Imagine this: a thug storms armed with a large sharp weapon towards a motorbike mechanic, raging to murder him in front of many people. The victim cowers — too poor, the kind Nepal's cops dismiss as subhuman. I marched to the police station, demanding an FIR. Hours drag into a nightmare of sneers and stalls. "No injury? No case," they bark. Eyewitnesses? Irrelevant. They intimidate, misbehave like feudal lords with guns. Finally, I force the paper through. But still they dismiss it, saying, "You're wasting our time; he'll be out tomorrow." When I asked about our safety, a cop threatened to shred the FIR like it was toilet paper. Like playground bullies with badges, the cop intimidated me. I quote him: "This is Nepal. This is how it works." I was deeply shaken by the behavior of that officer who was proud of the way the system works here.

I stumble home, pulse racing. Then, from the balcony next door, the perpetrator's brother erupts — screaming he'll rape me and slaughter me. Terror grips me; I dial the police again. They arrive, posture briefly: "He won't do it again." Lies. The moment their boots fade, the threats roar back, venomous and unchecked. Their verdict? "Shut your windows and sleep." As if my safety were a bedtime story to ignore.

That was my inferno on September 8, 2025 — a microcosm of Nepal's hell. While I dodged balcony baying and police intimidation, Kathmandu's streets became a slaughterhouse. Gen Z students, brave sparks in school uniforms, surged against the same poison: a corrupt cabal looting billions while banning social media to muzzle dissent. Unarmed, chanting "Shut down corruption, not social media," they demanded an end to nepotism, unemployment, and authoritarian chokeholds — the very ones I faced firsthand that day.

What did the state send? Bullets. Live rounds tore through flesh; tear gas choked the innocent. At least nineteen lay dead — kids gunned down mid-protest, one boy felled while handing out water, his uniform now a crimson shroud. Hundreds more were wounded, hospitals stormed by cops who finished the job on the injured, even attacking medics in a frenzy of barbarism. This wasn't crowd control — it was carnage, a crime against humanity where children paid for elders' greed.

Nepal's elite aren't leaders — they're kings in a feudal farce, born to trample the weak and exalt power on innocent backs. Everyone is "equal" in theory, but the poor? We're ants. Human Rights Watch has documented decades of extrajudicial killings, torture in custody, and police shielding abusers while dismissing the desperate. Amnesty International reports unlawful force against protesters, FIRs buried for the marginalized, and rampant corruption funneling billions to cronies. My FIR farce? Standard script. Persist, and threats follow — backed by cops masquerading as protectors. Those students? They marched for my fight: against cops who "tear" justice, thugs who threaten to rape with impunity, a society where the poor are prey.

The UN is "shocked," sputtering for probes as bodies cool. The government lifted the social media ban on September 9 — a coward's retreat after the bloodbath, too late for grace. Curfews clamp Kathmandu, and voices on X cry for Starlink salvation amid the blackout. My threats were whispers; those kids' deaths, a scream silenced forever.

Where does one flee when justice stations spew threats and streets swallow the young? Nepal isn't broken — it's engineered for this savagery, a violation of every human right from life to dignity, enshrined in treaties the powerful spit on. The world has averted its gaze for too long. Now, witness — demand UN-led investigations, international accountability, and sanctions on the butchers in uniform. The youth of Nepal marched for dignity, accountability, and a future. The least the world can do is not look away. World, this is just the tip of the iceberg.

We think we are strong when we endure. We mistake patience for ignoring the storm brewing next door and keep silent. But that silence? It doesn't protect us—it builds monsters. Small wrongs pile up. Abuses we shrug off. Threats we dismiss. And the ingrained "me and myself" mentality—that selfish focus on our own lives—keeps us from intervening until the violence crashes through our gates.

On September 8, 2025, in Pokhara, Nepal, our collective tolerance, compounded by systemic corruption, emboldened a neighborhood terror who believed himself untouchable. Tonight, he nearly proved it by trying to kill.

This wasn't a sudden outburst. For months, this man has ruled our streets like a petty tyrant. Every night, he screams vile abuses at the neighborhood, exposing himself, and terrifying anyone who dares to pass by. Two days ago, on September 6, I couldn't take it anymore. He had been shouting nonstop for two to three hours straight, his rage echoing like thunder. I called the police, pleading for help. When they arrived, he simply slunk inside his room and fell silent, as if nothing had happened. The officers? They did nothing—no questions, no warnings, no report. That inaction wasn't oversight—it was the first thread unraveling justice.

But tonight, tolerance turned to terror. Around 8 p.m., he exploded. Storming out with a hasiya—a sharp, foot-long sickle typically used for farming but lethal in vengeful hands—he lunged at a man in our brightly lit street. He attacked, he chased, he destroyed property. I watched in disbelief as he struck the victim's motorbike, leaving marks that told a story of rage. This was no mere scuffle; it was an attempted murder, brazen and unapologetic.

The police arrived promptly this time—sirens blaring, lights flashing. Relief? Hardly. Instead of restraint or arrest, they hesitated. "He's eating," they said. "He's in the bathroom." The man remained free, untouchable, while the victim watched, helpless. The law was present, but justice was absent. The attacker roamed freely, shielded by ties to local power brokers. That connection—an invisible shield—was more potent than any law. And that, perhaps more than the knife itself, was the true danger.

In a country where life is cheap for the unconnected, such impunity isn't rare—it's routine. This microcosm in Pokhara mirrors Nepal's national plague of injustice. According to Transparency International's 2024 Corruption Perceptions Index, Nepal ranks 107th out of 180 countries with a score of 34 out of 100, indicating a high level of perceived public sector corruption. Misuse of power is so widespread that perpetrators often evade justice due to connections or inaction.

Moreover, the police force itself has been criticized for corruption and human rights violations. Officers accused of abuses are rarely held accountable, and investigations often face political interference. In a country where those entrusted to protect the law bend it for convenience, what hope does an ordinary citizen have?

Even if tonight's attack had ended in death, the outcome would likely be the same: freedom for the powerful. This is the sad reality of our "democracy," which has sprouted corrupt "kings" like mushrooms—politicians and cronies who twist the law to their will. We normalize everything: the abuse, the ignored calls for help, the selective enforcement. Corruption is so entrenched that the government itself enables impunity. Life's value plummets unless you're plugged into the elite network.

We cannot change this if we remain silent. The day we rise above "me and mine"—reporting every abuse, demanding accountability from the police we fund with our taxes, and supporting victims beyond our kin—is the day we dismantle these monsters. Every life matters, not just ours.

Change demands small steps: file that FIR, speak when it's uncomfortable, raise your voice when it's undeniable—because tolerance builds this beast; collective courage can slay it. In Pokhara tonight, justice faltered. Tomorrow, let's ensure it rises. The moment we prioritize "us" over "me," true accountability—and a safer Nepal—may finally begin.

September 9, 2025, Kathmandu burned. Flames swallowed Singha Durbar, the Supreme Court smoldered in ashes, and public banks—symbols of our collective wealth—were ransacked. Nepal's Gen Z, armed with placards, took to the streets to protest corruption, nepotism, and the draconian social media ban—leading a righteous uprising that forced Prime Minister K.P. Sharma Oli's resignation. But lurking in the shadows of their fury were opportunists—thieves in protestors' clothing—who looted, torched, and turned a cry for justice into mindless destruction. More than nineteen lives extinguished, curfews choking the streets—we must ask: did this destruction dismantle corruption, or did it hand the corrupt a blank check? Violence doesn't fix Nepal's broken system—it fuels it. To end corruption, we must expose bureaucrats, business elites, and institutions that prop it up, not burn the nation we're fighting to save.

Let's honor the truth: Gen Z's anger is righteous. They marched against a system most Nepalis see as broken. A national survey shows 86% believe politicians are corrupt, and 82% feel the same about bureaucrats. Nepal's 2024 Corruption Perception Index (CPI) score of 34 out of 100—down from 35 last year—puts us 107th globally, a clear sign of systemic rot.

But the opportunists who looted and burned disgraced the cause. Destroying public property—90% of which now needs rebuilding—doesn't weaken corruption; it creates a goldmine for the corrupt. Take the Melamchi Water Supply Project—it bled dry by billions in kickbacks—showing what happens next: bureaucrats will award reconstruction contracts to cronies, skimming millions from our taxes. The 2015 earthquake reconstruction saw similar plunder—Transparency International noted 20–30% of funds lost to graft, with bureaucrats and contractors colluding to inflate costs.

This isn't just a Nepal story. Globally, weak institutions have allowed corruption to surge after crises—think post–Arab Spring Libya and Yemen. Nepal risks the same fate if chaos overshadows purpose.

Corruption isn't just politicians—it's the system. Bureaucrats demand bribes for every step of daily life. Over two-thirds of firms pay bribes to secure public contracts, with cartels and kickbacks inflating road projects by Rs 8–14 billion. Local governments, topping the CIAA's complaint list with 52.8% of cases, spent Rs 7.22 billion without competitive bidding, squandering Rs 185 million on unauthorized travel and hospitality. The Auditor General's reports lay bare this rot, yet bureaucrats face little scrutiny. Meanwhile, politicized institutions like the Commission for the Investigation of Abuse of Authority (CIAA), Public Service Commissions, and the judiciary shield the corrupt, starving education and health budgets to fund mega-projects ripe for misuse.

Take the wide-body aircraft scandal: senior bureaucrats and politicians siphoned millions through fraudulent deals, with 32 officials implicated. The fake Bhutanese refugee scam saw bureaucrats forge IDs to traffic Nepalis abroad, pocketing crores while betraying desperate families. And the cooperative scandal? Billions looted from citizens' savings, with officials either complicit or willfully blind. Education and health budgets have shrunk by 15% over a decade, while mega-projects like the Pokhara International Airport—riddled with cost overruns—suck public funds dry.

Listen to Nepalis: "Every other house in Kathmandu belongs to a civil servant—how do they afford it?" one citizen asked online. Another fumed, "At the ward office, they demanded Rs 15,000 for 'expedited service'—that's corruption in broad daylight." A third voice cuts deeper: "They don't even spare medical supplies or vaccines—bureaucrats profit while we die." These voices echo a truth: corruption thrives because we've let it. We pay the bribes, stay silent, and enable the system. Every Nepali knows the sting of a "tea money" demand, the frustration of a file stalled until a payoff is made. We've normalized this theft, but no more.

This is our turning point, as pivotal as 2006 when Nepal ended its monarchy. But look at Bangladesh and Sri Lanka in 2022—youth toppled governments, yet corrupt systems endured. Nepal can be different. Stop paying bribes. Report every demand for "fees" to the CIAA, now empowered to probe bureaucrats' wealth: how did you buy that mansion? Where did that luxury car come from? In 2024/25, the CIAA filed cases against 92 officials, including former PM Madhav Nepal, in land scams and recovered Rs 1.5 billion in illicit assets. Push them harder—every suspicious bureaucrat must face scrutiny.

Aspiring civil servants, serve your nation, not your wallets. Demand the CIAA, PSC, and judiciary be freed from political claws. Prioritize education and health over corruptible mega-projects. Citizens, use your phones: record bribe demands, share them online, and flood the CIAA's hotline (01-4440151). Every refusal, every report, is a dagger to corruption's heart.

Violence burns our future; accountability builds it. September 9 showed the world what Nepalis can do in 24 hours. Now, let's show the corrupt what we can do with our voices, our refusal to comply, and our demand for justice. From Biratnagar to Bhaktapur, from the Terai to the Himalayas, let's ignite a new fire—one of transparency that exposes every bureaucrat, every elite, every institution profiting off our pain. Nepal is ours—not the bureaucrats' or elites'. Let's reclaim it with transparency, not torches.

Studying and teaching have often been labeled as some of the most boring things in the world. But for me, learning was never boring.

Even as a child, I loved to learn. I was one of those students who would read the entire course book at home and then raise my hand again and again in class the next day to ask questions. My teachers were patient and supportive — they answered every question I had, no matter how small. For me, learning was play. But as I grew older, I realized that not everyone felt the same way.

When I began teaching at the orphanage, I noticed that for many children, learning was a burden. Especially grammar. The very mention of "grammar" made them restless. That's when I began questioning our traditional education system — one that often prioritizes memorization over imagination.

As I researched more, I discovered that many institutions around the world were breaking this pattern. They taught through interactive methods — stories, real-life connections, and creative expression. That inspired me to create my own teaching curriculum — one where learning happens naturally, through stories.

Turning Grammar into Stories

On my first day at the orphanage, I gave the children a simple grammar test. Almost everyone struggled. So, from the next day, I decided to change everything. I began teaching grammar through stories.

I told stories of superheroes and magic apples, of dreams and friendship — and hidden inside every story was a grammar lesson.

The first story we created together started with a single word. I asked the class to name any English word. The room went silent until a small boy whispered, "Apple."

And that's where it began.

We made up a story about an apple that fell from a tree, rolled down a hill, met the sun, and learned how to grow again. Along the way, we used verbs, prepositions, and tenses — but the children didn't realize they were learning grammar. They were simply imagining, laughing, and building a story.

Next, we wrote a superhero story — one where "Helping Verbs" became real heroes who saved the "Sentences" from confusion. Another day, I told them about my own journey — and we used it to learn past, present, and future tenses.

Every worksheet I created had drawings, imagination prompts, and creative writing sections. The children weren't just learning grammar — they were living it.

Why Stories Work

Stories connect emotions with information. Children remember what they feel, not just what they hear. When grammar is taught through stories, it transforms from a set of rules into a rhythm — something that flows naturally in the mind.

Through storytelling, I've seen students who once struggled with English start speaking confidently, writing creatively, and even making their own stories. Grammar became a bridge, not a barrier.

What's Next

Now, I am preparing to publish the Clean Start Curriculum — a creative English learning model built for children in under-resourced communities. It includes story-based worksheets, activities, and lesson plans that make grammar fun and meaningful.

Because education should never be about fear — it should be about curiosity, imagination, and joy.

Clean Start was not born out of luxury or experimentation — it was born out of necessity, right on my dining table.

When I began teaching at an orphanage, I believed my role was simply to educate and inspire. But one afternoon, as I was bandaging a boy's scraped knees, I noticed something that changed everything — his hands were dirty, cracked, and small. Around me, a few girls had their heads shaved because of scalp infections.

That night, I couldn't stop thinking about what I had seen. These children, so full of potential, were battling preventable health issues. It struck me that no education can flourish without basic hygiene. If we truly care about our future, we must first care for our children. They deserve to be protected, taught, and given a clean start in life.

That was the night Clean Start was born.

The First Steps

Our first launch happened right there — in the orphanage where I taught. We began with simple hygiene education and basic kits: soap, nail clippers, towels, and toothpaste. It was a small step, but it made a visible difference.

Still, I couldn't ignore a bigger question: if an orphanage with decent facilities faced such challenges, what about children in the slum areas of Pokhara?

Expanding Our Reach

So I decided to take Clean Start further. I reached out to different organizations — UNICEF Nepal, JICA Nepal, and several local NGOs. Most never replied. Some politely declined. But one day, I walked into GONESA Nepal, an NGO that has been working since 1989 — and they welcomed me with open arms.

They didn't just appreciate the initiative; they offered real support. Together, we decided to bring Clean Start to two slum communities in Pokhara where GONESA was already running literacy programs.

To fund the project, I placed a QR donation code at my family's grocery store. Each small donation helped me buy hygiene kits for children — proof that even small acts can create big change.

Looking Ahead

That was just the beginning.

Today, Clean Start continues to grow. Our next focus is hygiene literacy for teenage girls, especially on menstrual hygiene and reproductive health. Many young women in Nepal are still unaware of essential hygiene practices, which contributes to preventable health issues, including vaginal cancer. Through Clean Start, we aim to change that — one workshop, one kit, and one conversation at a time.

Clean Start is not just a project — it's a promise.
A promise that every child deserves to grow up healthy, confident, and cared for.
A promise that compassion can be turned into action.

I was a very inquisitive child, always asking how and why. Why is the sky blue? Why do we see stars? "Why" was not just a question, but a great source of joy. It made me feel alive. I used to pay attention to my teachers and tried understanding, and with that knowledge I was doing well in exams till class 10.

In Nepal, when you perform well in school, there's an unspoken rule: you take science. Science means you're "smart." It's the dream parents have, the proof that all your years of studying have been worth it. My parents weren't educated and I didn't have access to guidance counselors. So, I did what was expected. I took science.

I was suddenly surrounded by formulas to memorize and lessons written decades ago. While my friends studying A-levels were learning about the modern world—climate change, new discoveries, global issues—I was still solving problems about machines that didn't even exist anymore. But anyhow I survived. I worked hard, tried to adapt and passed my exams.

Still, expectations don't fade easily. People saw me as a "bright student." In Nepal, that title comes with only two acceptable futures: doctor or engineer. Becoming a doctor was beyond my family's means, so I chose engineering, hoping maybe things would change. But it was the beginning of the phase in my life when I doubted myself the most.

The Breaking Point

Engineering I thought was about hands-on experience, practical and applicable knowledge but it was all about memorizing everything that was in the manual. If one or two words get here and there, you might fail the exam. There is no creative liberty, no space for applying what you learn, just copy/paste what is in the manual. But I am the kind of person who likes to reach the depth. If I'm studying something I have to understand and I write that in the exam. But even in subjects that need understanding, you are expected to rote-memorize the guide book and write.

The Turning Point

The true intellectual shift, the moment the light snapped on, came not in a classroom but in the field during my final year project. We were designing an earthquake resistant building, and our research led us to interview victims of Nepal's devastating earthquakes. That was the instance I saw what true resilience and grit is all about. And it comes when you stop complaining about what happens in life and start focusing on what you can do now. I realized something profound: Our education system doesn't teach us to understand people—it teaches us to solve equations. That moment changed everything.

Rediscovering My "Why"

Now, I started questioning again. Why were we memorizing theories from centuries ago when the world outside was changing every second? Why were our schools producing obedient test- takers instead of curious thinkers? I started researching. I devoured everything I could find about education systems around the world. I learned about Minerva University's focus on critical thinking over rote learning. I studied Finnish models and project-based learning.

The Holistic Learning Lab

I started mapping out my own education pedagogy. That's how the Holistic learning lab was born, in Annapurna Self-sustaining home with bright, curious and enthusiastic children who reminded me of how I was as a child. Those children became my greatest teachers. The holistic learning lab became a space for learning English through fun, understanding life and applying what you learn everyday.

I used to think change needs power, position, or policy. But I've learned the real change begins when we turn inward reflection outward, one lesson at a time.
I stopped complaining because I realized I was capable of creating the kind of education I always longed for.
And that's how I started a classroom.

When I first started the Holistic Learning Lab, I thought I was there to teach. But soon I realized that I was the one learning through those children about patience, curiosity and what learning is all about.

I recall a timid and shy girl, Alisha who struggled with almost everything at first. She could memorize words from the textbook, but when asked to explain them, she would look at me blankly. She could articulate her thoughts properly in Nepali and write them too but in English she looked confused and never asked any questions. Her lack of confidence in English and performance in class seemed to remind her that she wasn't "good enough".

The Pattern of Survival

For weeks, I saw the same pattern. She copied sentences perfectly but couldn't form sentences on her own. She had learned to survive the system, not to enjoy it.

The Superhero Breakthrough

Then came our Superhero unit. Students were asked to create their own heroes to solve real problems in the communities. Instead of memorizing grammar rules, they had to use English to imagine, describe and perform. I vividly remembered Alisa that day. She stood up and gave one of the thoughtful answers that day.

"My superhero's name is Water Saver. He stops people from wasting water and teaches them to keep the tap closed."

Her words were broken but alive. She was very confident and for the first time, she was not repeating what I had taught. She was creating something of her own.

The Real Purpose of Learning

That moment again ignited the purpose of the Holistic Learning Lab. The main idea is to understand that the brilliance doesn't always shine on the paper, sometimes it's waiting for the kind of space to emerge.

After describing her Superhero, Alisa whispered to me, "Miss, I didn't forget anything today."
That sentence has stayed with me. Because what she meant wasn't that she remembered facts—it was that she finally understood.