Walk around this city. And listen closely.
Everybody has questions. What has happened to the once-peaceful Pokhara? What sort of monstrous beings are breeding inside houses that are so quiet ?
While walking back home from my classes one evening, it turned slightly dark. It was then that I felt the brunt of the recent attack on Yoruna Pun (also known as Neha Pun).
She was murdered one night, and was found the next morning near her house. I had heard of the incident, like every other person did, but it was during the walk home that evening in the dark that I realised how scared I had become.
I kept glancing over my shoulders, trying to make sure someone ‘suspicious’ wasn’t following me. Every time a vehicle passed by, I had this horrible image of a man bashing my head from behind.
And this is not mere paranoia, there is a sudden justification to my behavior (and that of presumably every other girl’s). How do I know that I am not next? Am I safe? How do I trust people when they could so easily be a predator underneath a facade?
Yoruna’s case is not the first. But it is the one that had a loud aftershock. It becomes a duty for us to raise our voices when someone is unjustly silenced. People rallied, they protested; police held Satish Khadgi responsible for the murder, that too within 10 days . Everyone read the papers, but they weren’t nearly convinced.
People are still protesting and accusing. I don’t blame them. It is no big news that this nation is corrupted to the core. We can only hope that this hunt for justice doesn’t evaporate under a table of hands that twist and turn at the sight of green paper.
I do not have a theory to explain what happened, nor do I know what actually happened. I am also not here with words of wisdom to say that everything is going to be normal again. I am here, and I am writing, for Yoruna, who was a 19-year-old. She will never get to be 20.
I talked to a couple of people who knew Yoruna. I asked them not of what happened; I talked to them about Yoruna. I talked to them not about the Yoruna who no longer remains among us, but the Yoruna who was one of the most down-to-earth girls to grace them with her company.
I am here because we probably passed each other by so many times. She worked at the reception of that cafe in New Road, where I would have seen her. I am here because I know that no amount of justice can ever be enough for an act so horrendous.
What is gone is gone, it is lost forever. I am here because I cannot fathom what her family must be going through. I am here because I cannot sleep properly after what happened. I am here because I am afraid. And I know that you are too.
I talked to a couple of people who knew Yoruna. I asked them not of what happened. I only talked to them about Yoruna, not the Yoruna who was killed and no longer remains among us, but the Yoruna who was one of the most down-to-earth girls to grace them with her company.
They told me about the Yoruna who could win anybody’s heart the moment she met them. Yoruna was an extrovert, a social butterfly who lived life to the fullest. Yoruna, the performer, contributed to her community by acting in Magar language films.
The people who knew her closely knew her as responsible and independent. She was a beautiful soul. I wish I had the opportunity to know her.
And as for the truth about what really happened that day, it will eventually come out. Truth has a habit of finding its way, no matter how deep it is buried.
And to the ones who did this to her, and devastated and scarred the lives of her loved ones beyond repair, I pity you.
I hope her close ones find a way to cope with the trauma you have induced into their lives. I hope deep down, you realise what an irrevocably repulsive crime you have committed. I hope the guilt hovers over your head like firmament for the rest of your life.
I hope her face, and her pain, haunts you every time you close your eyes.
And I hope, I really do, that you have enough courage to face the consequences.
(Gurung is based in Pokhara.)
