My uncle was killed by Maoists

Kathmandu, Nepal, September 29 — I stood besides his dead body with a mind full of grief.

He was a good poet. Many relatives often told me this whenever they met me. Therefore, I read almost all his poems. Besides, he used to give me all his published poems to read. Oh! how happy he looked on the day one of his poems was published.

But the circumference of his poetry moved round dissatisfaction with life, failure, conflict and isolation. Sometimes my mind used to get terribly upset and hurt as if these poems spread salt over my emotional wounds.

I always met him at the street intersection in front of our house walking all by himself. If he didn't appear there even for a day, I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling and would cast my eyes far and wide waiting for a glimpse of him. It's not unnatural for a woman to love her uncle. When such thoughts rose into my head I had a most bitter feeling at that moment.

He was dissatisfied with his life and I had detected it whenever he repeatedly told me the quarrelsome attitude of his own life. It so happened one day that when I was busy eating my meal he arrived at our house in haste. I saw that his face had turned quite dark and perhaps it might be because he was extremely sad. On that day he had a bitter quarrel with his wife and so he had come to me to console himself.

I was glad that he came to me, because I was waiting for him. I had almost firmly established him in a corner of my heart as a respected uncle. He paid my schooling, gave me money when I went to Delhi, and gave me all the clothes I needed.

I feel proud even to think of the word love and a kind of emotional shudder runs all over me and I ask myself whether it was at all proper to respect my simple teacher uncle. But even if I tried to tear reality away from me, my weakness had grown enormously strong and I couldn't forget his face. Perhaps I had grown to like his presence.

He loved his wife. He accepted any kind of bad situation at home. His only dissatisfaction was with his job.

"My daughter, Kamu, sometimes my heart pains very much when I see Maoists behavior." He said in such a manner as if I was altogether different from his relatives and the only one whom he could share his pain. I could do nothing for him. I could not extend any help to him except love and respect.

For the past four months he was constantly writing. I tried hard not to stop him from writing, but he developed quite a negative attitude towards my suggestions. I was completely tired of making him understand as he didn't listen to my requests at all. And he met his death due to the Maoists violence.

I was sad and severely disturbed. At that moment I saw people making their way hastily to express their condolences. Some individuals were shedding their crocodile tears with garlands in their hands and praises in their mouths for his poems. I, on my part, kept watching these people and his dead body without uttering a single word.

I have a question now, where is the justice for my uncle?