Hands of Phantom – A Nepali Story in English Language


Read here a Nepali story in English language enttltled ‘ Hands of Phantom’. This story may touch your heart. It is typical Nepali story (Katha) in English language. Read this short story in English language and give us a comment for further steps. Thank you.

 HANDS OF PHANTOM

I encountered her hands in the midst of the avalanche of own thoughts. I was immersed by my own lethargic act, dipping my anger and frustration on a cigar and smelling the smoky dust through my lung pipes. It was an omen in my life just like cat crossing on my edges of thoughts and crossing the parallel situation. I cannot, I won’t, why I am here like hot happening thoughts rotate around on every teenager’s mind. My feelings were galloping in the tunnel. I was not on the inch of this ground.

Yet, she came. Her ravishing wilderness, her coffee lips, and her biting indigo attire can swallow every ebb of layman’s heart. And I was one of the victims. I was not on my own control. It is said that sixteen year is like a naughty hen stage. But I had crossed that zest of life. Why I had this crackling feeling seeing her. It is an uncertain unknowingness that plays rubble in my heart.  I caught her sight as like as starling. She came as mist and vanished within a single air. I puffed my breath and followed her. Her astute hands with a silver ring attached her on index finger signifies something really amazing about her. That milky hand makes me follow her on the minute route of the alleyway. I followed her hand or her image I didn’t know well but I was still rooting her.

phantom hands story katha images
phantom hands

Little does she know, or she was known about the footsteps about, being followed.  She was giggling and keeps tapping her footstep front and front. Those hands were dancing like a saga and fingers were grooving their belly on her tapping. I want to seize her hands and feel my rushing beat of the heart and eager myself feel her coffee lips on my roof of the mouth. For a second, I dwelled myself in her world, feeling each and every depth of herself. In my imagination, I want to rush her each and every finger, that palm and fingers on my eyes to soothe my frustration. Oh! No, I was craving her hands instead.

That gorgeous hands knot the courage in me to grasp her. Those hands helped me to forget my cigar and crush that puff under my feet. Those hands forget me to relish my tragedy and followed her on the brim of light. I chased her. She finally stopped. Her hands were no more immovable. I saw her hands were arresting some cane or pillar to raise herself on her feet. That young hands need support! Why they were so exhausted just walking on this short mile. My eyes were on her legs they were as usual on mature walking stage. She had worn velvet heels and her short puffed hair was beyond my imagination. As I always think long hair girl as my ideal girl and long straight hairs are my visual treat. Its okay I managed to stop my dumb monologue. Still, I happened to see her crescent moon like the nose. She was motionless but my heart was racing like a marathon.

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I managed to see her; it’s a time to wear a medal. Finally, my wait was over I consoled myself well. To no avail!  No! Big no! Her hands were molten wax-like candle threw by shining its light. Flickering lights and midnight time my eye had the pain of seeing her hands. It was no more hands of that imagination, which I had seen her lightening my cave replaying me and my movie of love. It was the hand of dummy made, viably creamy plastic, donned with an attractive silver ring with diamond aura.

I was all done! I vanished like vapor without seeing her face. I was exhausted to see the mock of me. I furthered my way and went to my room. I started rubbing my eyes and heavily abate my head that was knuckling on the wrong side. I remembered that hands it was the hand of the same plastic doll which my sister used to play in her childhood. T

I slapped my cheeks and try to come into my real world. But that doll, hands which my dead sister used to play, and the same hands which I dig into still became a nightmare for me. Oh! Yes, I am tired but I hadn’t slept for 5 days.

Written by- Sunayana Kayastha

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Written by

Jitendra Sahayogee

I am Jitendra Sahayogee, a Writer of 12 Nepali Books, Director of Maithili films, Founder of Radio Stations, Designer of Websites and Editor of Some Nepali Blogs.

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