After Chaitra 15 , 081

 

It was Chaitra 15, a day etched in my mind forever — not just because of the E-Governance exam I was about to take, but because of the moment history and my own small journey crossed paths in a city suspended between democracy and monarchy.

I woke up early that morning, books still open from the night before. The weight of the 6th semester leaned heavy on my shoulders, but something heavier loomed outside. The city buzzed with a tension I couldn’t explain — half in chaos, half in silence. The streets whispered rumors: protests, flags, shouting — the old power versus the people’s will.

I had no time to think politics. My exam hall didn’t care about slogans or barricades. I had to cross the Red Light area — now more than just a traffic signal. It was the battlefield of ideas.

As I rode through on my bike, my bag strapped tight and mind clouded with formulas, I noticed the change in air. People stood on opposite pavements with eyes full of fire — not at me, but at each other. Banners waved, voices clashed. I rode right through the middle, invisible in my skin, protected by my urgency to reach the exam hall.

But I couldn’t block the thoughts: What if this erupts while I’m inside? What if I can’t return home? What if...?

In the hall, everything was quiet. The contrast was jarring. I filled in answers about digital governance while outside, the city debated over who should govern at all.

By the time I left the building, something had changed. The sky hadn’t cleared, but the sounds had softened. Authorities had created slight diversions, pushing the crowd away, not with violence, but with calm intention. I saw children walking with their mothers, an old man sipping tea by the road, a policeman giving directions.

Peace wasn’t won. But for a moment, it was borrowed.

As I rode back, I looked at the red light again — this time, no longer a war zone, just a regular intersection of lives.

And I thought to myself: What happens after this war? Will there be peace, or another silence before another storm?

Maybe someday, I’ll write about it. Not as a report, but as fiction. Because fiction gives us the freedom to explore not just what happened — but what it meant.

 Just a messy thoughts to bare, lol...