In late autumn in 1993, vandalism rocked a reputed boarding school situated on the outskirts of Kathmandu. Glass panes were shattered, furniture broken. The ones involved were mostly tenth grade students protesting the administration's decision to expel some of their classmates. Since the academic year was coming to an end, they would not be able to take the imminent School Leaving Certificate (SLC) exams. The expelled students' academic career and future would be jeopardised, their supporters claimed. But the administration did not budge. The protests lasted for a couple of days and then fizzled out. A leading newspaper carried a small report on the incident. I was a seventh-grade student in that school at the time.
On one of those days – perhaps a day before or after the vandalism – I remember sitting on the red brick steps that led to our dormitory. Tall trees hovered over and along it. The vegetation was lush for most of the year because the school lies in an area in Kathmandu Valley that receives a lot of rain. Thick carpets of grass covered rolling grounds and hillocks. The greenery complemented the red bricks of the stout two-storey dormitories and classroom buildings. The first time I had entered the school in the fourth-grade, I was enchanted by its vast grounds and its beauty. All kinds of adventures beckoned. But a lot had happened since.
That day, while I sat forlornly, groups of students chit-chatted in front of our dormitory, the way they did every day to kill the leisurely hour or two after the day's classes ended and before the evening study hour began. But the atmosphere was different that evening. It was marked by an unmistakable tension. Tenth-grade seniors from other dormitories had also gathered in front of ours. They seemed to be strategising with each other; there was an air of belligerence. Nervous juniors – some of whom were my friends – were also hanging around. Perhaps they were talking about the whole incident, perhaps not. I wouldn't know. I was by myself. I was afraid. It felt like everyone was talking about me, looking at me.
I was the reason for those boys' expulsion. A week or so ago, the housemaster had pulled me out of the evening study hour, taken me to his flat, sat me down and asked questions. "Did so-and-so wake you up in the middle of the night? Did he take you to his cubicle?" Having been caught off guard, I could only nod. The questions kept coming. "Did he fondle your genitals? Did he insert his penis in your anus?"