The sun is casually dawning, and people are heading home to seek shelter. Shops are closing earlier than usual, prohibited from congregating in groups. A blurred cloud seems to cover everyone’s face as evening arrives, and a part of happiness fades away. Everyone tries to find tranquility, keeping a sense of fear in their minds until the next morning.
As is his routine, he returns from the field before dark, placing his agricultural tools in a corner of the house. He sits on a berhni (a thick round mattress made of hay). A middle-aged man, almost 47, stocky with broad shoulders, a short mustache, and a thick beard, is wearing an old yellow t-shirt and shorts. A small towel hangs over his shoulder. He scratches his beard and gazes towards the roof of his Tharu house, with thatched roofs and walls made of thick straw plastered with clay mud. Tharu women’s art adorns the walls, while chickens hang in a basket in one corner of the house. A Ghost God (mud horse) silently stands in another room. Rooms are separated from the deheri (a granary storage made of mud). His wife is busy cooking dinner in the kitchen.
He hears the sound of ha..ha.. coming from outside the house (a sound used to control buffalo or cows). It’s his father, almost 86 years old but strong, tying up the cows in the cowshed. After washing his face, hands, and legs, he sits beside his son. Meanwhile, his son Ramcharan arrives with his wife from the field. Despite returning from the field, they are busy with household work.
While glancing around, he finds a chicken feather on the roof, picks it up, cleans it, and uses it to cool his ears. “Chawa…re……Chawa” (son…oh…son), his father calls. “Kaa baba” (yes, father), Ramcharan replies and approaches. “Bring me a pot of water, chawa,” Ramcharan brings a pot of water, and he drinks, creating a sound of drinking water, then takes a long silent breath. His father sits with a big bowl of Jaand (rice beer) and stale vegetables in a sal leaf bowl. His wife passes by, goes to the hand pump, washes her hands, comes back with green garlic leaves and green chili, and says, “Ya, it’s getting dark.” She enters the kitchen again, and the sound of grinding chutney, “Dhak …Dhak,” can be heard.
Now, the dark covers the entire village. He stands up, stretches his body, and closes the door. A locally made kerosene lamp in a small bottle, with flammable rags on top of the lid, provides light inside the house.
It’s dark, and the whole village is quiet, seeming like a graveyard. Somewhere far, dogs can be heard barking but stop after a minute. Insects produce natural sounds continuously, and a small gust of wind makes the sound of lingering leaves dropping to the ground audible.
The village is completely silent, no longer enjoying seasonal cultural dances. People have stopped gathering and sharing their happiness and sorrows after a hard day’s work. It’s challenging to sense freedom and peace in the villages; everything has changed, making it even harder to hear any noise. In a way, it looks like a night of dreadful peace, if not mistaken.
“Patoiea…Patoiea” (son’s wife), a voice comes from the kitchen. “Kaa Mau” (Yes, mother-in-law). “Pass these foods to them.” Patoiea serves the food to all the family members. After dinner, they all go to sleep.
It is one hour to midnight. At the Ranashur Gulm (army camp), almost 16 or 17 soldiers are preparing to head somewhere. Except for the commanding officer, everyone is surprised and chatting with their roommates, unaware of the destination. They do not receive detailed information before enrolling and heading to the targeted area. A whistle signals, and within five minutes, a group of soldiers assembles on the ground, standing with weapons. The second lieutenant arrives and asks, “Are you all ready?” “Yes, sir!” “Any questions?” “No, sir!” Now all of them are notified of where they are going. “Ok, Let’s move,” says the second commander, called Hawaldar in the army ranking. They move in a line in the direction of the commander. Soldiers walk silently, speaking in a very low voice with each other. After almost ten minutes of walking, they reach the targeted destination, but Hawaldar signals them to stop before fifty meters. Except for five of them, the rest of the soldiers are divided into five groups and take positions, circling the house as per the commander’s order. The lieutenant, Hawaldar, and three soldiers stand in front of the home near the door. In a cowshed, an ox is heating its horn on a pole. They whisper and make a plan, but the house is in deep sleep, everyone is in beautiful, comfortable sleep. Within a minute, it demolishes.
Hawaldar knocks on the door, “Tak..tak..” with a calm voice, “Anybody at home, please open the door.” “Ke huitha atrajunke” (who is this at this time?), someone replies from inside the home. “We…we are villagers, please open the door; it’s an emergency.” Rats are moving on the roof of the home. His wife wakes up and talks to herself, “Who can beat this midnight?” and gives light to a lamp. A small bright light covers a part of the house. Light and movements wake up Ramcharan, “Kaa huiel daai” (what happened, mum?), Ramcharan asks. “Don’t know, someone is calling from outside.” Holding a lamp in her hand, she asks her husband (Mr. Top), “Are you going to open the door?” “I will go; wait,” and he takes a lamp. Still in the same dress, old yellow t-shirt, and shorts, with a small towel resting on the pillow, his hair in disarray, he wipes his eyes and goes to open the door. He opens the door; it’s very dark outside. Four soldiers are hiding, and a lieutenant is standing now. He sees a single man standing but cannot notice that the man is a soldier. Even in the dark night, he can’t identify the soldier’s uniform, and the lamp doesn’t help reach the ray to the soldier. He invites him inside the house and asks him to sit. Now, he loses all consciousness, feeling like he fell down from the roof; he is dazed now, seeing a soldier in his home. “Are you Mr. Top?” “Yes, I am. We have a record that you are a Maoist, and we are here to arrest you.” He tries to speak, but his trembling voice cannot help him express himself. In the meantime, his wife arrives. “Hawaldar, arrest him!” the lieutenant orders. He is in a circle of armed soldiers, the barrels of the guns pointed at him. Hawaldar ties his hands, his wife cries, pleading with them. The
