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As I peddled through the bumpy, gravelly road disfigured by potholes, towards the northern fringes of the plains, my bike stumbled upon an enigma. As the sun went down and the wind gushed through, a fragrance from the lush paddy fields wafted in the air. 

My bike, which was perfect for my height and weighed only one-tenth of my weight, was branded ‘Chaudhary’s’ on its back. There’s more imagination to cycling than one imagines, there’s more freedom to it than just the air that one feels against their face. The thriftiness of the two-wheeler comes with its own cheap thrills. 

**

I would often stop for a couple of Bhakka, steamed snack prepared with fresh rice flour—a typical eastern Nepal delicacy, at one local shop. I would then walk towards the bridge, take a seat in the open green grass and then return with the golden dusk facing against me. It was a routine that kept me connected to my roots.

But there was something atypical about this particular day. I had to wait longer than usual to get my Bhakka. There was one other person waiting for her share as well. It looked like I had to wait for at least 30 minutes, so I just started a conversation with the other customer, well, I tried to. “Looks like it is going to take much longer than usual,” I said, as I tried to control my accelerated heartbeat. 

She gave me a soft smile with her beautiful rose-colored lips. There something about her that immediately drew me towards her.

“This is the first time I am seeing you here. Are you new to the neighborhood?” 

“Not so new.” It looked like she could entertain small talk as there was absolutely nothing else to do as we both waited for our Bhakkas. 

**

But two questions down, I had already run out of things to ask. The small talk was getting smaller by the moment. And my attraction towards her: larger. I had exhausted all references; I had asked her about her school, about her home, about what she did. And each time that she unwillingly replied with a word or two, I only wanted to know more.  

“What’s your name?” 

“Shleshma” 

That was it. She collected her Bhakka, and left with a goodbye.   

As she left, I couldn’t help my eyes that insisted on following her. The Didi at the counter probably noticed my prying, “She is a Bhutanese refugee. Her family recently came to the neighborhood.” She voluntarily filled me in about a stranger I had just met. 

As I waited for my Bhakkas I took the liberty to empathize with her; what difficulties she must have had to face when the family decided to leave a self-proclaimed Shangri-la to cross over to this side of the world. 

The next day, I had to see her again. I checked my watch and peddled through the same road as fast as possible. I wanted to see her as much as I wanted to eat the Bhakka. 

When she arrived, my accelerating heart skipped a beat. She coyly walked towards the shop holding a cone of Chatpate in one hand. We exchanged brief smiles before she asked for her Bhakka with her other hand. This time, the smile was friendlier, it was warmer.  

In the days that followed, we would arrive at the shop at the same time. Eventually, we exchanged not just smiles but also phone numbers. We met each other for a brief five minutes in the day, and spent hours talking to one another in the night. We’d start our days with texts and end our days with phone calls.

**

I was falling in love, she was falling in love. We had started dreaming of being home to one another. 

It was a chilly morning and I was all snuggled under the blanket when the text arrived, “We are travelling to Norway next week.” What, why, how—there were many questions screaming from inside my head. “We have been told to accompany the organization representatives. I don’t think we’ll ever meet again. My time in your country has come to an end.” 

‘Your country.’ We had been breathing the same air, seeing the same sun, sharing the same terrain, but it was my country and not hers. 

I would never see Shleshma ever again, just like she’d never see her home at Bhutan ever again. Even as we spoke the same language, shared the same beliefs, celebrated the same festivals, we were worlds apart. She was fighting a fight that I couldn’t even begin to internalize. 

**

I had lost her. 

It was after a decade that I bought a ticket to Oslo. I wanted to see her. I even proposed to meet, but didn’t hear from her for several weeks. When I did, I was in a different city, and in a different country altogether—Amsterdam, a city of strangers. 

It read: I wish I had the time to just leave everything I am doing just to come see you by a Bhakka shop. This is a beautiful country, but life here is difficult. One has to earn a living. Every second of every day matters. I have lost home once, I can’t lose it again. I have built a life here and I can’t threaten it with encounters that might induce feelings that I don’t want to feel. My life is made of potatoes and evening wines, I don’t want to go back to Chatpate and Bhakkas. I’ll see you when we cross our paths again.

**

By a skinny bridge in Amsterdam, I took a long breath, and asked myself what are people and places made of. What does it take to accommodate someone in our hearts, in our lives, and in our countries? Why is it so difficult to love and share? 

**