Why isn’t the siren sounding today? Thoughts of Krantishikha about past warrior History of Nepal

    Why is it that day, the siren did not sound, the gun did not fall, the number four was not even heard.

    During the roll call at 6 pm, Uncle Virendra said, “My mother is ill, sir. I need two days off to go home.” While going on patrol, the police were teasing him saying, “You tell your mother about the country’s worries.” Uncle Virendra used to make fun of the mother who was trapped by the young woman.

    Uncle Birendra was the sweetest of the prison policemen. We used to play Tippu, Dandibio, Chungi with him. He would have deliberately lost the game with us. Only later did I realize that I had deliberately lost. At that time, Uncle didn’t seem to know how to play, he seemed to know himself very well.

    The siren did not sound even after five o’clock in the evening! I climbed on the bench and looked at the house where the siren sounded. It was a green, long house, which we called a railway house. The sound of a siren would come from the same house when something fell.

    We used to call it a gun no matter what happened. After eating the fruit, we would blow up the box and blow it with our feet and we would also call it a gun. I knew that sirens would not sound when such things happened. It seemed as if the train had fallen off and not reached the house. I told my brother, ‘Don’t be silly.’ My brother grabbed another box of matchboxes and hit me with a stone, making a chattering noise.

    I was climbing up and down the bench and looking at the same house saying ‘why doesn’t the siren sound’. The matchstick was wrapped in plastic. The sound of gunfire was heard when the sticks of the match were twisted in one place and hit by a stone.

    My attention was on the train as the siren sounded. The sound did not reach the train, the siren did not sound. I asked with a sad face, ‘Brother, why isn’t the siren sounding today?’

    My brother said, “What was it to me?”

    Now let’s ask who.

    Once I tried to sound the siren myself. I picked up a large stone from the courtyard and fought with the stone. I didn’t even hear that sound well, how could the train hear it!

    I sometimes felt like a siren sounding when Grandma spoke. I thought I would make Grandma speak louder. Grandma used to be greedy. He used to speak in a voice as loud as a siren. At that time, we used to eat a lot of noodles. The picture of the man outside the round noodle shell and the grandmother looked the same, both thick.

    I went to my grandmother’s side and ran away saying ‘A Golmol Buddy’. Grandma screamed louder than I thought. The train did not hear that either. The siren did not sound. I didn’t know the difference between chat, pat, budum, gututu.

    Then my brother cried too. My brother and I cried loudly. At that moment, the sound of gunfire came from somewhere. The train heard a sound, the siren sounded. Running all over the house, we closed the door and went under the bed. There was terror on everyone’s face but I was happy.

    It sounded like a loud siren or a siren. When my brother and I cried because of a fight, my mother would say, Now this was the last resort to sound the siren. Cry yourself! Crying is crying but what to say when others ask at home! Why cry!

    The only easy way out was to fight with my brother. I broke his pen to fight with my brother who was playing at his own pace.

    “Why are you breaking it?”

    I was not in pain, but I cried. The siren still does not sound. The sound of crying reached the bottom of the lake. Hearing her crying, the mother came and beat her brother, saying, ‘Why are you crying?’

    That same day, I discovered that the siren sounded even when I was crying. I couldn’t believe that the siren sounded that day. I thought the siren sounded powerful because of myself. I wanted to be powerful by crying at that time.

    In the house with the stone roof next to the prison, we always made one more cup of tea at home. Next to the house was a tall iron tower, called High Point. We used to give tea there even after the police duty.

    It was fun to play hide and seek under the bed after the gun was fired. The house would shake when an ambush hit the bar in the middle of the night. How sweet was the smell of flying dust after the house was shaken! The curfew would start at six o’clock at night. There was a toilet a little way from the house. Toilets were built after corner and bucket curfew.

    Police duty was changed in seven hours. The police had a three-knot three-rifle and binoculars. All the policemen wore bulletproof vests, which they called binduli. Binduli used to tie a tight waist. In fact, they were tied with dots.

    After the ammunition ran out, it was customary to pick up a bullet from the surviving part and put a garland on it. I had heard that ‘daughter should not be worn by people’. Due to this, the desire to wear a garland of bullets was not fulfilled.

    The electricity poles were burning during the attack. When the pole burns, the education we get is also reduced to ashes. Ashes were not allowed to fly anyway. Kill the people like insects, grasshoppers. The people at that time were only apathetic and proletarian.

    My brother used to climb the same tower to fetch tea and tease me through binoculars. No matter how much I teased, I never got to climb that tower. From time to time, the police were watching from the tower through binoculars. Walking towards the river bank, how many innocent people were shot out of suspicion. How many of them were my own, how many were my friends’ own. There was no choice but to say poor thing. I was amazed at how people could fight with a small bullet.

    While playing sports at school, Bipin used to cover his face by making a pencil-like mousse in the mud, saying that he would become a Maoist. Singan would take out a handkerchief and tie it around his head. Eraser used to make bombs. Yuvraj used to make a rifle by tying Bhimal’s sipkano and hanging it on his shoulder. I used to tie a pair of two shoes around my waist and forcefully stick it and call it my ‘dot’.

    Grandpa used to listen to the radio greedily for fear of running out of battery. The fear was not only that the battery would run out, but also what was playing on the radio.

    Madhav used to make a hat by tearing a sheet of coffee, spitting it and jumping from the desk saying that I am Sher Bahadur Uncle. Uncle Sher Bahadur was a member of the Royal Army. Madhav’s house was near the Royal Army barracks. If someone ate his tiffin, he would cry and say ‘I will tell Sheru Uncle’. We were scared again and gave our share of tiffin. When I was playing games, I was in the role of a mother. Bipin and Yuvraj used to cook and feed Madhav. I loved them so much but they would kill me and run away whenever the game was over.

    How many times while listening to the news, Grandpa could not swallow the food he was eating. How many days did my grandmother not cook?

    Rolpa was pitch dark. The mother has received information from a house that a member must enter the forest and carry a weapon. Now I was afraid that my mother would leave the house. I had planned in my heart that I would go after my mother.

    At the same time, the inmates of Liwang Prison escaped by digging a tunnel. Anyone who doesn’t know how to dig a tunnel can understand how to become a prisoner! The atmosphere in Liwang was uncomfortable after the prisoners escaped.

    While traveling by bus, there was a fear that he would die in an ambush without reaching his destination. Moreover, the Maoists stopped the vehicle in a loud voice, brandished a gun and looked at the bags of all the passengers saying ‘hands up’. He would break his hand and hit the bullet.

    The picture of the same bus kept ringing in my eyes while I was shaking hands at the school. I used to think that the teacher who played the piti was also a Maoist. I was scared to see those teachers. Some like me may have seen Guru as cruel.

    Rolpa got nothing but atrocities, exploitation and destruction in the ten-year people’s war. Class and social contradictions remain in Nepali society.

    Nowadays, candidates are stuck on the walls of these streets, alleys and squares with election symbols. The loud announcement of the election seems like the fear of a jogi coming again in the middle of the night. Jogi awakens fear for the gift, the leader assures for the vote. We believe in the jogi and give gifts. We believe in the leader and vote for him, but we know that these are just illusions and fantasies, but we rejoice.

    This is my anger from the time I felt it but I couldn’t say it, I didn’t know how to say it. Now I know how to do both. The main thing is that I can ask questions. I understand that the respondent would not have felt inferior then and now.

    At that time, Grandmother used to say in the context of what happened, ‘What is the fault of others, one’s own blood is bad.’

    Now when the election comes, I remember what my grandmother said. They were flying assurances, we were clapping.

    We are being punished in our own place without any guilt. We unknowingly buy and sell. They beat us, we think we fought ourselves. They deceive us, we realize we have failed to believe. How long is this series?

    Encouraged by our applause, they started announcing even more than their status. As they spoke, we were always curious as we heard for the first time. Our hands are trained, we clap without hearing the whole thing. Without thinking, without understanding, without hearing, the clapping of our hands blows away our dreams.

    They say – look at the view tower.

    I say – understand our view. They gave us anesthesia instead of bandaging our wounds. Instead of understanding our view, he kept telling his own story.

    Development and prosperity that is not happening, how can I see! My aunt sees that my aunt, who could not bear the pain of childbirth when she was pregnant, left the world without seeing the hospital. Grandma sees the uncle of the next house disappearing and losing her mental balance. Neighbor’s brother sees a bullet wound in a double encounter. My sister sees a fight with her mother over not being able to read a book, but why don’t those who believe in the ‘measuring view tower’ of development see this scene?

    Why don’t they remember how many innocent houses were destroyed in that ravine? How many dreams have never been linked? Chadwad, what kind of fire is burning in the minds of those who have spent decades fighting without seeing the joy? What are the conflicting hearts?

    I have seen bullets kill good people. The next generation will be able to choose the right person from the ballot. The coming generation should not think ‘A for Ambush’, ‘Be for Bomb’ like me. Remember ‘L’ for Loyal Leader!

    During the ten years of conflict, our brains, while learning ‘B for Ball’, still understand ‘P for Peace’ and ‘W for War’, not ‘P for Peace’.

    Krantishikha Dhital blog writer nepal

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