Tainted Glory of the RED I take heed of thousands of steps each day. To me, each step is a symphony, each in itself carries the unique burden of the mind. Of all the steps that pass by me every day, hurried steps are the ones that I dislike. Hurried steps make me frantic and take me back to the time when it all happened. At the midnight hour, A large explosion woke all of us. When I went outside to see where that sound came from I could see some movement in the river just below our hut. As I saw the young rebels with red armbands pacing through the river to come up to our village, I froze. Hushing me slowly, and unsheathing the Khukuri, which had been passed down the household, my father gestured me to go inside as he started packing the fishnet. My father was a fisherman and his father before him. For generations, the river has been the source our of lively hood. But it was about to change. The room was filled with an eerie silence as fear gripped Mother, paralyzing her at the moment. Father came swiftly with Khukuri on his left and the fishnet on his right while rivulets of sweat ran down his head soaking the fabric of his clothes. I was perplexed to see my mother and father in such a state. We could hear their covert movements and snap of twigs which only further amplified our anxiety. Gently gliding across the room in a deliberate attempt to not make any sound, Father took the dimly lit lantern and blew out its wick. As the creeping dark filled the room a large thud fell into our yard. A screeching loud voice called out for sanctum within our hut as it knocked on our frail door. My father who didn’t believe their cause wanted to make it seem like all of us were asleep. After a while, the knocking stopped and finally, he shed a sigh of relief. A voice different from the first one cried out as if they were desperate and someone was hurt. Cautiously, To aid their desperation my father finally opened the door, tucking Khukuri in his waist sash after lighting the previously blown-off wick. I could see the silhouettes of two men through the gently opened door. One was in a guerilla outfit carrying a gun, which loomed over the surrounding with its ominous presence of danger, seemed to be wounded from his desperate escape, and was gasping for breath releasing tensions that lingered within him. While the other in simple clothing was calm and almost as if he’d already known the outcome. Struck with the potential dread of the gun, the brave khukuri wilted and now the father was held captive within his walls. The calmer one approached my father and asked for his help. Somehow he knew that my father was locally known to treat ailments. He wanted my father to treat his friend’s wound. Unaware of what they might ask next, my father started squashing some herbs to aid the wounded. After treating the wound the calmer one introduced him as Commander Alok. He explained that he and his friend would be spending the night here and asked for some quilts. My mother grabbed spare quilts and tossed them as they planned to lie there in the courtyard. Amidst the palpable tension, my eyes were fixated on Commander Alok. As he stood there as if he was calculating an apprehensive counter. Was this calmness of his only a façade to conceal the depth of emotion underneath the surface? Or did he possess ungodly inner strength, a fortitude that shielded him from succumbing to the tension that plagued others? As I discreetly observed the person from a distance, a sense of vulnerability washed over me when his cold gaze suddenly met mine. I was struck back and promptly acted to go to sleep as the thought of his observation in me lingered. When I woke up the next day, preparations had already been made. The two rebels were ready to go. Commander Alok approached my father and thanked him for his help. Father nodded briefly but Commander Alok continued that the state of our family can change. He explained Government’s repeated failure to raise the standard of living has only deepened poverty. This if not changed through rebellion will only deepen the biasness that is already in existence. I could sense his words benignly making their way to acceptance in my father’s tranquil eyes. He inquired my father if he would let me join them, bring prosperity to our family, and lift us from this societal suppression. As he went on, Father became more and more convinced. Perhaps his appeal stemmed from the apathy of Nepal’s leaders to the public. I was thirteen, alec and gullible still, but how could I say No to the dream commander Alok showed my father, for these dreams are what give us hope despite the long night of wait. And whence my journey began. Packing my tattered clothes in a threadbare bag, I crossed the river as if to say I was to be the new breadwinner. It took us a whole day to reach the campsite where I saw people some the same age as me and some older. The moment I stepped into the site, the individuality in me perished. I was to be a foot soldier and my training began. I made new friends who came from the same uprising. The training though physically rigorous bonded us. As the number of training sessions increased, I was starting to see Commander Alok less often. It was about at the end of my training that I realized Commander Alok wasn’t some ordinary rebel. He was supposedly only second to the supreme commander in terms of power over the PLA. After four months or so, Commander assigned us a task to go to a village afar and educate the people there about the communist agenda and teachings of Mao. The task would be led by Comrade Birodh, a young blood full of energy with a desire to bring change which he instilled in all of us. It was said that the new village would also be the new base for our operations since the army had stopped being gallant and started pressing. Adorning the camouflage suits with a surge of determination coursing through our veins, we marched purposefully towards the village. In our hearts, we carried a profound belief that we were destined to be a liberator, a catalyst for change. Upon arrival, we set our initial camp just below the village school. The very next day Comrade Birodh started sending us out to round up the villagers for the information sessions. The sessions were enjoyed despite anyone’s allegiance to Marxism. All but one teacher in the vicinity had a shallow face. He’d started a silent protest through his teachings of ‘Violence begets violence’. As the camp was settling, Commander Alok came to visit or even perhaps to keep things in order. I heard that The noise of the teachers’ silent protest caught his attention. Alok went on to warn the teacher of his actions. To the dismay of Alok, the teacher repeated the same arguments that he taught his students and refused to take the warning. Commander, who was pressured to speed up setting up the new camp, was in no mood to hear his arguments or be convinced. As his seething rage refused to calm down, Comrade Alok decided to teach this teacher a lesson that would serve as a lesson to all the critics of the revolution and its modus operandi. Comrade Alok’s anger finally subsided when he garlanded the teacher with a Maoist flag, as his dead body drooped from the volleyball pole on the school ground to which both his hands were tied. As the pool of blood flowing from his slit throat turned black, Comrade Alok’s spirits lifted. He felt relieved and accomplished. But how was he to know that the events of that day would be daunting? Silence graced the entire village. It was as if their voice had been stolen, silenced by the overwhelming weight of fear. Time continued to slip away, as the camp was finally taking its shape but it seemed that the village longed to break free. A few days after the incident, from an anonymous tip it was informed that the teacher was secretly working for the government and his death had alarmed them. Vengeance was due, and it was to be paid in full by the blood of the Reds. As darkness descended, Army engulfed the entire village transforming it into a battlefield. The army advanced relentlessly. Once serene it was now echoing with cacophony of warfare. The army advanced relentlessly with their formidable number, while our reds, clung to our resolve, knowing we were outnumbered but unwavering to our commitment to the cause. Gunshots shattered the tranquility, triggering a chaotic symphony of sound. The deafening roar of rifles and explosions reverberated through the night, mingling with the cries of comrades and the distant wails of the innocent caught in the crossfire. The clash of ideologies and the struggle for control painted a grim picture of the cost the rebellion beheld. I fought with every fiber of my being, each action propelled by a fierce determination to defend what we had built, to protect our comrades and the ideals we held dear. But fate is a capricious mistress. Amid the ferocious melee, a searing pain tore through my body as a bullet found its mark. The impact sent me crashing to the ground, my right leg engulfed in agony. At that moment, time seemed to slow, and a profound realization washed over me — the cost of my commitment, the sacrifice I was now destined to bear. As the battle raged on, my consciousness faded in and out, the pain in my leg growing unbearable but these physical manifestations of the toll exacted by war are a reminder of the price we paid for the beliefs drilled into our mind and soul. I was pulled into the medic and there declared unfit to continue to great struggle of the Reds. And there my service ended. It’s been seventeen years since that fateful day. Time has etched deep lines of experience on my face, but scars of that battle, both visible and invisible have become a part of my identity. As I lay on the streets praying that the steps of people pause for me, I see Alok now a seasoned politician hurrying through the traffic to reach his office. His cold gaze hasn’t changed nor has his unquenchable desire for power.
