Nothing seems easier than breathing. A newborn instinctively draws breath, as effortlessly as a sleeper in their dreams. Fish in water, birds in flight, creatures of all kinds—each changes breath as naturally as the flowers bloom or the leaves sway in the wind.

The wind moves unknowingly, life unfolds in its rhythm, and breath flows unconsciously.

Yet, nothing is harder than breathing! In the race of life, people struggle over the smallest reasons, trying to catch their breath in the playground of existence. Even the mightiest person, while writing, singing, walking, or conquering, cannot pause their breath.

The green tree withers, the blooming flower falls, and even the long experience of breath deceives. What seems so simple is, in truth, the hardest of all.

Forgetting, it seems, is as easy as breathing. Just as I forgot my own birth and the milk I suckled from my mother. Even those two continuous years of nursing—how effortlessly I forgot them, like a breath passing unnoticed. And yet, forgetting is as hard as breathing too.

I wanted to forget my own life, a colorless existence. If I were to be colorless, I wish I could become as transparent as water or as boundless as the sky. But my own breath and consciousness keep pulling me back, preventing me from forgetting. It's hard.

So hard!

There seems to be nothing harder than remembering either. With a mind filled with indelible memories, I longed to forget my entire life just to recall my own birth.

But no, I don't know the soil I was born on. I don't know the night of my birth. The tree behind our house where I first cried. My mother's face or the pain she felt when I was born.

Mother used to say—I was born at night.

That night, like every other, before dawn broke, she went to fetch water. It wasn't too far, just a half-hour's walk to the stream.

After bringing the third load of water, she set the basket down on the porch, turned eastward, and rested. The first rays of sunlight touched her face. Then, they warmed her belly—where I was—and then her whole body.

At that moment, she felt as if the light and warmth of the sun entered through her eyes and reached me, her unborn child.

Placing her right hand on her large, pumpkin-like belly, she thought—let the light reach here.

Maybe, it never did.

Otherwise, sunlight would have touched my life. The sun's seven rays would have bloomed seven flowers in my life as well.

Even if night fell at midday, or storms and clouds passed by, the sun would eventually shine brighter. But no light ever touched my life. It felt like I lived in a land where the sun never rises, a place of perpetual darkness, buried beneath five feet of thick snow that always drowns me.

At that moment, my mother wasn't touching just her belly—she was touching me. I was inside her, but she had no idea a white flower was blooming there.

I wish I could remember at least one moment from when I was inside her. Wasn't I alive then? I long to remember being alive in my mother's womb.

After finishing her chores, my mother went to the forest to cut grass, like any other day. She returned with a heavy bundle of grass. When she dropped it near the shed with a thud, the ground seemed to shake. My grandmother, who was sitting on the porch spinning thread, glanced up, first at the massive load of grass, then at my exhausted mother, drenched in sweat. She smiled, pleased with the heavy bundle, but even more delighted by the sight of my mother's large, pumpkin-like belly.

My father had gone to Pokhara the day before for some errands and hadn't returned by dusk. My mother watched the road as long as daylight lasted, but when darkness fell, it swallowed the path entirely.

After feeding the family, she waited long past mealtime for my father to return. Even as she prepared to extinguish the oil lamp, he hadn't come home. Unease began to grip her, growing stronger until it was almost unbearable. That unease was me.

She couldn't finish the food she had started eating. She couldn't wash the dirty dishes. Restless, she lay down on the bed. My mother was in labor—the pain of bringing me into this world. I was causing her intense suffering. Was I a living flower in her womb, or a thorn?

The night grew darker, and so did my mother's labor pains. It became increasingly unbearable. Amidst the pain, she glanced toward the door—my father's seat was empty.

Only then did she remember that he had gone to Pokhara the day before. In those days, even if he were there, what could she have said to him?

She opened the small window and looked outside—darkness spilled into her eyes. If it had been a moonlit night, the moon would have reflected in her gaze, its soft touch soothing her belly and easing her pain.

My grandfather, grandmother, uncle, and aunts were all fast asleep. Unable to bear the agony, my mother slipped outside. She couldn't wake anyone in the house, not even her own family sleeping just below. And even if my father had been there, could she have told him—the very man who had planted the seed of this pain within her?

She found solace behind the house, in solitude, where the only companion she had was the nearby Guava tree, heavy with its own burden, pregnant like her. Its branches were beginning to show tiny buds, and in some places, flowers had started to bloom. Yet, in the thick darkness, the white flowers remained hidden. Only the sky, filled with countless stars, bloomed visibly above her.

My mother gripped the base of the Guava tree with all her strength, shaking it gently. As the tree trembled, dewdrops fell from its leaves and flowers. Perhaps, just as those drops fell, my mother's tears—born of unbearable pain—also fell.

And then, I was born.

The night saw me. The moon could not, but the countless stars did. That's why my mother named me Tara (Star).

But the stars became my most distant relatives, forever mocking me from afar, never reaching out with their bright hands to touch me.

If the moon had seen my birth, perhaps my mother would have named me Indu or Purnima. And then, the moon's light would have always touched me.

I don't know how much pain my mother felt while giving birth to me. But she used to laugh as she recounted the pain she endured to bring me into this world.

Just as my mother suffered while giving birth, didn't my tender body, like her womb, also experience pain as I was born?

Yes, I want to remember, just once, the pain of my own birth. I want to remember being born.

If I could recall that pain, I too would have told my mother about the agony of being born.

Just as my mother gripped the base of the Guava tree, straining with all her might, did I not also clench my tiny fists in the womb, fighting to come into the world?

I want to remember the struggle, the effort I made to leave the small world of my mother's womb and touch the earth for the first time. Yes, I long to recall the rebellion, the resistance, and the clenched fists as I fought my way from that small space to this vast world.

At birth, I was supposed to cry—but I didn't, not immediately. After a moment, I did. I screamed loudly, wailing, Chyaaah, chyaaah, chyaaah!

Mother used to say, "Those who suffer much in life cry a lot when they are born—as if they already know the hardships awaiting them in this world."

Perhaps the first touch my body felt was the dew that had fallen from the Guava tree. I long to remember that first touch of the cold dew on my skin.

The pair of birds nesting atop the Guava tree were also startled awake by my cries. Even their nestlings, wrapped in the warmth of their mother's wings, awoke and began chirping.

My cries woke up my grandmother too. Then my grandfather, and eventually everyone else in the house. If my father had been home, would he have been the first to wake?

The thick, old wooden door creaked open. Even the neighbors, stirred from their sleep, opened their eyes, followed by their doors. In the dead of night, my wailing awakened so many. I made them open their doors. At the very least, I wish I could remember my first cry.

Where did I learn to cry?

In my mother's womb, there was no place to cry, nor to laugh. There wasn't room to turn on my side or lie on my stomach. How did I manage in there? Was it painful or comforting to be curled up for so long in the warmth of my mother's womb? I don't remember.

If I could forget my entire life, I would want to remember that single moment—how, as soon as I was born, I became acquainted with tears and wailing. Those tears and cries have never left me since. Even when all my loved ones left, tears and pain remained, never abandoning me. As I age, they've only grown closer.

They are my true companions.

A life partner is supposed to stay by your side from birth to death. Why, then, do people call a husband or wife their life partner when neither can truly accompany the other from birth to death?

My real life companions are tears and pain. They will stay with me until my last breath, like shadows that never leave.

Ah, but even shadows will stay with me beyond death, accompanying my corpse.

I want to remember the first time my tender body touched the dew-covered grass and earth beneath the Guava tree. I long to recall the moment when my mother's hands held me for the first time.

How difficult it must have been to nurse from her breast for the first time. I want to remember that awkward yet life-giving bliss of sucking my mother's milk for the very first time.

I wish to relive the moment when my mother lifted me in her two hands and cradled me, the first time she bathed me, her first kiss, the warmth of the oil she gently massaged onto my skin. I want to remember the first bite of food she fed me, the first word I heard and learned, the first affectionate pat she placed on my cheek. I long to recall the first time I rolled over, crawled on all fours, and then, holding my mother's hand, took my first wobbly steps on two feet.

The first breath I took in this vast world—perhaps that was the deepest, most vital, and joyous breath of my life. I wish I could remember that first breath.

My last breath, in contrast, will likely be shallow, lifeless, and filled with pain.

In truth, remembering is about recalling that moment when one can reflect on the pain of their own birth, just as a mother remembers the pain of bringing her child into the world. I long to remember the moment when I first gained life.

Back then, that wasn't possible. But even if someone had taken a photograph or recorded a film of that moment, even if I saw it now, I still wouldn't be able to remember it.

How far have my experiences drifted from me, so distant that I can never reach them again?

From the moment I became aware, all I've seen is a world full of color—the colorful earth, the colorful sky, the vibrant rainbow, the brilliant flowers. Yet, how did I become this colorless rainbow, this colorless earth in the midst of such a colorful world?

Life is like a rainbow, a blend of seven colors creating countless hues. Yet, amidst this vibrant life that nature has gifted me, who draped a cold, white shroud of snow over me?

No matter how colorless I try to appear, like everyone else, I too have red blood flowing within me. Even when wrapped in a white blanket of snow, I still possess warm blood, just like anyone else.

I was born during a great earthquake in 1990, yet for me, that earthquake is an event I will never truly remember, much like my birth. Just as an earthquake can strike for a brief moment but leave a profound impact for a lifetime, such a tremor came into my life, leaving an indelible mark that echoes the depth of existence itself.

I long to recall all those fleeting moments that I struggle to remember. In exchange, I wish to forget my entire life as it exists in my memory.

But I cannot remember the life I want to recall. Instead, I keep thinking of the life I wish to forget.