Once again, I was driven into an underground life. But this time, it wasn’t in some remote village—it was in Kathmandu itself, the “white area” we used to call during the People’s War of the 1990s. Back then, the war was fought on questions of class and inclusion. This time, the uprising was fueled by corruption, and Generation Z shook the streets.

On the night of September 9, 2025, around 8:30 pm, I was being moved from one safe house to another, riding on the back of a motorcycle, escorted by two others. The city felt on fire—burnt tyres, melted plastic, and charred vehicles filled the air with acrid smoke. Every street corner was alive with restless groups of young people: some shouting slogans against security forces and political parties, others lighting candles for the dead. At one point, we had to make a sharp U-turn to avoid an advancing crowd of furious demonstrators.

The uprising had already intensified when I reached a shelter in Bauddha. Protesters had set fire to the DSP police post and the Bhat-Bhateni shopping mall. Barricades crisscrossed the alleys. Nineteen people had died, including school children in uniform. The figure was not lost on me: in the Second People’s Movement of 2006, 19 people had been killed over 19 days; here, the same number fell in a single night. Their deaths drew parents and grandparents into the streets, amplifying the scale of resistance.

I feared our own house would be next. Reports reached us that strangers were asking for our address—and even Manushi’s, my daughter.

I urged Baburam Bhattarai (BRB) to flee. We escaped one by one, carrying our 96-year-old father and Manushi’s five-year-old son, Yugeen. Manushi and Yugeen left last. Later, she told me she had ridden straight past a group of men with saffron scarves tied across their faces. It was sheer luck that she wasn’t stopped.

Minutes later, arsonists broke into our compound. Rekhi Gurung, BRB’s

secretary, was caught on TikTok fleeing on his bike as the mob live-streamed themselves torching our home. Altogether, we had escaped only 15 minutes before the flames consumed it. I lost a precious photo album and books—1200 of BRB’s and 800 of mine—in the fire.

Our first shelter was arranged in Tokha. But irony struck: the mayor’s house nearby was also set ablaze. We quickly dispersed. Our father was sent to his daughter’s home, Yugeen, to his cousin’s. BRB was moved to Nuwakot, while Manushi stayed in another safe house. I was shifted to Bauddha.

Bauddha shelter, too, proved unsafe. I had to shift elsewhere. By then, the military had taken to the main street, and we took to the mountain ridges. I saw Kathmandu smouldering. Smoke rose from multiple points across the city. I ended up in the same location where BRB was hiding.

As the death toll climbed past 50 and the President’s office, Parliament, and Supreme Court went up in flames, BRB began reaching out to Gen-Z leaders. Initially, he had warned of infiltration by forces hostile to the constitution and democracy. Now his fears were being confirmed. His secretaries fanned out—one in the field, one with him, one on party coordination. Manushi, who was already in contact with Gen-Z activists, reached out too.

When BRB finally got through to some leaders, they appeared overwhelmed by the spiralling violence. He counselled them to hold firm to the constitution and the rule of law, even amid chaos.

We also turned to the state and civil society. President Ram Chandra Paudel was the first to respond, visibly shaken. BRB reminded him of his Constitutional duty to safeguard sovereignty. We contacted former Chief Justice and civil movement leader Sushila Karki. Her husband, Durga Subedi—once a legend to us for hijacking a plane against the Panchayat regime—symbolised the spirit of resistance we needed again.

Amid the turmoil, debates raged within Gen-Z about who should lead an interim government. Karki’s name rose to the top, and to her credit, she accepted the responsibility. For us, it was a moment of relief.

When I finally returned to my home, the sight broke me. My notes and diaries since 1982—gone. My collection of books on gender studies—gone. Documents painstakingly archived from the People’s War—gone. Even the self-help books that had comforted me through turbulent years turned ash. It was like a part of my memory, identity, and history had been erased forever.

Yet amid the ruins, one small corner had survived. The pigeonholes I had built on the terrace stood intact. A cluster of pigeons perched there, cooing softly—koo kukoo. Their gentle and undisturbed presence reminded me that even in destruction, fragments of peace endure.