I got transferred to Kathmandu without anyone's 'blessing'. It was almost unbelievable. The Maoist insurgency was spreading rapidly across the mid-Western hills. The police units started to be attacked. Police, then, had limited resources and skills to fight the 'guerrilla' warfare. Many policemen would obviously prefer to be in Kathmandu or the Urban areas. So, Kathmandu postings required influence, recommendations, or knowing the right people. I had none of those, but the stars aligned, and my transfer order arrived anyway.
I reported to the Bagmati Police Battalion, the Zonal Police Reserve Force.
For my family, it was a huge relief. For me, it felt like coming home after spending nearly a year in Mahottari. I was back in my hometown. Kathmandu was comfortable; I knew the language, culture, and society. I had my friends here. My barrack was nice, next to the Bagmati river, at Tripureshwor. Therw were nothing much to do. When I was a duty officer, I had to inspect morning parade. Then, there was nothing much to do, other than watch TV or read news. My uniforms were well pressed, my boots are done. After attending the evening roll call, we called it a day.
Being back in Kathmandu also gave me something I was too worried about: my education. I enrolled in college. Since I had studied science in high school, I still needed to pass two additional subjects from Grades 11 and 12 before moving ahead. I had no idea how to balance police duty and college, but I was home, and I had all the time.
Life in the reserve force was quite different from my previous posting. We were constantly on short deployments around the districts surrounding Kathmandu. One of our regular assignments was providing armed security for bank cash transfers. Eight to ten armed police officers in a convoy of two vehicles carrying millions of rupees. It sounds like an action movie, but most of the excitement came from surviving Nepal's winding mountain roads. Within an hour, I would be fighting motion sickness while trying to look alert with a rifle in my hand. Our daily allowance for these trips was 80 rupees. Even then, it was little more than a dollar. It wasn't a small amount when the monthly salary was 2500 rupees.
I remember one particular duty, where we delivered fresh cash before the Dashain festival in Nuwakot. During Dashain, banks needed extra cash because everyone was withdrawing money for shopping, travel, and family celebrations. There were Thousand, hundred, fifty, twenty, ten, five, two and one rupee notes, so it would not fit into the usual metal cash boxes. Instead, the bank staff packed bundles of freshly printed notes into ordinary sack bags.
Somewhere along the twisting road, one of the ropes holding the sacks became loose. The money bundles were scattered all in the trunk; the entire vehicle smelled of freshly printed currency. I still remember the hard smell of new notes - and the long queue of people waiting for us, to collect their money.
The letter would look like this
Another memorable trip was to Melamchi. Today, many people know Melamchi because of the water project that supplies Kathmandu. Back then, the project was in paper only. Reaching there was an adventure in itself.
The road was rough, narrow, and mostly unpaved. Landslides were common, and sometimes we found logs or large stones deliberately placed across the road. We never knew whether they had fallen naturally or had been placed there to stop vehicles. Every time the driver slowed down to inspect an obstacle, our hearts beat a little faster. Those were the moments when training quietly took over. Everyone became more alert. Fingers rested a little closer to the trigger, eyes scanned the hillsides, and conversations suddenly stopped. Fortunately, nothing happened.
Most of those journeys ended with tired bodies, dusty uniforms, and another story to tell back at the barracks. My Kathmandu years were fun overall, with a bit of tiresome. While I was policing in Kathmandu, the conflict outside the valley was becoming more violent.
News of attacks on police posts became increasingly common. Almost every week, newspapers carried another story of officers killed while defending small stations in remote districts. Sometimes, the names were familiar. They were my batchmates. My friends who had trained with me. Men who had laughed over the same meals at Kakani, ran every morning to Ranipauwa, and dreamed of serving the nation. Even after all these years, my heart still aches when I think of them.
Less than a year in Kathmandu, I received my temporary deployment letter to Nuwakot.
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