As I flip through the newspaper this morning, I am simply amazed by the parties in town for ushering 2012. And more than that, I am utterly surprised by the money they’re charging for these parties. And also, it’s quite surprising (excuse me for overusing this word, but I am surprised like every other year) that people are paying to get into these parties.

One of the most ridiculously expensive parties that I’ve come across is at a five-star hotel. They’re charing Rs 8,000 (almost $100 with $1=Rs 80) for a single entry and Rs 15,000 ($187) for a couple. And I say to myself, “What’s the story?” Well, some singers from India are coming to perform and as the advertisement proclaims it’s going to be a free flow of food and alcohol.

I keep on flipping through the newspapers and there are more and more ads–from expensive five-star treats to something taking place down the alley, and most of them at a pretty high charge.

I’m not against these parties and I’m don’t even have anything against the money they’re charging. As it seems people have money and they’re willing to pay for it. I think it’s a good way to forget the year gone by and just celebrate–spend those extra bucks you’ve been saving and drink the night away.

But is it worth is?

For me, not. So I’m spending my night with my close friends at a cozy place (and mind it, it’s not that cheap as well). But rather than getting wasted on “free flow of alcohol,” and spending so much of the money that I don’t have,  I’d rather prefer spending my money and time my way: being in the company of the people I like.

And at the end of the day that’s what I’m going to remember. It was a wonderful 2011 with these bunch of people, and I’m sure it’s going to be an amazing 2012 though we’ll be spread out in this gigantic globe.

And as I recollect 2011 in memories, moments of love and laughter, making through the good and the bad, and traveling the world, I’m looking forward for 2012.

There is the capital-centric Nepal; there is another Nepal, countless Nepals in different levels within the bubble called Kathmandu; there is the donor driven Nepal where development and sustainability seems to go hand in hand; there is a progressive Nepal where people talk about development in ways that everything can be achieved.

But amid all these Nepals, many of us hardly tend to look at real Nepal. And every time I cross the peripheries of the city, I see bits and pieces of real Nepal—the Nepal that hasn’t been fictionalized.

I haven’t travelled extensively within my own country, but from what I’ve seen and experienced in these past years has certainly given me a sense of what actual Nepal is like.

So how do I define real Nepal?

Poverty. Illiteracy. Lack of infrastructure…and the list continues. And that’s true.

When you cross the cities, big concrete buildings slowly transform into small, muddy huts. The luxuries of modern transportation are limited to bullock carts. Getting to a hospital is a two-day walk.

As I travelled through southwest Nepal this time, I could see everything that constituted a real Nepal. In this small village of Badarpur, people smiled as they talked of their problems as if they weren’t any problems.

I met a couple who had just recuperated from a disease that they didn’t know about for five years. The wife was living with a condition called fistula that she developed due to long and obstructed labor.  Fistula is condition that leads to  a hole in the birth canal caused by prolonged labour without prompt medical intervention. (A story I did on fistula in May)

Her baby died for it took her more than 24 hours to get to the hospital, and even when she reached the hospital, the local hospital referred her to a district hospital, which again asked her to go to a bigger facility in the city.

As a result her unborn child died and for the next five years she lived with urine leakage because of fistula. She said she couldn’t get out of the house because it use to “stink.”

The couple talked about their problems and how they finally managed to overcome after they found about a free health camp that cured their woes.

This woman’s story is only a representation of what’s happening in rural Nepal—hundreds of women and newborns dying due to lack of awareness and also health facilities.

While situations as such gives a grim picture of what real Nepal is like, not everything seems dark and gray.

During the same trip, I met a group of young people actively engaging in the community. These young men and women, in their 20s, talked about sexual and reproductive health. As a part of a program called YPEER, a youth-to-youth initiative, they were involved in making their community aware about the issues—from sexual and reproductive health to maternal problems and how to tackle them. I also met a group of college students in Rajapur, few of them who talked about these issues without any hesitation.

And while talking to these young people, you can see their enthusiasm. They know what they’re talking about, and they’re clear on what they want to do.

As a section of the country is facing problems, it was good to see that a small part within the same community was trying to solve those problems in their own ways.

Information and communication is important to drive a community forward. And it was good to see some people, young people, involved in this regardless of any political of self-vested interests.

The real Nepal is full of problems and there are too many issues to be addressed. What I have addressed here is just a minute representation. But at the same time, real Nepal is also about a group of people in every community who are working to make it better and make lives better in their community.

Most of the times, we just tend to see the unreal aspect of the real Nepal, mostly clouded with crisis. We tend to overlook the changes, though very small but significant.

As I travelled, though the images of a grim, real Nepal was depressing, it was encouraging to see young people at least making an effort from their side.

Yes, real Nepal is full of problems, but at the same time, real Nepal also has people trying to solve these problems.

But as I am jostling with my graduate classes now, I really am really not generous of stepping in here. But once in a while, I do like to reflect on my life–past, present and even the future.

Let me start with the obvious present: my life in one of the greatest cities in the world, London. Well, still I don’t know that I am totally love with New York City. First love always is special, as they say.

Anyways, London. It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve been here. I’ve enjoyed the sunshine while it lasted, the blue skies and temperature in the upper 20s. Now I think it’s time to embrace the winter. I know I’m just going to bitch about the cold like I did in Kathmandu, but some of my dear friends have been spared this time around. I think they certainly miss me whining, complaining and bitching 24X7.

As far as the city, I love walking around the city. I really do miss my friend as we always worked around Kathmandu literally all the time. And Sumina Karki, yes you, you probably won’t be complaining about your shoes and men staring at you on the way to office!

Office. Oh, I miss that cubicle of mine. And to be honest, I do miss the real-world work.

But here, I am learning a lot. I can now shoot and edit videos. I’m going to start radio soon. That’s some addition to my skills.

Wait, did I tell you all that I got a one-day internship. Well, it’s an NGO and the first day, which was last week, I wrote two press releases. I didn’t move from that desk. I am not sure if I really like the PR stuff, but it’s just utilizing my time here or I’d be sleeping half the day.

What else?

I’m going to keep it short here. If something strikes me and if I am free from my course blog, I’ll step in here again. And if some random thought strikes my mind, I’ll have them here.

But if you are a really die-hard fan of my writing, then follow me at www.bibekjournal.wordpress.com

I won’t disappoint.

As I’m writing this post, one thing I am not surely missing is the lack of electricity and slow Internet though.

Ok, want to resume my missing list.

I miss momos. I miss, believe it or not, the congested streets of Kathmandu. I miss food–I mean stupid Nepali food. I miss the perfect weather and clear view of the mountains. I miss working. I miss having a monthly salary. I miss having a grin seeing my bank account. I miss my cubicle. I miss office (how many of you would say that?). But I think I miss the company around me.

I miss my friends. I miss being in the family. I miss drinking every other night. I miss mid-week crisis on Wednesdays, another reason to binge. Miss the gathering at Mitra. I miss going for coffee at La Dolce. I miss Thamel.I miss Fridays at Factory.

I miss my gang.

I miss seeing texts and emails on my phone when I wake up. I miss texting some people. I miss bugging some people. I really miss annoying the hell out of some people.

I miss bitching. I miss complaining. I miss whining. And I think this is one of the ways I’m doing it.

Oh well. I just miss those people and the places.

And maybe I miss blogging here. I’ve been busy with my class blog. So do check it out: www.bibekjournal.wordpress.com

So it’s been two weeks that I’m here in London. Kitchen is not exactly the place where I want to hang out. But as it seems I have to make compromises. But some compromises are easy, I suppose. Thanks canned and frozen food items.

But how long can you survive on that, right? Well, five years in the US and I should have at least learned something. But no. So like it or not, as it seems, I have to make that effort to step into the kitchen and try to make something once in a while.

And in these two weeks, I think I have done that. Maybe two times or three when I really craved for some spicy, authentic Nepali/Indian food., I’ve made that genuine effort (or not) to actually make something. But then again it involved the pre-prepared, canned stuff. Thank god!

So what I did—got this Biryani sauce (like the pasta sauce ones), made some rice and just mixed it. It was yummy! I think that’s the only food I have made except fixing some sandwiches and pasta. And whenever I go to the supermarket, I make a point to get some pre-cooked Indian veggies.

And yes, there are tons of stores that sell Indian stuff—right from chips to chana masala and everything else. Be it Dallas or London, think we should be very thankful to the desi community for without their humongous population, and the stores that sprouted later, I wouldn’t have had the luxury to buy food that reminds me of home.

Not a big sucker for food (as you can figure), but yea, sometimes, you can’t help those cravings. So until I don’t know when, the pre-cooked spicy Indian food, frozen, canned and ready-to-eat stuff is what I’m holding on to.

All these years, moving from one state to another, one city to the other and finally making the move from one country to another, it’s never been easy. As you’re settling down, getting used to the place and trying to make that once unknown, weird and unfamiliar place home, it’s time to move again. That’s how the 21st century world is I guess—you’re just on a constant move.

And with that move the entire dynamics of love, life and relationships changes too.

The move to London hasn’t been easy. Well, yes, I’ve been on a move for a while, but as they say home is where the heart is. I mean, I literally have a love-hate relationship with my city. I hated it while I was there, but deep down the love never died. And of course, it’s where my loved ones dwell, it’s where I’ve been acquainted with love, it’s where I have discovered my passion, and it’s where I’ve had a chance to breed that passion of mine. And moving on doesn’t mean leaving it all behind, forgetting all those people and relationships I believe on. Oh well…

So now here I am in London, one city that I forever dreamed of visiting. Here I am now living here for a while, at least until I finish school.

Out of Heathrow, with an address of one of my dad’s friends, and tons of baggage I walked out. This time at least I had an address; it wasn’t like in Mumbai where I moved without anywhere to go. All I had was a broker’s number. Well…

So lucky me that my dad’s friend was there to pick me at the airport. Good that he helped me with my luggage and then we were off. It’s always great to be welcomed by daal-bhaat for dinner. I know I’m going to miss daal-bhaat!

And as of today, three days of moving into the residence halls, I am surviving on pre-cooked frozen food, bread, bagels, coffee and fruits. Well, that works.  And as a student, I mean, it’s again finding free food…let’s hope…

And yay, I’m back to school. That’s what this move is for. That’s why I am in London.

So it was first day of school—back to J-school again. Ad in a few days, it’ll be back to day-long classes, back to reporting, back to bitching…maybe not. Westminster does remind me a lot of TCU, especially the building and classes, they’re alike Moudy. I’ve yet to disover if there’s a newsroom like the Skiff. I know there’s a magazine called Smoke. Hmm..even the names start from “S.”

The first day of class went pretty well. It was basically all introductions, and I’m glad to have a large group of international classmates—from neigboring India and China to South Korea, Egypt, Palestine, Germany, Spain, Italy, my favorite US, and the UK.  Looks like it’s going to be a great cultural living and learning experience.

Speaking of the cultural experience, my roommate happens to be a French-Irishman. When I walked into the room, all I saw was a guitar, and I thought to myself that it’s pretty cool that my roommate plays the guitar. And turns out he is a musician. The past days, he’s played and sung in the room, and he ain’t bad at all.

So here is how I basically am summing up my move so far—totally the informal way.

As I sit here, thinking of tomorrow’s assignment—and also working on it—my mind is also hovered by memories of the past, of Kathmandu. I’m thinking about the city and the people. I’m unpacking my memories that I carried along with me. I’m relishing the moments that I spent with some special people.  Without you all, it wouldn’t have been real.

And as someone said to me days before I left, “Real smile means real happiness.” And I know I’m gonna be back for that wicked happiness. Soon.

I remember the first time I walked into Republica’s office, a day after I returned to Nepal. And then I knew that I was working for the paper from the next day. And from Jan 3, 2010 to this date, Republica and especially its weekend edition The Week has been an integral part of my life.

The first time I walked inside the newsroom, I recall the strange faces of my future colleagues, some of them who have just transformed into what you call close friends. Without The Week, and without these group of friends, trust me, my life in Kathmandu would have been depressing. I would now be suffering from some frustration syndrome or something.

From that first story that I did for The Week to my last one from Kathmandu, I have matured as a reporter, I now respect my profession more, and don’t even get me talking on the passion: it’s life for me. I recall my first story—I had to go and meet NPR’s Jay Allison for a story, and that too in an area that I had never heard of. Thirty minutes of losing track of where I was going, and 15 minutes of frantic asking around, I arrive at the place 45 minutes late. But in these 19 months, I don’t think I’ve made any excuses for being late because I tried not to—I always respected the value of time and deadline. I’ve had frustrations over time—people not showing up for interviews, making me wait for more than two hours or bailing out when I am already there, but I just took it as a challenge of working in Nepal. And yes, how can I forget those press conferences where the host starts an hour late assuming the journalists will be hour late and the journalists reach an hour late assuming that the hosts will start late!

Then a series of stories that I have written over these 19 months, the people I met and came across, the interviews—they’ll always remain close to my heart for the amount of love, passion and dedication that I’ve put in those stories. There have been stories that I just didn’t know how to start, some were boring, and some just not so cool, but I did them all, and I think from every story and my sources, I have learned something.

Also, it’s The Week that gave me an opportunity to explore my own country. I mean, I would never have trekked up to the Everest Base Camp, visit a rural village in Solukhumbu, go on a overnight trip to Birgunj or even go visit Salyan in Midwest Nepal. But it was all work, and I’m glad I got an opportunity to see these places, meet some amazing people there and then delve into stories that made sense. And oh, how can I forget my grand South Africa work trip and then that amazing Bryan Adams concert that I got to write about—too bad we couldn’t interview him.

So I’ve talked a lot about The Week, but believe me, it’s the people who work at The Week that makes The Week what it’s like. It’s an amazing group of team and the teamwork and the effort we all put, the outcome of which you read every Friday.

Inside the newsroom, at The Week cubicle, there’s just an amazing energy. There’s always music. There’s always someone laughing—well, that’s me most of the times. We whine, complain, bitch but at the end of the day don’t mind staying until midnight on Wednesdays to finish our stories and then past midnight on Thursdays for the production of The Week.

Oh Thursdays. I remember my first one and here’s apparently my last one today. Thursdays at The Week is synonymous to so many things: deadlines, stress, getting mad at the designers, I mean crazy mad, proofing and then of course HUNGER. It’s Thursday nights late in the newsroom, we are always a bunch of hungry people. So if you’re a fan of The Week, someone reading this, please deliver food in the newsroom late Thursday nights!

Arpan, thank you for being the amazing editor and a friend that you have been. I know that a lot of people don’t get along with you or vice versa, but you’re just yourself. You are definitely on the list of the coolest bosses.

Sumina Karki, where do I even start from? It’s like we’re twins. I don’t know how the hell in the world we share similar clothes—talking about colors, prints, styles! I know you’ll do well, and I’ll miss your fashion show. But we’re meeting soon in that city!

Ujjwala, I’ll kinda miss pulling your hair and then poking with you pens and coming to you and saying, “Have you finished your story?!” Keep posting the videos of your poetry performances, and I’ll enjoy it there!

Shreya Thapa. Hmm. Should I write something about you? Hehe. Well, I know I’ve irritated you a lot, and when I say lot, a lot. Maybe a little less than Sumina, but I admit you have been a victim too. And I am sure you will miss that. And thanks for all those comics. I’ll flaunt them with pride to everyone in London. You never know, I might just get published!

Alok, well sometimes your blabbering is just too much and I’m like—STOP. But well, we need sometime who can just help us laugh and pass on those gossips and news from the world of celebritydom while we’re lunching or sipping tea at our regal Hyangs.

Pravat or Parabhat. The snobby, snooty little princess. Well, we didn’t even talk for a few months when you joined and now we’re a part of the three musketeers—you, Sumina and me. I hope you find the third partner but remember, I need someone who can replace me though you guys said I am irreplaceable! And oh, how can I thank you for all those drunken drop offs. And that speeding was scary—only once but scary!

Kanchan, well I think I’ve irritated and annoyed you enough as well. But seriously, the newsroom does miss you. That’s all I got to say.

And dear Shitu sister, you’ve been an inspiration. That’s all I have to say. And thank you for the GPI gig and the lunch boxes that you bring to office. Oh god, this makes you seem like an old lady. But hey all, she isn’t old.

Oh wow, as it seems, I am really going to miss the newsroom. I’m going to miss my cubicle. And I’m really going to miss the moments I’ve spent here. It’s my second home, literally. We spend like so much time here that my house has become like a guest house or something where I just go and crash in my bed and eat and then shower.

Working at The Week has never been work for me, it’s always been something fun, something that I was waiting for. I’m so glad that I chose to come to The Week and not go anywhere else—the experience wouldn’t have been the same, I bet. And the opportunities and the flexibility The Week has, it’s just unbelievable. I mean, I can come to work in my green shorts, orange tshirt and yellow shoes!

Well, as I am moving on, I’d like to thank the entire The Week team and then our editor-in-chief for Republica for having the trust on me and letting me work the way I wanted. But moving on doesn’t mean that I am leaving The Week. I’ll always remain a part of the team, wherever I am. I’m still going to be writing and you can still count on me if there is anything. I’ll always be ready to join the bandwagon called The Week and its “Mahan Gaurabshali Team.”

Thank you all. It’s been one helluva joyride. And I still say, I absofreakinglutely am in love with my job!

I may not have understood that if I hadn’t met Jose Feghali. (Read his profile I wrote)

Feghali, winner of the 1985 Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, played last month at Bass Hall. His fingers don’t only promenade the keys of the piano like a runner on the track. His passion extends beyond music. He has a secret romance with something else – technology.

“I’m a geek,” confesses the pianist who has graced more than 800 venues worldwide with his performances.

The pianist, who is also a professor at Texas Christian University, locked himself in a room for an entire weekend to prove a programmer wrong about his own software. This programmer had told Feghali that the software probably was not capable of working with uncompressed audio, which produces the best possible sound quality. But Feghali played with the software’s code, which is open for anyone to modify, and he figured out that changing the buffering from 1,000 bytes to 5,000 bytes per second would result in a better sound output.

Voila! It worked.

This is merely one example that artists are creative people who can just create about anything.

Creativity is using your imagination and thoughts to explore the unexplored and bring into existence that no one has ever created. It doesn’t have to be in your field of expertise. Life is all about getting out of your comfort zone, experimenting, exploring. Frustration haunts people when they don’t realize their goals, but there is joy in awe-inspiring accomplishments. It takes determination.

Feghali didn’t only spend nights and days working on his piano skills, but also lived the life of an owl just to see his technological innovations work.

“Once something doesn’t make sense to me, it drives me nuts,” the curious professor said. “It keeps me awake all night.”

And, if you ask what he has done, here is the list: As a kid, the Brazilian native opened up televisions and other electronic appliances to figure out how they worked. As a teenage student in London, he assembled his first home computer, a Sinclair ZX81. He then helped the Cliburn Foundation, which runs the Cliburn International Piano competition and advocates classical music, to convert tapes from their archives to digital CDs. And now he is engaged with Internet2 technology, which is an advanced network application and technology used for education and high-speed data transfer. He has used the Internet2 and Conference XP to conduct classes between TCU and Cleveland Institute of Music and London’s Royal Academy of Music.

Remember the line from the Beatles’ song: “There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done.” Feghali proves it. And if we look around us, we might find many people who have dedicated their lives for a purpose, but at the same time they have other passions that direct their lives.

You want me to name another?

J. Mack Slaughter Jr. (Read his story here) : He had a career in a boy band, and a TV and movie career in Hollywood. But the Fort Worth native is studying to become a doctor. He has established a nonprofit organization to integrate his first passion, music, and his medical profession.

Feghali and Slaughter are the few people who have made me realize that you, me and all of us have that secret passion that we need to discover. It could completely be off-track from our profession but could complement that. Feghali is using his love for technology to teach. Slaughter is using his music to help patients relieve stress.

It makes me think: Is journalism my sole purpose in life? I’m putting my thinking hat on.

This was originally published in The Dallas Morning News.

I don’t think I need to be clarifying my story based on some random comment, but I stick true to my story, my research and my editor’s decision.

There have been comments from people who are stuck with their traditional beliefs, they exist in every religion. This one is only an example.

A news story in Republica on August 3 quotes the President of Nepal Tamang Ghedung Kumar Yonjan as saying,  “The religious dictum requires a nun to be virgin. So, it will be difficult to take her back. But we will lobby for her reinstatement as it is a unique incident.”

Again, at various instances, in different media, Norbu Sherpa, an official of Nepal Buddhist Federation, said, “Such a thing never happened in the Buddha’s lifetime. … So he did not leave instructions about how to deal with the situation. Buddhists all over the world adhere to what he had laid down: that a person can no longer be considered ordained in case of having a physical relationship. It’s applicable to both men and women.”

He further added, “A vessel that is damaged once can no longer be used to keep water. … Buddhism all over the world says this. Even the Dalai Lama says you can’t be a monk or nun after marriage.”

I tried to talk to Mr. Sherpa, but he was unavailable.

While these hard-headed people are supposedly blindfolded by their traditional beliefs, they tend to forget the human sentiments and values attached to the person.

All this time in the media, people have been focusing on these people who have negative things to say, who want to impose their religious and traditional beliefs.

So I thought it is a good opportunity to bring out facts–those not adhered to false traditional beliefs–and let people know what is in fact true.

I wonder when it’s something positive, people always seem to question and raise queries about facts and statements. But when there is any false alarm, any allegations, they tend to believe it. I mean, why didn’t people raise questions when the some people in the society were questioning her status? Why didn’t people ask them to clarify their statement–on which grounds they made their statement?

Well, here, I am certainly not trying to justify myself; I don’t need to. It’s just a small gesture from my side, personally, for all those people who live in the world of clarifications when it comes to positive and true statements and tend to blindly believe and follow after a quote that don’t hold much weight.

This, by far means, has been one of the most complex interviews for me. Here I wasn’t interviewing a high-profile person, a celebrity or an overachiever. Those kinds of interviews are easy—you know what to ask and more often you can expect the answers as well. But this interview was different for it was too personal—so much personal that I didn’t know how to frame the questions, I even didn’t know how to approach her and then how to start talking.

I mean, how would you go up to a 21-year-old nun who was gang-raped by five men inside a bus? How would you start a conversation, forget an interview.

Before the interview, I was told not to ask anything about the incident that has scarred her. I was told she is not in a state of mind to answer or comment on that topic, and asking her about it would only make her more stressed. I totally understood that.

Before meeting her, I talked to the in-charge of the nunnery where she is now. I asked the in-charge about her, what she does, about her conditions and how has she improved in the two-month time since that night of June 24.

Then the in-charge, Pemba ji, took me to her room that she shared with two other nuns.

When I entered, I saw her sitting on the bed: in her maroon robe, legs crossed, facing to the open window, reading Pecha, a Buddhist prayer book. She was small, medium-height and of average weight. The first question that popped my mind when I saw her was: Seriously, how could those men be so cruel, full of those animal instincts?

I didn’t want to disturb her prayer. Her roommates were around and so was Pemba ji. They told me that she spent most of her day praying, reading, and now a days makes little conversation with her roommates. So I told them I would wait until she finishes her prayer. And she did in some five minutes.

I greeted her to which she replied flashing a big smile on her face. That smile on her face was priceless. I was only thinking if she used that smile as a shield to forget what had happened, to make others realize that nothing has gone wrong.

I sat close to her on her bed. She was still faced toward the window. I explained her and said I just wanted to talk generally about her and why she wanted to become a nun. She smiled back and said it was fine.

She told me her story in short sentences, sometimes pausing, other times just gushing out a smile. Whenever she stopped, I tried and inquired more, told her to elaborate a bit. But then again, she would just say, “It’s like that..”

It had been more than five minutes of conversation, and it really felt like a long time. I still didn’t know how to ask some questions.

But eventually after I thought she was comfortable enough answering questions, I asked her when and how she came to Kathmandu, how did she end up in Pharping.

“I don’t know anything,” she said in a low tone, fidgeting with her handkerchief. “I came in conscious state of mind only at the hospital in Kathmandu.”

As we kept talking she said of her state: “Ma k bhayo hola bhanne yaad hunthyo. Malai k garda niko huncha. Malai pahila yasto kehi pani bhaako thiena. (I use to remember what happened to me. What would it take to overcome this. Before, I wasn’t in such a state.)”

Then I asked her what happened? She said she doesn’t really remember. Then I tried to ask her about what kind of sickness was it as she mentioned she wasn’t feeling well. She just said headache, weakness, vomiting, and added that she was recovering.

As a reporter, as much I wanted to know the information on what happened on June 24, as an individual, I didn’t want to ask her all that. At this point of time, I was trying to be in my best journalistic form—I asked questions, I tried hard to get the story from her. But I really knew where to stop.

And I did stop.

Then I diverted the questions not in any way connected to her sickness or the incident. I asked about her likes and dislikes, her family, siblings, what she likes to do, what she was reading and how she spends her day. I also asked her if she would forever dedicated herself to being a nun.

In her maroon robe, sitting on the bed, occasionally wiping sweat off her forehead by a handkerchief, she spoke with hope and confidence that she’ll continue her devotion in the field she has chosen.

“I just want to study and become a good Ani [nun] and devote myself to this,” she said.

Well, that was an end. I thanked her, thanked her again. I asked her to take care of herself and left the room.

She said bye. During the entire conversation until the goodbye, she smiled. Her smile was something. I was quite intrigued by it—I kept on thinking, again, and again, how much of pain is behind that smile, and yet she was smiling.

I really do hope that the men who have committed this hideous crime get punished. But then again, in Nepal, according to the Muluki Ain, the country’s legal code, there is an imprisonment ranging from five to seven years for raping a woman 20 years or above. There is a further provision for gang rape: an additional five years to the imprisonment mentioned.

So a maximum sentence these men would get is some 13 years. Come to think of it, 13 years is a long time. But then again, I really don’t know if 13 years is long enough for the crime they have committed.

But whatever it is, I hope the nun gets justice, and I really do hope that we never have to report on such stories in future.

Read the story on tomorrow’s The Week.