Random hits on the keyboard

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...

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,...

I iron my dresses on an old green rug. I have an ironing stand, but it feels much easier on the green rug on the floor. It is muscle memory. My hands seem to know the routine. Today, I thought that I should write something about my green rug. I took the photo, and here we go. I received the rug, about 25 years ago, as a scale item, along with many others. I no longer own the uniform, boots and badges, but the rug remained, for no particular reason. It still looks good and reminds me a lot of the stories associated with my police life.  It's been more than 22 years since I left the police, but the identity has remained with me. I am often introduced as a former police officer rather than anything else. Apart from the identity, the service has given me a lot of lessons that have shaped my life, for good or bad. The service changed my course of life, my career, my ambitions, my education, my travel, my thoughts and whatnot.  Whether joining the police was the right decision, I wi...