I witnessed the devastating impact of a sudden flood that obliterated my village in Nepal, leaving behind a trail of loss and destruction.
On a Wednesday morning, as I made my way to the Kantipur Publications office in Kathmandu, I received a call from my wife that would change everything. “There’s been a flood in the Trishuli,” she said. “Something’s happened to Sole Bazaar and Betrawati — people are saying there’s nothing left. Everyone’s out on the road. There are videos of them panicking.”
Initially, I dismissed her words. Sole is my village, a place where I spent my childhood playing in its lanes, working its fields, and walking to school. Surely, I would have known if something catastrophic had occurred. I hadn’t even heard of any unusual rainfall. The river had never reached our settlement, not even during the worst monsoons. I brushed it off and continued on my way, focused on my upcoming news meeting.
Betrawati Bazaar is the heart of our community, where we shop, catch buses to Kathmandu, and gather for festivals. It is home to temples and the vibrant celebrations of Ram Nawami and Krishna Ashtami. As an old Newar settlement, it has its own traditions, including Gai Jatra and bull-fighting events that attract visitors from afar. Little did I know that all of this would soon be reduced to memories.
Upon reaching the office, I opened a news site, half-expecting to find nothing. The headline read: “Massive flood in the Trishuli.” A tightness formed in my chest. I called Niranjan, a fellow journalist whose family resides in Sole Bazaar. “I just heard too, dai,” he said, his voice urgent. “I can’t get through to anyone. Not Mummy, not Buwa, not my uncle, my aunt — nobody’s phone is even ringing.”
As I walked to the office, we exchanged frantic calls, trying every number we had. When I finally reached someone — my elder brother’s wife — her words shattered my disbelief. “There’s nothing left in the village,” she said. “Most of the people are gone.”
It was impossible to comprehend. Sole and Tupche sit nearly a hundred meters above the riverbed. In my 44 years, I had never witnessed the river encroach upon us. I have family, friends, and neighbors there; everyone I love outside my own home is from that village.
I began calling relatives, one by one. In Sole, everyone is connected, either by blood or by the shared experience of growing up together. Slowly, videos and photographs began to flood my phone, revealing the devastation.
My eldest aunt was swept away, along with her son, my dai Madhu, and his wife. Another aunt was also lost, as well as her grandson Sijan and his wife. My maternal uncle had gone out that morning to cut grass for the cattle and never returned.
I reached out to the ward chair, Rabindra Nepal. “Bhai, I came to the municipality office early this morning, and I’m stuck here now,” he told me. “There’s nothing left in the village. You can imagine the rest yourself.” Each call brought more heart-wrenching news. Some had managed to escape by scrambling up the cliffside, but the situation was dire. A local teacher told me, “Ninety percent of the houses in Betrawati are gone. The school van was swept away too. If you can get a helicopter here, please, send one.”
Then Niranjan’s uncle called. “We’re finished, Arjun,” he said, his voice heavy with despair. “I’m hanging up now.” And he did.
Betrawati was more than just a market town; it was a historical site where Nepal and Tibet signed a peace treaty after their war. It housed sacred sites that drew thousands of pilgrims each year. Now, all of it lay in ruins.
The floodwaters not only devastated homes but also destroyed the infrastructure that connected us. The headgate of the Trishuli hydropower station was swept away, plunging the entire district into darkness. I witnessed the aftermath myself while traveling with friends toward the district headquarters — the entire area was engulfed in darkness. Villagers who had come down for supplies were stranded, and those seeking medical treatment were trapped in the hospital.
A neighbor stood near a rescue helicopter, pleading to be let aboard. “My uncle and aunt were swept away,” he cried. “Their phones are dead. I don’t even know what’s happening to my own house.”
My eldest aunt’s older son was in Kathmandu, powerless to help from afar. Her younger son had just returned from abroad, arriving too late to be with his family. Those who survived were still trapped in the village, and before anyone could mourn the lost, rescuing the living took precedence.
The flood obliterated not just the village but also the roads leading to the district headquarters, severing our connection to the rest of the country. The market that sustained us is gone, leaving us without access to basic necessities. The fields we planted are lost, and even the grain stored at home cannot be milled into flour, as the mills have vanished.
All bridges over the Trishuli — both old and new — have been destroyed, isolating us from the district hospital and other villages. The entire Rasuwa district is now cut off from the road network. Looking at the devastation, it is hard to envision any reconstruction happening soon.
“If someone falls sick now, I suppose they’ll just have to die at home,” one villager lamented, his voice devoid of hope. “How would you even get them to a hospital? There’s no road. No bridge. No vehicle can move.” Basic supplies, like salt, are now unavailable. Many are displaced, and countless others remain unaccounted for.
I set out nearly a day and a half ago, intending to reach my village, but I have been stuck at the district headquarters in Bidur, unable to proceed.
I find myself questioning how long it will take for my village to return to its former state. No one has an answer. None of us has ever witnessed a flood of this magnitude, transforming a once-thriving community into ruins in mere moments. The elders repeat the same question, as if hoping that voicing it will somehow change the reality: Will this place ever become what it used to be?
This account reflects the profound loss experienced by many in Nepal due to the recent floods, as reported by Global Southasia.
HAPSA Nepal, an organization founded by Dr. Ramu Kharel, an emergency physician at Brown University, is appealing for support to help communities facing urgent needs across Nepal. Here is a link to their GoFundMe page seeking assistance for post-disaster recovery.



































































































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