It was 1999. In the middle of our basic police training, we were deployed for the national election. I was assigned to Mahottari District. It was my first journey into the Terai, and everything about the place was strange.
Hours of travelling on a bus, in a green plain with no hills on the horizon, were exciting. The people spoke a different language; everything was bizarre for me, different customs, a different world. It was hot, humid, and uncomfortable. Looking back, I realise that my first impressions were shaped as much by my own prejudices. My experiences reinforced many of the stereotypes I had unconsciously absorbed about the Madhesh. I saw the town as dirty and chaotic. Kathmandu was hardly a model of cleanliness itself, but preconceived notions are powerful. I was viewing the place through a biased lens.
The truth is that our schools never taught us much about Nepal's diversity. We learned history and geography, but not how to appreciate differences. Even police training, despite preparing us to serve the entire country, rarely discussed the cultural and social realities of the places where we would eventually work.
The Terai had its own challenges. The mosquitoes were relentless. The lizards seemed as large as mice. Roads were muddy and dusty. And the market looked chaotic. Yet the sweets and puri were super delicious. Everything was different, and I struggled to adapt.
It was also my first encounter with the true heat of the Terai. As election day approached, more and more police personnel arrived in the district. Mahottari, located close to the Indian border, had a history of election-related tensions and violence. Security preparations were extensive. The barracks became overcrowded. Toilets overflowed. We bathed under open hand pumps. Like everyone else, I adjusted.
The election preparation was extensive. I was assigned to an election booth located in a local school not far from the district headquarters. We arrived several days before polling day. Local political leaders and community members visited frequently. Interacting with them was an important part of the assignment, although I was neither interested in nor particularly skilled at such engagements. Fortunately, I was accompanied by an experienced constable from the Terai who handled most conversations with ease. Meanwhile, I was struggling with the heat and feeling slightly unwell.
Election day eventually arrived. To our relief, the polling process remained largely peaceful. One political party, apparently facing defeat, attempted to create disturbances, but a few baton charges quickly restored order. The ballot boxes were safely transported to the district headquarters, and our mission was complete.
After nearly a month of election duty, we returned to the training centre and resumed our training. Once training was completed, I headed back to my posting. I thought that it was the end of difficult fatigue days. Officially, my assignment was at the District Prison, but I was retained at the District Police Office. That was when I discovered the difference between police training and real policing.
Almost everything had to be learned from scratch. The training curriculum had provided the foundation, but field policing was a different world. I learned how patrols were conducted, how police administration functioned, and how investigations were documented. I learned to type in Nepali fonts, prepare witness statements, draft reports, and learn how to survive the police bureaucracy. More importantly, I learned what policing actually meant in practice.
Not all the lessons were positive. I learned how authority could be misused. I learned to drink alcohol. I unlearned physical exercise. Gradually, I began to look and behave more like the stereotypical policeman I had once imagined. Mahottari was not an easy first posting. I never truly enjoyed my time there.
My monthly salary was NPR 2,500. After provident fund deductions, I received NPR 2,250 in hand. Most months, I spent the money within a week. I often came home in a night bus to ask my father for additional expenses. Looking back, it was hardly a sustainable financial plan.
Days turned into months, though thankfully not into years. Then one day, a policeman from Mahottari who was posted in Kathmandu came to see me. He had his family in Mahottari and wanted to be closer to home. He asked if I would be interested in swapping postings. For me, the answer was obvious. What more could I have wanted? To a young policeman longing to return to Kathmandu, he seemed nothing short of a messenger of good fortune. A few months later, my transfer was approved, and I was posted to the Bagmati Reserve Battalion in Kathmandu. I was lucky. I had no connections to higher-ranking officials nor politicians to get the transfer to the capital. Kathmandu was the dream posting for many as the Maoist war started to expand in the hilly region.
While leaving Terai, I wished that I would never have to live in Terai again. My Terai life did not end here; I lived in Janakpur for 2 years in 2008. My Terai chapter had come to an end (until 2008), but it had taught me lessons about diversity, adaptation, Madesh, hardship, and the realities of policing in Nepal.
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