In the sleepy village of Thori, the air buzzed with excitement. After years of promises, complaints, and endless cups of chiya at the local teashop, the long-awaited bridge over the muddy Khahare Khola was finally complete. The villagers had watched with bated breath as the contractor, Ram Bahadur Thapa—better known as ‘Ram Dai’—bossed around his crew of sweaty workers for months. Ram Dai was full of aspirations and big dreams, shouting to villagers, “The bridge which I will build will be a bigger achievement than Everest.”

The bridge itself was…well, let’s just say it was a bridge. It wobbled a bit when the wind blew, and the railings looked like they’d been slapped together with leftover bamboo, but it was a bridge nonetheless.

To celebrate this ‘monumental’ achievement, Ram Dai invited the Minister of Infrastructure, Honorable Shyam Prasad Sharma, to inaugurate the bridge. The villagers were thrilled. A minister coming to their dusty little village? This was the biggest thing that had happened since Bhim Bahadur’s goat ate the headmaster’s exam papers.

The morning of the inauguration was chaotic. The villagers had strung up marigold garlands everywhere, and someone had even borrowed a loudspeaker from the nearby town to play patriotic songs on repeat. Ram Dai was running around in his shiny new kurta, barking orders at everyone. “Oi, Kanchha! Straighten that party flag, or what will the minister think?”

Meanwhile, the local coconut vendor, Hari Bahadur, had the worst day of his life. He’d been roped into providing the ceremonial coconut for the minister to crack open—a Hindu tradition to bless the bridge. Hari was a nervous, wiry man with a habit of muttering to himself. “What a day! Why did they pick me to provide the coconut? I don’t even know if this coconut is good or not!” He held up the coconut, inspecting it like a ticking time bomb.

Around 11:00 am, a shiny black SUV rolled into the village, kicking up a cloud of dust. Out stepped Minister Sharma, a plump man with a moustache that looked like it had been glued on too tightly. He was decked out in a crisp white kurta and a Dhaka topi, waving at the crowd like a Bollywood star. The villagers clapped and cheered, though some whispered, “This minister looks fatter than he does on TV!”

Ram Dai rushed forward, bowing so low his forehead almost touched the ground. “Greetings, greetings, Minister sir! Your arrival has increased the pride of this village!”

The minister adjusted his topi and grinned. “Alright, alright, Ram Bahadur ji. I heard you built a fine bridge, so I came to see it!”

The ceremony began with the usual fanfare: a speech from the minister about ‘development’ and ‘progress’, which most villagers zoned out of while sipping their chiya. Finally, the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived. Hari Bahadur shuffled forward, clutching the coconut tightly, and handed it to the minister. “This is the coconut, Minister sir,” he stammered.

The minister took the coconut, looked at it sceptically, and chuckled. “This is so small, Hari ji. Couldn’t you bring a bigger coconut?”

Hari’s face turned red. “Forgive me, Minister sir, this is the last coconut of the season!”

The crowd laughed, and the minister shrugged. He raised the coconut above his head, ready to smash it on the stone slab at the bridge's entrance. “May this bridge bring prosperity to the village!” he declared dramatically.

CRACK!

The coconut split open, spilling its water onto the ground. But before the villagers could clap, a loud creak echoed through the air. The bridge shuddered. The railings wobbled. And then, with a deafening crash, the entire structure collapsed into the Khahare Khola below, sending up a plume of dust and debris.

The crowd gasped. Ram Dai’s jaw dropped. Hari Bahadur clutched his head and wailed, “I knew it; I knew this coconut would bring disaster!”

The minister, still holding the broken coconut, blinked in disbelief. “What… what just happened?” he stammered.

The collapse of the bridge was the talk of the district. News spread like wildfire, and soon enough, the government announced the formation of an investigation committee to determine the cause of the disaster. The committee was headed by a stern bureaucrat named Bishnu Prasad Pokharel, who loved paperwork more than his wife. Bishnu arrived in Thori with a team of ‘experts’, which included a sleepy engineer named Suresh and a junior officer named Gita, who spent most of her time taking selfies with the broken bridge in the background.

Bishnu set up shop in the village school, turning the headmaster’s office into his temporary headquarters. He called Ram Dai in for questioning first. “Ram Bahadur ji, how did this happen? How much budget was spent?” Bishnu asked, peering over his glasses.

Ram Dai, sweating buckets, tried to play it cool. “Sir, I built it perfectly! All the materials were first-class! This… this is the coconut's fault!”

Bishnu raised an eyebrow. “The coconut’s fault? What nonsense are you saying, Ram Bahadur?”

Ram Dai leaned in, lowering his voice. “Sir, that coconut…that coconut was so hard! When the minister broke it, the shock wave must have broken the bridge.”

Bishnu stared at Ram Dai for a long moment, then laughed. “Shock wave? Haha! Ram Bahadur ji, you’re a scientist too, huh?”

But Ram Dai wasn’t done. He slipped a fat envelope across the table, winking at Bishnu. “Sir, you’re a wise man. Just conclude that this case is because of the coconut.”

Bishnu’s laughter stopped abruptly. He glanced at the envelope, then at Ram Dai, and nodded slowly. “Alright, Ram Bahadur ji. We’ll make a report saying it’s the coconut’s fault.”

The following morning, the committee released its findings. It said, “Due to the excessive hardness of the coconut used during the inauguration ceremony, a shock wave was generated, which led to ultimate structural damage and failure of the bridge.”

The villagers were stunned, the minister was relieved, and Ram Dai was ecstatic. But poor Hari Bahadur? His life was about to take a turn for the worse.

Two policemen showed up at Hari’s little coconut stall. “Hari Bahadur, you’re under arrest!” one of them barked.

Hari dropped the coconut he was holding, his eyes wide with terror. “Me… why me? What did I do?”

“Your coconut broke the bridge! You’re guilty!” the policeman replied, dragging Hari away as the villagers watched in disbelief.

At the trial, Hari tried to defend himself. “What kind of justice is this? A coconut is just a coconut! How can it break a bridge?”

But the judge, a grumpy old man who wanted to finish the case and go home, wasn’t having it. “Hari Bahadur, your coconut generated a shock wave. This is a scientific fact. You’re guilty!”

Hari was sentenced to six months in jail, leaving the village with laughter and outrage. As he was led away, he muttered, “I’m done selling coconuts; there’s too much risk in this job!”

Back in Thori, life went on. Ram Dai got another more significant contract to rebuild the bridge. The minister returned to Kathmandu, bragging about how he’d survived a ‘disaster’ in the village. Bishnu bought a new scooter with the money from the envelope. And the villagers? They went back to crossing the Khahare Khola on foot, muttering about how they should’ve just stuck to the old wooden plank bridge in the first place.

As for Hari, he became a local legend. When he exited jail, he swore off coconuts forever and opened a momo stall instead. “Selling momos don't cause any shock waves!” he declared proudly.

So, Thori’s great bridge fiasco became a story told everywhere, a hilarious reminder of what happens when you blame a coconut for a crumbling dream.

Kalwar is a writer from Chitwan.