Matuk Lama

I was born in the mountains — in Solukhumbu, a district in eastern Nepal where the Himalayas are not a backdrop but a presence. Where the air is thin and the silence is thick with something ancient. I grew up in that silence. I think that is where the writing began — not at a desk, but somewhere on a hillside, trying to find words for things that did not yet have them.

I studied at Vinayak College of Health Sciences, where I learned the language of the body while quietly writing in the language of the heart. There is, I have found, no contradiction between the two. Medicine asks you to pay attention. So does writing. I carried both out the door when I graduated — and I have not put either down since.

I write poems, short stories, and quiet essays — the kind of things that live in the margins of ordinary life. I am interested in displacement, memory, belonging, and the small moments that carry the weight of whole lifetimes. I write because I cannot not write.

I now live and work in the United Kingdom — a long way from Solukhumbu in every sense except the one that matters. You carry your mountains with you. I am learning what it means to be from one world and inside another. This journal is part of that reckoning.

"I write to remember. I write to understand. I write because the mountains taught me that some things are only visible from a distance."

This is a space for that writing. For the poems that arrive at odd hours. For the stories that need more room than a notebook page. For the ideas that refuse to stay quiet. You are welcome here — pull up a chair, stay as long as you like.