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From Love With Dhaka I bought a Nepalese topi from this souvenir shop that was a little ahead of Patan Court, Kathmandu. “Fuck this gendered world”, I said to myself. I love the pink and black patterns on it, and I wanted to wear it right I away. My long hair was messing with it but I put it on my head anyway. As I walked towards the ticket counter, I noticed two officers grinning at the sight of me. “Dhaka se aya?” One quipped handing me over the ticket and my passport. A man carrying camera from their behind, emerged, “Dhaka ko girl, Dhaka topi par liah”, he said. “No, this is not a Dhaka topi, I have just bought it”- I quipped. The three gentleman broke into a roaring laughter, and I stood clueless. The journalist got out from the office and started fixing my topi without asking for permission. He came breaking the civilized vicinity men and women maintain in any culture, but should not bother when a male garment not worn right by a crazy touristy enthusiast. “This topi is known as Dhaka topi” he explained, and added, “this tip resembles the peak of Everest”. I laughed out immediately. Upendra kept fixing my topi tip as we both started towards the main gate of the darbar. A few young men loitering by stared, and one said, “I love you!”. I smiled back, and from somewhere within me the reply came, “Mey timilay maya karsu” to all of our surprise. When had I first learned Nepalese way of expressing love? U and I left the young men giggling. The red bricked structures with intricate motifs, lovely figurines, and albeit kamasutra positions laid before us. Upendra guided me to one side, and we started talking. What brings us there at that hot and breezy noon under the figurines making love up in the ceiling? We gazed into our eyes to tell the stories, while we only said our contacts and affiliations, our locations, and backgrounds. Upendra is a photojournalist who was there to cover a story on the last potter of manual pottery in the surrounding area. I was there as an Eastern philosophy teacher, trying to connect the dots between religions and spiritualties. Upendra has that sheepish smiles that charms woman travelling solo as there is the comfortable trustworthiness. I have that over-enthusiastic, warm eyes that meet and greet everyone else’s love with unashamed, uncontrolled fervor that is only possible when one female body leaves its own country for some freedom. Nothing much happened between us. I am glad that Upendra took a photo, and had asked for my email. I had bought us two pieces of coconut. We talked and laughed. We flirted our eyes in between with a look or two at the figurines exchanging the strongest connections. Weeks later, I open this mail with this best travel photo of mine. I look at the file name, and it makes me think. It reads, “Faija.jpg”. That’s not exactly my name. But, it also does not matter. I look at the photo, and remember the sound, the smiles, the smell of coconut, and the curves of the figurines, and forgive his small mistake. Months later, we engage in our first and last video call. Coincidentally, it was Eid here in Dhaka, Bangladesh, and Upendra’s first child was born in Kathmandu, Nepal. We gleefully congratulate each other, and Upendra’s sheepish, suggestive offers of how he would show me the city on his motorbike next time I am around leaves me a little baffled, while my subdued responses and pedantic stance even on social media upset him. We both close the call a little disappointed. We never talk again, but we never unfriend each other.