I try to lift the old and faded camouflage printed bag but it’s too heavy. Someone has brought iskus from Soureni busty and left the bag next to the door. There is no one else in the house apart from my grandmother, who is still out there trying to put the chickens in the coop. So I take an old shawl, cover the bag, and wait for the CRP raid.
My aunts waited for the cremation to end and sat and gossiped among themselves. They were talking about some place where women had cremated the dead, an unheard of practice, Keti haru lay garnu parcha abo. Someone also mentioned in hushed voices that in some tea garden, a woman had given birth to a dark-skinnned baby, “nikkhur kalo nani”. There was anxiety in their voices. I didn’t really understand the implication of these conversations.
The murderer of thousands of Gorkhas can be the tallest statesman for some people who can compromise with their dignity, but not for those Gorkhas who are even today living a life of dignity.
“बाँस छ र नै मने छ… मने छ र नै बाँस… धन्न बाँस छ र मने बाँसुरी बजाउँदै हिड्छ… नत्र मने कसैको खुट्टा को काङ्ग्लिङ्ग…