Changed Color

- By KRS

 

No matter, whatever precarious news or rumors I have heard about the Bheri\Karnali zone, I was excited to visit my birthplace after nearly half a decade of estrangement. The time was after Magdi attack; I was amazed to see a different world when I crossed the Bheri River.

 

It was not as was before. There were ruins everywhere. I could see big hollows in middle of the roads. The local faces were all pale and anxious. I thought of informing my brother Krishna at Kathmandu about my safe arrival but there also I was amazed to see the telephone office in the ruin. The solar panels were crushed and the highest tower we used to see has fallen down and was cut into pieces irrecoverably. As I walked ahead, my legs hardly made me stand to see the dynamite-crushed police station. I could not ask what happened to the buildings - it was obvious from its aura. I was mute and grieved.

 

As I pushed myself ahead towards my village home, I could not see the panoramic view visible in the earlier days. I had a hope of meeting my sisters and brothers on the way, as I had to pass through the secondary school where they used to read. But this hope was also badly shattered. The school was no longer the school. It was changed. There were no students playing on the ground, as it was usual. Instead, the school was barred around with piercing wires. There were six or seven sentries around the boundary. And in the middle ground were the armies equipped with heavy arms. I was inquired and checked before they let me pass through.

 

 I was little bit excited as I entered into my village but was shocked to see the colour of my village changed. It had turned white. I could see most of the women in white robes and men in white inside-out-turned caps. But I could not dare to ask them about the colour as they cheered seeing me coming back to home. I smiled back and uttered few casual words but was mute and grieved. When I reach to my home, I found it was also changed. The walls were painted with misspelled archaic words I could hardly go through. My parents began to shed tears, I think in pleasure.

 

My plan was to rest for at least 15 days but I could not stay more than a week. There were no one of age more than 12 and less than 45. My friend Subash had gone to Quatar, Deepak Malaysia, Lalmani India. Only the grandparents were seen mumbling in the sheds, all complains. There were no louder noises. The village was utterly silent but that silent was so sinister. All of my friends had deserted the village. Basanta, Lalu, Khusiram, Lakhan and Karen were shot dead in an operation. They were told to be arrested and killed according to their old parents. They were insisting that they were all innocent. The last night of my departure when we were all taking supper, two youths came and take my father and me to their assembly some 30 kilometers away from the village. We had to go; it was compulsory. It was an arena of red and red color only, which has begotten the white. When they concluded the assembly, I was free to run back to Kathmandu with the unsolved mystery of red and white.

 

[Authored by KRS in 2003]