I had put so much mental energy into conducting. I figured that if I didn't care enough about the world to kill myself. Why do I care who gets impressed with my suicide note?

I kissed my son. I walked aout of the house, I went back behind my shed. I locked and loaded a bullet. My mind spun with intense debate. I decided to silence my mind. In a frenzy I put the pistol in my mouth and I pulled wanting to feel the shattering sensation on my throat. Instead, I'm not sure what I pulled but I unlocked the chambered bullet. That shook me. I figured that maybe my time had not come.

I walked inside the house. I took the two bullets out of the gun. I put the fired shell in my pocket. Then I sat down at my computer to write this note.

Don't kill your self man. It hearts a lot for your relatives and well wishers. Try to remove your frustrations.

marisakyo hola tyo manche bichara.................... ko hio keta ho paaat lagauta

San should have the IP address. He should inform his family or concerned authority. 

keta ko muuji chilaayo jasto cha! 

Sunsweesh, I don't blame you for your reactions. It is difficult to take every idiot that says that they are going to kill themselves seriously. It gets tiresome after a while. The world is over-crowded as it is. Why not make more room for some happy people, huh? That is exactly what I told myself.

 

Bouncingback, you asked about my family. I wrote a small story to illustrate my relationship with my family.

 

Kedar winced. Unnoticeably. A thin smile curled across under his wispy moustache. It was an impish smile. A smile attempting to hide the discomfort, but failing. Kedar smoothed out his hair. He watched across the room at his younger cousins. They toasted each other in silence as spoonfuls of curry and rice was shoveled into politely arched mouths. Kedar should be sitting with them.
Cousin Hari tilted his wine glass pouring the purplish-red fluid unto his protruded lips. Kedar looked down at the Sprite in his hands. He’d rather be home. Kedar had sat with his cousins in previous get togethors. But not anymore. It was hard enough sitting here sifting his plate of rice, dahl and spinach, on the other side of the living room.
Laughter erupted in the room. The music of boisterous cackles made Kedar look up. He might as well have been in a different country. There was a darkness of shadow in the part of the room he was sitting in. Did he smell bad? Is that why people avoided looking at him for too long? Is that why people quickly excused themselves away after making polite some small talk? Is that why, he wondered, no matter how much he tried to make the conversation last more than just a cursory nod it wouldn’t last more than mist does in the heat of noon?
This is when Kedar’s right hand would flicker up to his temple and wipe away beads of sweat that weren’t there. His mouth felt empty when it wasn’t chewing full of food. He didn’t want other people to catch whatever disease he had caught. A wave of feeling of emptiness punched Kedar in the stomach.
Kedar couldn’t blame how they were all treating him. He shrugged. Maybe if he had their careers and had finished school like them, he would be on that side of the white sofa. And which ever poor fool was sitting where he was, he would have been roasting the fella with quiet sarcastic humorous jabs. Kedar wasn't convinced that he would. But he was on this side of the fence. He couldn't help wondering how his life would be different if he was tasting the green grass on the other side.

Kedar went through his mental routine. His mental toy box emptied the dominoes of his life that had collapsed one after another that had led him to where he was. He would stack the events of his life over and over. And each time the black dominoes with random white patterns would keep falling in the same sequences. Kedar would experiment with the ‘what-if’ scenarios by re-arranging some dominos. But the bloody dominoes would not miss to hit the sores of his life as they replayed. Finally, he scraped all of them from in front of his eyes and stuffed them back in his toy box. He would play with them later. He knew he had no choice but to.
Kedar shrugged on the inside. He had tried. He thought he had given it everything he had. He promised himself that he would. And he had delivered. And despite that he had failed. It had been his last chance. And this time it had been so public. The entire family had a plaque over their heads, “Kedar is back in college…and this time he is determined to finish.” It had been only his third try. Cousin sisters close to half his age had graduated from college.
Kedar sighed as he tried to suppress a stench that welled up within him at his own disgust. If there was a way to separate himself from himself, he would. He would discard the ugly parts of what he saw in himself. He would surgically remove it. He would find a way to distance himself from the ugliness in him. He had successfully done it in the past. But this time he couldn’t. He was caught red-handed in his own failure. And knowing that made him blush.
A scorned sentence formed within him that asked, “How could it have been.” How was he caught so helplessly in this mess too?

This should be reported to 911

I am not shocked and surprised of your notes bro. I know life somtimes get into such ways where death is far easier than to live. but in fact death is not a solution.

Death can give u peace but what about your family your life and your all those dreams you wanna achieve ! What will happen to your soul when after death your family gets more problems for the reason you died ! think about that smal son who is going to be called son of looser !! he will never forgive you !

Be strong Bro , this is life anything can happen ! gud luck

My parents took my life, as a young adolescent, promised me all kinds of riches by taking me to the States, made me go through a series of experiences, broke my life, and then gave it back to me--telling me that my life was now my responsibility. Then, when I couldn't fix my broken life together, and failed in the tasks I was supposed to accomplish, they blamed me and joined their relatives in shaming me. And there I was, with pieces of my life that were working just fine once upon a time, before I left Nepal, but now I was holding broken pieces in my hands. I felt bewildered and puzzled. I could not understand what had transpired between the time my parts were working and now. And I could not explain to others what I did not understand. All I knew was that things were not working the way they once were. And that there were people standing around pointing fingers at me shaming me. Like a mute, all I could do was open my gaping mouth, unable to utter decipherable words that would clear me of my guilt in their eyes. And the unspoken words from their steel-like accusatory eyes, bore words of shame into my chest that I would carry in my heart for my life. I suppose I was what people call a 'victim of circumstance.'

I was so puzzled and amazed at the suddenness of my failure that I had not even fully comprehended what had transpired. Even then I had tried to ask for time and space and a safe place where I could fix my life. But my parents priorities were elsewhere from what was in my interest, as usual. The weight of shame and of public humiliation of my failure in college was too great for them. Not only did my parents not acknowledge the fact that their decisions broke me, they did not even acknowledge that my engine may be broken beyond repair. My failures, in their eyes, came from my choices, not theirs. After tiring me from making me jump through the many different obstacle courses in all sorts of foreign environments, they had once more sent me into another foreign environment to jump through yet another hurdle. But I was like a lawn mower that was way over used. And unlike the many times I had jumped through the many foreign hurdles in my past, finally the tiredness of the past caught up to me, and I could not jump another hurdle. And my parents, instead of stopping to see why it was that I couldn't jump, were very quick to look at me through the eyes of Nepali society and shame me and accuse me of laziness and frivolity. As my father told me, he would give me one more chance to prove myself (taking for granted all the foreign environments I had successfully jumped through in the past). I was a show horse meant to make my masters look good. And I had failed.

But from being a show horse, now I was converted into a pack horse. And like a pack horse with a broken leg whose owner accuses him of being lazy, I was loaded up once again so that I could prove my suitability or be retired for ever. And amidst calls and jeers of shame around me, I limped forward, only to fall again. I fell and those around me felt further justified in shaming me for my inherent laziness and frivolity. And I sunk within the pits of shame, unclear of how to clear my shame and my name. I was unable to communicate my innocence to those who blamed me. I was unclear as to how could it be that I was being held responsible for holding in my hands, my broken life, when others had broken it and then given it to me. I was socially caught-red handed in a crime that I did not commit. And my parents were more than happy to socially wash their hands off of me. Their wealth, accomplishments and status in Nepali society ensured them of being above any doubt in poverty-stricken Nepali societies eyes.

My parents were very American in their approach to their children. And I was like a broken lawn mower. In America there is no concept of fixing the lawn mower. No one knows how. No. You just declare it broken, discard it, and go purchase another one. And that is precisely what my parents did with me. They rode the lawn mower that was me through all kinds of foreign environments that I was not familiar with. And once I became sufficiently broken, they accused me of not working properly and shamed me and discarded me. The broken pieces of my life were my responsibility. They were simply responsible for enjoying a working lawn mower.

Looking back, I realize that my fault was that I had trusted beggarly criminals for the welfare of my life. In the whirlwind of my superficial life, my trust in my parents had been the constant in an otherwise changing reality. And when the glue of trust melted, there was little to keep the cardboard thin walls of the rest of the reality that was stacked high like a sky-scrapper...from crashing through.  

I was a person who had lost my life between the promises of the riches and lifestyle of the West and an unacceptable role of who I was in the East. I had lost myself between the promise of parents more willing to white wash the truth of my life to their society than face the reality that they broke my life. They'd rather not face that they gave me my broken life back for safe keeping saying, "This is your inheritance, go forth and make your life with it."

I lost myself in the shame I felt for my failures after coming back to the East, while having succeeded in following the guidance of my parents when they left me in the West. They had promised me that if I just would follow their able and educated guidance that my life would be taken care of. So then how could it be that all I had in my hands was my broken life? How could educated, exposed and so called well-intentioned parents have lied to me in such a way? How could it be that society continues to respect them but continues to shame me despite me having done everything my parents asked of me? I dropped in exhaustion from following every one of my parents instructions. And they were not blamed, but I was. I was called sojo and stupid for following their instructions. Apparently somewhere in all of that I had wronged. What was my wrong? What should I not have done that I did? I was a victim of circumstance in a nation that is a victim of a greater global circumstance. I was one more victim in the circumstance called Nepal; one more beggar in a nation of beggars. I was uttering one more genuine cry wincing at my pain in a nation where boasting, even if it is false, has more weight than a cry. And my cries were met the way an abandoned street child's is: with disdained silence. In Nepal the weak are expected to shut their pains up so as not to inconvenience the lifestyle of the powerful.

Knowing all of this is a big shock to me. It hurts. The most important value that they hold onto in the East is education. And somehow, following all my parents instructions before graduating from high school, it was educationally that I was compromised. I was compromised from being able to do well in college. I was then a social outcaste. I, who needed an identity. I who needed a sense of acceptance because of being tossed in multiple foreign environments. I, who between being tossed from Nepali schools to American schools in multiple environments, people, geographies, schools, etc finally needed one stable identity. And I thought my Nepali identity was secure despite all the turmoil I had survived through.

Not only did my career get ruined. Not only did I come out of all of that confused and exhausted. But I didn't even get absolved. What my parents stole from me for ever was my sense of identity. My sense of dignity in societies eyes. I never got to be proud of myself as a Nepali again. Why? Because by failing in college apparently I had lost myself beyond shame in Nepali societies eyes.
How ironic is that? 
I needed one thing, a stable identity, to be able to tell myself in a strong voice what I was...in the midst of the chaos of multiple screaming voices telling me to be a million different things. And I was denied the one thing that I thought was mine--my Nepali identity. My shame in my lack of my educational achievements denied me an acceptable Nepali identity. And that felt so cruel. I could not understand how fate could have been so cruel to me to have given me the parents I got, the education and experiences I got (all in the name of exposure) and the blind society I was born in, where not one person saw from my point of view. But I will not attempt to be arrogant enough to question fate. Life has taught me that she is better accepted as she is.

I have saddled myself with shame for years. I have carried that burden on me which has gotten heavier and heavier. But I don't wish to carry it anymore. I refuse to carry the burden of other people's ignorance any longer. And so I give back to them what is theirs...choosing to only carry with me what is mine. Take it, this is yours. And tell me how I can get back what was once mine--my own identity that I can be proud of. But this time just promise me that I won't have to share it with the blind.

Fk parents dude, live your own life; it's beautiful. It's ur life, not theirs. Don't even talk or communicate to them for awhile and they will realize what they have missed. Just ignore people and live your own life.

just forget yesterday existed. look forward to tomorrow. if i tell you my story, you will cringe in disbelief. but despite all that, there are others who have undergone even harder times. look at them. smile at the guy who survived the hutu machetes, the guy whose one hand was chopped off, not in one hacking attempt, but in several...thank the heavens that you are still alive and kicking. wake up to these harsh realities and you will be a different person altogether.
just think that life is beautiful! it indeed is. don't ever think otherwise. that is my two cents!

Kailo,

Your life has been worse than mine?

Honestly guys, it has been so difficult for me. What has been most difficult is my identity crisis. I came at a young age to America. My parents left me in America and went back to Nepal to their high status lives.  I adapted in America. But I almost adapted too well, because I completely lost myself in this culture. I only saw myself through American eyes. There were no Nepalese around me. So through my teenage years I grew up only around Americans.

I don't know if this makes sense but I forgot that I was a Nepali. I was a Nepali in name only. But I thought like an American. And now I feel so much confusion trying to find myself. I cannot talk to people from Nepal because they have a pre-conceived idea of me because of my education. And I don't care to tell my story to Westerners because I identify myself as a Nepali. It is a paradox.

You might ask, "Why is it so important for you to tell your story?" And the answer is that I want to see my story through Nepali eyes. I feel that this will allow me to identify myself as a Nepali again. Maybe you don't understand what I am saying.

Phatte, you are right. Life is already hard. But having a torn identity and not knowing how to see yourself is such a chaotic experience. And I have had such a difficult time with this.

In this world people feel that exposing your children to all kinds of foreign environments is good. But I am a case of having over-exposure to too many foreign environments to the point that I got lost and confused. Now I am trying to see myself through Nepali eyes. But it is so difficult because in many ways I don't know how to tell my story to Nepali people. It has been so many years that I have actively associated with Nepali people that I almost don't know how to tell my story so that Nepali people understand. But I feel that I need to do this to regain my Nepali identity. 

I cannot depend on my relatives to do this. Unfortunately because I came to the States when I was young I am not in touch with Nepali friends from school. That is why I came to sajha.com.

Do you have any suggestions?  

dude, I feel for you. I wish I knew your story better but trying to make some new Nepali friends will definitely help. 

dude, I feel for you. I wish I knew your story better but trying to make some new Nepali friends will definitely help. 

bhai, yesso bhet ghat garum ta. sarai bhetna man laagyo yaar. mara wa namara, tyo timro kuro, tara ek patak bheta ta bhai. 

 

lu.... ke chaahiyo bhana.... nirdhakka bhayera bhana.... mero samarthya le bhyaye samma ma garna tayar chhu.

feri baal bachho bhayeko maanchhe timi.... socha yaar..... euta upaya chha ...apnauchau?

1.jun thau maa baseko chhau, tyo thau chhoda yaar... turunta naya thau ma sara....baalai bhayena ni......chattakka chhod deu

2. sangat change gara saathi, jo jati [Disallowed String for - bad words] gule haru sanga sangat chha, sab lai chhod deu

3. buhari ra chhoro laai liyera aajai bhare ko Amtrak ko America Trip book garera hida... sab uparwala maathi chhod deu... jo hoga dekha jaayegaa bhani

4. jun thau maa chhitta bujhchha, tyehi basne tarkhar gara.... hoina, kaam ke garne, daam chhaina, kaa basne ho? jasta tori kura haru le man khayeko bhaye, nirdhakka bhayera bhana raja, Gaas-Baas-Kapaas ani Kaam ra Daam ko sarjam ma gardimlaa .... timro chhoro ko lagi lero waacha nai bhayo la

ek patak yeti garera hera, hoina, ghantai sitti, ma ta marchhu, bhanne jasto lagchha bhane chhaaaahi bhai "Gedo Khau".

Hoina bhane maathi ka budaa haru ma dhyaan diyera bichhar gara, sajha marfat email gara.....timro samasya ke ke hun bhani... ke nai hola ra? uhi ... kaam, daam, credit, illegal, green card, baiwahik samasya, nepalko rin....ityaadi ho bhane .... ma chhu yaar.... baru ek chhak khanna, timlai sahayog garchhu

euta bhai ko jiwan saparne maukaa paaye mero paap karma haru ni dhulinthyo ki bhanera lekheko hu bhai.

 

 

 

 

यो धागो को भन्दा पनी यो  झटिङरेले यो  फोहोरी नाम किन रोज्यो तिर लगायो ?

कि घर मुलिले जहिलै पनि त राडको मुजी चिलायो भनी गाली गरेको सुनेर वाह क्या सुन्दर नाम
भनी छानेको होकी ? कि त यो झतिङरेको दैनिकी बोलचाल्को भाषानै एही हो ? कि तेरो सबै भन्दा सुन्दर र प्रिय बस्तु हो कि बाजेले न्वारानमा राखिदिएको नाम भएर पर्चार प्रसार गरेको ?

Hey MC,

First of all, very offended with your freaking nickname you have given to yourself.

DUDE...wake up and thank yourself how lucky you are to have this opportunity to offer others what you have. There are ups and downs in life and that is why it is beautiful. Don't be discouraged. I have been there but never thought about taking my own life. It is giving up and NEVER EVER GIVE UP. You have to live a life to fight a battle in a battlefield, otherwise you are a LOOSER. You wanna be a looser? You have a choice. Although your story sounds convincing, I am skeptical of your plot. Anyway, there are other people in this world who are worst off than you and they still have ambitions, goals, families and love to live their lives. Add values to your life my friend and march in a victory lane!

hya [Disallowed String for - use not allowed] jasto..

[Disallowed String for - use not allowed]chilayo,

dude fk identity crisis, just live like Americans. it doesn't makes sense you trying to act Nepali when you clearly feel like American. haven't you noticed most Nepali already act Americans even before they come to this country, or even worse go see in Nepal how these youngsters act Americans without even setting their foot in this country.  honestly, i would be happier if i were in your shoes. lately there is no pride being a Nepali any way.. and ppl pl spare me the same old lecture of mt. everest, buddha, gorkha army etc.. i am sick and tired of that crap.. iwould rather have 2 hours of load shedding than 14 hours than listening to crappy bragging.. dude just enjoy your life.. trust me you wouldn't even have time to kill if you were in student status in the usa. then your soul and hours in days and night would belong to a dhoti's gasstation. thank god for what you have..