26 August 2026.
Just another day at the office.
Nothing unusual. Sitting around our discussion table, doing the usual things, worrying about the usual things.
Then a colleague told me there was a huge flood in Rasuwa.
“Where?”
“Bhotekoshi.”
My first reaction was, No. Not again.
There had already been a devastating flood in the same river basin around this time last year. I thought, perhaps, it was another event of flood. Another disaster we would watch on our screens, talk about for a few days, and then slowly move on from.
Then my colleague said, “It’s not just a flood. It’s a monster.”
I watched a video.
And I honestly don’t know how to describe what I felt.
The water came like a wall.
Trishuli, an old settlement that has stood there for centuries, was simply being torn apart. Houses disappeared when waves struck. Bridges collapsed in a matter of seconds. Everything that looked so strong, so permanent suddenly looked incredibly fragile.
And then I noticed people still walking along the road. They didn’t seem to know what had just happened. That image broke something inside me.
My whole body reacted before my mind could process it. My heart became heavy. My legs started shaking. I felt this strange emptiness in my stomach.
I have worked in that river basin for years. I know that river.
Not every metre of it but enough of it that when I hear the names of the settlements, I can almost see them. I can picture the roads, the river, the bends, the bridges. I have eaten countless meals there. I have spent nights in those towns. I have sat in offices and camps along that river. I have met people there.
So, watching Trishuli being swallowed by that wave wasn’t like watching some distant disaster happening to strangers.
My mind immediately went upstream.
What happened there? What happened to the people living closer to the river? What happened to Betrawati, Mailung, Syafru?
I didn’t even want to imagine it.
Then came the questions.
What happened to the early warning system? Why weren’t people warned?
How can something as simple and as important as a warning fail when it can mean the difference between life and death?
Later, I learned that there actually had been some sort of early warning in some of the settlements.
And then I started thinking about the people who were there.
Places like Trishuli have existed for generations. People there have lived with the river all their lives. They have seen floods. They know the river rises. They know when to be careful. You don’t simply leave your home every time someone says there is a flood. Flood is not something new to them. They have learned to live with it.
What they didn’t know was that the river could become this.
How could they?
The flood reached places hundreds of feet above the normal river level. It destroyed settlements that people would never have imagined could be reached by the river.
Even we don’t normally imagine something like this. We sit in front of computers, build models, run simulations and try to estimate the worst possible scenarios. And then nature comes along and reminds us how limited our imagination can be.
That’s why the questions I have seen on social media, “Why didn’t they run away? They had enough time.” make me angry.
It’s such an easy question to ask from the safety of a living room.
How were they supposed to know? How do you look at a river you’ve lived beside your whole life and suddenly understand that this isn’t another flood? That this one is going to erase your home? That this one is going to take everything?
I have watched so many videos from the area now. I probably shouldn’t keep watching them. But I do. One video in particular gave me chills.
The wave swept away the camp house of a project where I had previously worked.
I knew that place. I’ve been there. I’ve stayed there. I can almost picture the people inside.
And in the video, when the wave comes, people are still trying to run away from the camp.
I keep replaying that moment in my head. And then there are the people I used to work with.
Colleagues. People I shared meals with. People I worked alongside. People whose faces I can still picture.
They have been out of contact for days.
That is the part I cannot get out of my head. I keep wishing this is all some horrible dream. That somehow I’ll wake up tomorrow and everyone will be there. The camp will still be there. The river will be roaring but flowing quietly.
People will be complaining about work, drinking tea, making plans for the next day. Everything will be normal again.
But I know it won’t.
I don’t know what happened to everyone yet.
And perhaps that’s what makes this even harder. The waiting. The not knowing.
I am angry too. I am angry at our preparedness.
The government must be doing something. I know there are people working, rescuing, searching, trying. But whatever we are doing is not enough. It cannot be enough when people can disappear within seconds.
Every life matters.
If even one person dies because of our lack of urgency we have to ask why. We have to hold someone accountable.
Today, I keep thinking about that river.
The Bhotekoshi.
I’ve seen it in sunshine. I’ve seen it in rain. I’ve crossed it, worked beside it, eaten beside it and slept near it.
I thought we knew that river.
Maybe we never did.