The afterlife is a trap, evoking all sorts of conflicting emotions. You feel liberated one moment, only to feel suffocated the next. Being a ghost is so miserable that I begin to wonder whether life in Nepal was less painful and more predictable.

I had a forgettable life with no extraordinary moments to look back on with a smile. You wouldn’t want to recall being gunned down while protesting the government. That’s how it went with me—the poor student from the hinterlands whose ambitions didn’t extend beyond the dreams of an ordinary man. My journey to Kathmandu was driven by the quest for a better education that would eventually land me a modest job.

I never dreamt of becoming a hero. On September 8, I joined the protest in solidarity with those who had grown weary of seeing the same corrupt faces at the helm. Unable to tolerate dissenting voices, the state cracked down on the students in the most atrocious way possible.

Bullets. Blood. Then all hell broke loose.

As more protesters poured onto the streets, more corpses lined the sidewalks. Amid the tens of thousands of demonstrators, a bullet tore through my gut, ending my life. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t joined the protest; I wouldn’t be here among the elderly ghosts who died more natural deaths.

If I hadn’t died and become a ghost, I would still be struggling with unemployment because I lacked the right connections. From what I have heard from the freshly dead, the nation hasn’t changed for the better. New outfits have adopted the same behaviors as their predecessors. I gathered from the new ghosts that cronyism is still rampant across state institutions. If not for my family and their love, it wouldn’t matter whether I existed here or there.

One skill I have particularly developed since becoming a ghost is stealing from others. Like a seasoned thief, I know what to steal from whom. If you bump into a bespectacled ghost, you have a good chance of stealing a pen and some paper. You can expect a cigarette from someone wearing black shades. However, I have not yet figured out where they get these supplies. If I ask them, they might grow suspicious, preventing me from stealing those scarce resources.

The pen I’m writing with was stolen from the pocket of a Nepali ex-politician—a tall figure who had championed pivotal movements in Nepalese history. In a large circle, ghosts of all ages listened to him with rapt attention.

Inching closer to him, I took the chance to slide my hand into his pocket and pull out a pen and some paper. A young ghost draped in a red blanket was kneeling beside the ex-politician. The young ghost’s face was severely burnt, and he looked to be in pain.

“Look at this young man. He says he set himself on fire. And the reason? The state’s brutality against the poor and powerless,” the ex-politician shouted to the crowd of ghosts.

“He had a menial job to eke out a living in the expensive city of Kathmandu. He was a driver, no? Repeated fines by the police became his breaking point.” The ex-politician looked down at the ground, his foot vigorously digging at something.

“When I was prime minister of the country, there was some kind of hope among the public. There was a promise of employment. The police were easy on people. No citizen had to kill themselves.”

Although we nodded in support of his claims, we all knew that the ex-politician was lying. He had died, but his rhetorical finesse had remained intact. As he continued his speech, many ghosts vanished, including the burnt one.

“See, that’s the problem with the freshly dead. Their loved ones never stop dreaming about them. Every time I settle down to talk to them, they just vanish and travel into their parents’ dreams.”

The ex-politician appeared visibly upset by the dwindling audience. It was not the first time I had seen him here. He was usually found at large gatherings, always at the center of the crowd. I could never understand why he was still obsessed with giving speeches. In my previous life, I had seen him on TV and listened to his antipathy toward the opposition parties. Now, as the ghosts shrank in number, his eyes narrowed on me.

“Namaste, hajur!” I bowed my head in reverence, as one is supposed to greet politicians, even when they are dead.

“Another young man, eh? So, what brought you here?” The politician came close to me, totally oblivious to the fact that I had just stolen from him.

“I was shot dead in the Gen Z revolt,” I replied dryly.

He took off his glasses and knitted his brows.

“You’re one of those? I’m sure it has to be the cruelest massacre in Nepali history.”

He appeared lost in thought.

“I’m not interested in talking about it anymore.”

“I can understand why you are so upset. But you shouldn’t dismiss your thoughts like that.”

He started walking, expecting me to follow him. Since there was no harm in listening, I decided to let him talk.

“I assume that you know all the rules here. The mutes hold all the power. If you befriend them and grow close to them, you’ll have the power to control other ghosts. The only problem with young ghosts like you is that you disappear frequently. You people still visit the dreams of the living.”

“But what do I do with power?”

“That’s the real game. If I hadn’t been involved in politics in my previous life, I would be ruling this place. Now, I no longer have the energy for that.”

“It sounds interesting, but I’m not the right ghost for politics,” I said, slouching against the stone beside him.

“Every politician, in the beginning, thinks they’re not the right person for the role. You have strong reasons to enter politics. You were on the receiving end. Ever imagined how it feels to be powerful?”

I could see that the politician was trying to provoke me, but how would he benefit from this? For a moment, I imagined myself in power, ordering other ghosts around and controlling them at my will.

“Get close to those mutes. They are the real hero here. You know one thing? The ones who killed you would eventually arrive at this place. Oh, what would I do with them if I were you!”

The mere idea was enough to lure me into politics. But I knew right away that I should be more cautious in dealing with the ex-politician, who was not without vices in his political career. He could be planning to use me—just as politicians often do with young people on Earth.

“I’ll think about it. But how can I find you again?”

“I can’t guarantee that, given the volatility of everything around us. But do as I say, and if we ever bump into each other again, I’ll share more tricks with you.”

“We can talk here and now,” I urged him.

“I’m up to something important. I’ve been searching for ex-politicians from other countries, but foreign ghosts hardly ever want to talk.”

“Why are you looking for them?”

“It’s a private matter.” The ex-politician scampered through the thickets.

“Can I help you search for them?”

I ran after him but couldn’t catch up.

“No need. Start working on what I’ve told you.”

The tall politician was no longer in sight.

Since that meeting, I have never been the same. I have been seized by an irresistible desire to become the most powerful ghost in Hell or Heaven. It’s not going to be an easy ride, but I’m ready to learn all the tricks involved. Like the current leaders in Nepal, who rode to power through rhetoric and gimmicks, I’m planning to use those same tactics to my advantage.

Once in power, I will make up for all the suffering I had to endure in my past life. I do not know what I’ll do to those who harmed me.