Normally I write about other people but today I am writing about my own pain.
The earthquake destroyed many houses including mine in Bulungkhani, Dolakha that my father had built. My house suffered some cracks from the 25 April earthquake but the 12 May aftershock destroyed it.
Fortunately, there were no casualties at my house.
As a journalist, I have to devote more time to work during such a crisis. Putting my own pain aside, I got back into reporting on the aftermath of the disaster. On 1 May, I headed to Singati with tents for my family who had spent the last few nights under the open sky.
The constant rain and storm prevented us from setting up the tarps and people continued to live in constant fear of the next potential earthquake in between the aftershocks.
I came back to Kathmandu on 9 May after building shelters for my grandmother and father. My father was constantly stressed about our family. My mother had gone missing couple of months ago and my pregnant sister-in-law was staying alone in a rented room.
I tried to get to Dolakha after the 12 May aftershock but my wife and daughter stopped me.
The next day, my colleague Nimesh Jung Rai and I went to Charikot in an Indian Army helicopter. The whole place was deserted without any houses or hotels standing, no electricity and with deep cracks on the roads.
We tried to hire a vehicle to go to Singati but no driver was willing to risk his life, given the landslides .
Finally one driver agreed to take us for double the price. In Singati all the concrete houses were destroyed along with the mud and brick ones. There was a stench of dead bodies everywhere, some people were salvaging for anything useful they could find from under the rubble. Putting things in perspective, I realised how much luckier I was.
Though I was there for an assignment I wanted to see my sister Laxmi and niece Romina, fully aware that the road to their house was destroyed.
There were landslides everywhere on the way and I had to return to Singati Bazaar without helping them.
Back in the old bazaar, a local Lal Bahadur Jirel was fixing an old copperware damaged by the earthquake. “I don’t have any other utensil to cook in,” he murmured.
For reporting purposes, I went to the temple where people were living in tents. The dogs had brought in parts of unclaimed dead bodies. People had not received any relief materials. There was not enough water and people were starting to get sick.
Everyone I met said, “What should we say about the problems here? You are from here, tell the higher-ups what they are.”
On our way back to Charikot I saw my brother Tapendra trying to rescue people at the bus park. It was assumed that 12 people were buried there. He didn’t have either gloves or a mask on.
My father was extremely worried about the situation of his three children: me and my brother in dangerous settings and my sister in the middle of the landslide.
It wasn’t just me who was suffering, my whole community was. So right now I am using writing and reporting as a way to forget my pain.
Read also:
Singati after the quake
Soon, the monsoon, Editorial