KARTIKEPUL (Sankhuwasava-Bhojpur Border)

It was the second week of February. The year 2003. The Maoists hadn’t come aboveground. And we were climbing down the steep trial west of Khandbari, the headquarters of Sankhuwasava district. We were sweating heavily, but nonetheless enjoying the beauties of nature and rustic life of the mid-hills in eastern Nepal.

The fog formation over South Asia due to western disturbance was showing no signs of clearing up. That’s why it was yet another dhummieko din (foggy day). Even so, we could see the rays behind the clouds. And the setting sun behind Dingla, of Bhojpur.

Our ‘hero’ of Khandbari, Mr Shyam Niraula, Sankhuwasavali-turned-Kathmanduite Mr Sharad Adhikari and myself were hurrying to reach the other side of the Kartikepul on the Arun River. It was already five in the evening, and the daylight was gradually fading.

Pleasant descent

The air was crisp and the terraces were lovely. Farmers could be seen feeding their cattle on the little sheds, most of which were erected by the side of jumbo haystacks. The hays were shining like gold and seemed fresh.

As fresh were the little kids, homewards from their boarding schools in Manebhanjyang area of Khandbari municipality. I would take one or two snaps of the bright, lovely kids. But we had to go, and reach Kartikepul before it was dark.

Again, it was a steep, down hill walk past the terraces and the villages that had thatched roof. The next moment, we were heading towards a dense saal forest. On the way there were chautaris and stone spouts – built by the local villagers in loving memory of their deceased parents in most cases.

By the time we reached the forest it was already dark. And Shyam alerted us saying, "This is the area, where two stinking bodies probably of Maoists are decaying since days." They must have been killed by the government security forces that keep patrolling the area.

Terror reigns

But we were quiet, walking without reacting to the disturbing piece of information. It was already dark, and the only noise we would hear was that of the raging Arun. None of us dared to walk up the stream to check the bodies. We kept climbing down and, in a while, crossed a stream and reached the banks of the mighty Arun.

Its headwaters in the Tibetan Autonomous Region of China, the river was gently cascading down toward Chatara - and then to Bihar and the Ganga. The next moment, we were on the banks filled with sand and rocks. We were the only humans on the move. It was a moonless night, and there was no light visible in the dark horizons. Nowhere.

Our hearts pounding faster and faster, we continued with our quick walk. It was not easy, given wild nature of the trial. To top it all, it was dark. We were scared of three things: armed Maoists who could mistake us to government sleuths, govt. forces who could mistake us to Maoists, and the marauding wildlife who could mistake us to their prey.

Unclaimed bodies

But none of the above saw us walking that evening. We were spared. And the next moment, as we approached the suspension bridge locals call Kartikepul, Shayam spoke out again, "This is the place, where govt. forces have dumped a body of a young Maoist rebel."

The body, according to Shyam and the local villagers, was thrown there three or four days ago. "We heard six or seven rounds of gunfire that Sunday evening, and the next morning we saw the corpse of the same boy," was what a local woman told us the next morning. "Before, he was wearing a vest. But now he is in camouflage."

Late that evening, when we reached the small bazaar-cum-village of Kartikepul, the doors had been shut. And the villagers were preparing to sleep. When we knocked their doors, they were quite reluctant to allow us in. But, after Shyam convinced a landlady, the middle-aged Gurung woman allowed us in.

And we realised, how scared and terrorised Nepalese people are in the rural hinterlands; how badly they have been caught in the crossfire of the senseless cycle of violence; and how quiet and man-less our far-flung villages have become.