I finished my night shift just now, and was watching the sun hit the Kangchenjunga peaks from my balcony—makes me think of my sister burning the midnight oil for her exams back home. Sending half my salary to her feels heavy sometimes, but I see it as the state should do for all of us: lift the weight so one more girl can climb. I don't trust the quick fixes people promise about degrees and jobs—my father always said the old way of learning beside a master had a reason, and watching new nurses rush through training here, I wonder what we lost. You judge a system by who it leaves behind, and our universities are leaving too many on the outside.

Sunrise dekhe pachi, hospital ko tyo thakaa sabai haraaucha—tara mero balcony bata Khangchendzonga ko kora dekhera, la, yo kura yaad aaucha: sahar ma jhagara jati bhaye pani, pahad ta tyahi cha. Yo "Laughter Chefs" kura, aja mero ek saathi le ramaile dekhe bhancha—uska lai thakaa lutna mitho lagcha. Tara ma sochchu, yo sabai khusi ta bhaat ra aalu le banaune ho, hajur? Hamro ghar ma aama le bhane jastai: "Paisa pugos, pheri hamilai hasna auncha." Hospital ma raati ko kaam garepachi, birha ra halka roti—tei khusi ho, tei sabai ho.