Dear College freshmen,

As you begin your college experience, and I prepare for my 10-year college reunion, I thought I'd leave you with the things that, in retrospect, I think are important as you navigate the next four years. I hope that some of them are helpful.
Here goes...

1. Your friends will change a lot over the next four years. Let them.
2. Call someone you love back home a few times a week, even if just for a few minutes.
3. In college more than ever before, songs will attach themselves to memories. Every month or two, make a mix cd, mp3 folder, whatever - just make sure you keep copies of these songs. Ten years out, they'll be as effective as a journal in taking you back to your favorite moments.
4. Take naps in the middle of the afternoon with reckless abandon.
5. Adjust your schedule around when you are most productive and creative. If you're nocturnal and do your best work late at night, embrace that. It may be the only time in your life when you can.
6. If you write your best papers the night before they are due, don't let people tell you that you "should be more organized" or that you "should plan better." Different things work for different people. Personally, I worked best under pressure - so I always procrastinated... and always kicked ass (which annoyed my friends to no end). Use the freedom that comes with not having grades first semester to experiment and see what works best for you.
7. At least a few times in your college career, do something fun and irresponsible when you should be studying. The night before my freshman year psych final, my roommate somehow scored front row seats to the Indigo Girls at a venue 2 hours away. I didn't do so well on the final, but I haven't thought about psych since 1993. I've thought about the experience of going to that show (with the guy who is now my son's godfather) at least once a month ever since.
8. Become friends with your favorite professors. Recognize that they can learn from you too - in fact, that's part of the reason they chose to be professors.
9. Carve out an hour every single day to be alone. (Sleeping doesn't count.)
10. Go on dates. Don't feel like every date has to turn into a relationship.

Coffee makes me nervous. So do you.

I’m an honest person, honestly. That’s why I’m telling you from the beginning that I’m not sure about coffee.
I hate coffee. I hate the taste of it. I hate the smell. I hate the way people get addicted to it, artificially almost, as if it were a trend. And they brag about needing caffeine to function. They even post bogus status updates on Facebook.
-I had three cups last night to pull through.  19 likes, 35 comments
-Should have taken coffee shots before the psychology test.  56 likes, 14 comments 
-Without coffee, my life would have been in the Mariana trench.  24 likes, 80 comments 
-Coffee is my rechargeable lithium ion battery! LOL  25 likes, 72 comments 
It’s stupid until you see these people without coffee—then it’s stupid again.
But for you, I’m going to try. I have tasted coffee before. I just haven’t sat down to drink it. Now I’m going to. I’m going to bravely face its nasty smell and bitter taste and silly stereotypes. Just for you. I’m not sure why. I barely know you. In fact, I’ve never actually met you. We’re meeting for coffee. I’ve never met someone for coffee. It should be normal and casual. Nothing extraordinary. Still, it’s wild and strange.  
Let’s not start this off with illusions or lies. I’m not sure what to think of coffee. A lot of people like it, but a lot of people like smoking, heroin, vegetable patties, porridge, Twilight, and QBASIC, too. Likes don’t make things great. Maybe a lot of people like you too, but I’m not sure what to think of you either. I haven’t tasted you. Are you too bitter, too strong? Are you unhealthy? I want you to be healthy. I want you to be sweet, even if it’s bittersweet. I want to like you. Maybe I already do. Maybe it’s just coffee that I’m not sure of. Or maybe it’s me. Crazy me. All my thoughts and feelings are mixed up with the past and the present and the scent of coffee in my mind.

Define LOVE

I just found this, it's pretty touching and interesting to see how kids think about this subject.

A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8 year olds, ‘What does love mean?’

The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined.

‘When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That’s love.’
Rebecca - age 8

‘When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.’

Billy - age 4

‘Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.’ 

Karl - age 5

‘Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.’ 

Chrissy - age 6

‘Love is what makes you smile when you’re tired.’ 

Terri - age 4

‘Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.’ 

Danny - age 7

An old pair of slippers

The icy floor beneath my feet made me hate the cold December morning. I thought of my lost slipper and my heart burst into tears although none of it reached my eyes. I had searched everywhere, in every corner, but to no avail. Gradually, the hope of finding my slippers had faded. I placed my bare right foot on top of my left to protect it from the cold cement floor. I was supposed to brush my teeth but the morning bell rang for prayer time before I could do so. My sleepy dorm-mates rushed to the bathroom. One of them complained about the freezing water. He rinsed his mouth but left without washing his face.
I, the laziest student was sleeping while others prayed vigorously. My sister—who had tied a Raksha Bandan thread on my wrist to signify the profound relationship we would share with each other from that moment onwards—was sitting in front of us. The so-called Captain saw me sleeping. He was indignant, but kept silent. It was eight in the morning. We were waiting for the bell to ring for breakfast. Suddenly, one of my roommates informed me that the Captain was calling me. I knew he would scold me, may be he would even beat me. My heart beat faster as I tried to come up with an excuse.
Though overwhelmed by fear, I had no choice but to face him.
“Why were you sleeping during prayer time?” he probed, a long bamboo stick in his hand.
“I have a headache, Captain,” I lied, my eyes full of tears. I felt certain he would not believe me. I thought he would beat me just as he had beaten my close friend the previous week.”
“Where are your slippers?” he asked.
“My sister bought them yesterday, but I lost them this morning,” I replied, sadly “Don’t you have shoes?” I shook my head, “No”. Then, surprisingly, he told me I could go.
He was in a good mood. Perhaps it was his birthday or his father had sent him some money. I could only guess why he hadn’t beaten me.

One day in the village

With the mist rises the village under the warmth of the red sun blended with the chill of the morning. If morning shows the day, then a glorious day is bound to follow.
Cows moo for fodder and also as milk is being sucked out from her body by the lord of the house. He also busies himself tearing a large tree trunk apart for firewood with his sharp axe, swinging up and down which makes a beautiful arc in the air. As the pigeons in the attic of the wooden house or the pigeonholes in the concrete edifice brood with their fluttering voices, time seems to have stopped under the sun vibrant and still. Daughters and wives get their brooms and clean their houses before sitting at a corner of the kitchen covered by smoke to cook food.
Children walk down to their schools in typical blue pants and white shirts, most on foot while some on the cycles. These latter ones are the main means of transportation for the people. Vendors use them to transport their goods. Customers hang their shopping bags on the handle on the way to and from the bazaar or hatia, children learn to cycle by putting one foot through the frame to reach the pedal on the other side, and buddies carry each other on the rod connecting the handle and the cycle.
A group of people are huddled beneath the shade of the pipal tree, some slapping their floppy thighs, some chewing betel leaves and all talking about the village happenings. Dust rises to meet the sky as the result of the local bus rushing over the muddy road with the roof filled with people. Tiffin, well, it is as rare as activity during noontime in the village as meals for most people are limited to two a day.
As the sun dips below the horizon, a cool afternoon envelops the village. It is more heart quenching in the context of the thirst the hot day went away leaving. The greasy smell of grey smoke emerges from firewood burnt around the mud-built houses.
An orange hue is cast across the full length of the sky under which gleam tin roofs, and the lush green leaves and paddy sway to the tunes of the wind. All of their essence can only be captured by the clinking of the Binayo and the rattle of the Jhyali brought to life with the blending of the crisp voice representing people of bygone days that is played by the radio at the tea shop.
While the sweetness of a village lies in its raw aspects, its ultimate glory lies in progress. A village is what a Nepali is, hard-working, persistent, jovial; and yet it is also subtly sad.
- Prajjwal Dangal

Man's greatest enemy

- Oscar Sapkota
As it rampages through your mind,
it swathes your thoughts with confusion,
torments your brain each and every second,
drains all the jovialness out of your face,
replaces it with a vexed, ruffled, annoyed look,
disrupts your ongoing feelings,
abducts all your jolliness,
jeopardises the truthfulness, the honesty within yourself,
destroys the joyfulness inside your heart,
takes it to an untranslatable position,
dumps it into a bottomless abyss,
churns it into dust left to be blown away,
makes your mind swell,
makes you implore for mercy,
implore for an answer!
Mingles up all your problems and solutions,
enhances the devil within you,
makes your mind get poisoned,
obstructing your ability to think,
snatches your eyes away from you,
your beloved ones away from you,
the world away from you,
anger,
man’s greatest enemy.

The yellow wood

The words of the Robert Frost poem she had crooned years ago into my ears still return to me and rankle me every now and then. And when they do, they jog my memory. They bring the picture of how my life used to be before that day and how I had been at fault thinking that everything panned out the way it was ordained and that miracles were just what were used in myths to make something take on an improbable turn. I remember that that poem was about a yellow wood and it had something to do with two diverged paths.

And what more I remember is that her voice took mellifluous detours as if it were taking a labyrinthine passage, the cadence lilting, punctuated by lulls that were, in fact, lengthy, but at the same time, spaced in a way as though not wanting to call for any attention.
Back in my adolescent years, when my life was more like that of a vagabond and when I changed hostels like bees did flowers, I used to live a life of indulgence—more or less that was how I spent days on end. Acquaintances wrought from my stints in these very hostels mostly didn’t become intimate. My parents never got time off for me as they slogged away day in, day out.
Days hurtled toward nights and the world passed me by as I stayed in my room, ruminating sometimes about where or what I was headed to, sometimes about how I was supposed to be living, or even what “living” actually meant. My life was just that: tedious to the limit that I wished at times for a hereafter; it couldn’t be any worse, I thought, and maybe I could count on my fate in the next life.

Dating your mom

In today's fast-moving, transient, rootless society, where people meet and make love and part without ever really touching, the relationship every guy already has with his own mother is too valuable to ignore. Here is a grown, experienced,loving woman—one you do not have to go to a party or a singles bar to meet, one you do not have to go to great lengths to get to know. There are hundreds of times when you and your mother are thrown together naturally, without the tension that usually accompanies courtship—just the two of you, alone. All you need is a little presence of mind to take advantage of these situations.

Say your mom is driving you downtown in the car to buy you a new pair of slacks. First, find a nice station on the car radio, one that she likes. Get into the pleasant lull of freeway driving—tires humming along the pavement, air conditioner on max. Then turn to look at her across the front seat and say something like, "You know, you've really kept your shape, Mom, and don't think I haven't noticed."

Or suppose she comes into your room to bring you some clean socks. Take her by the wrist, pull her close, and say, "Mom, you're the most fascinating woman I've ever met." Probably she'll tell you to cut out the foolishness, but I can guarantee you one thing: she will never tell your dad. Possibly she would find it hard to say, "Dear, Piper just made a pass at me," or possibly she is secretly flattered, but whatever the reason, she will keep it to herself until the day comes when she is no longer ashamed to tell the world of your love.


By Ian Frazier

The best college essay ever

In order for the admissions staff of our college to get to know you, the applicant, better, we ask that you answer the following question.

Are there any significant experiences you have had, or accomplishments you have realized, that have helped to define you as a person?

Response:


I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.

But I have not yet gone to college.


PS - This satirical essay was written in 1990 by high school student Hugh Gallagher, who entered it in the humor category of the Scholastic Writing Awards and won first prize. The text was then published in Literary Calvalcade, a magazine of contemporary student writing, and reprinted in Harper's and The Guardian before taking off as one of the most forwarded "viral" emails of the 1990s.

Though it was not Gallagher's actual college application essay, he did submit it as a sample of his work to college writing programs and was accepted, with scholarship, to New York University, from which he graduated in 1994. Since then he has worked as a freelance writer. His first novel, Teeth, was published by Pocket Books in March 1998. And this particular essay of his has become an urban legend.

An unwavering gaze

The world around me, its baffling motion, makes me dizzy. The trees move past the windows, the houses never stay put in their places, the people keep drifting with the wind; all the while the motion of this world tries to ridicule me
Once upon a time in a kingdom far far away,” so begins the story. The intent eyes grow wider as the woman opens her mouth and the magic words flow out gracefully. I wonder how many times the kid has listened to these words. Did she ever wonder where this far-away kingdom is, or when exactly once-upon-a-time is? Maybe she has every word of the story imprinted in her heart, the engraving so deep, it’s deeper than the Gulf of Panama. How deep is the Gulf of Panama, anyway?
“Please tell me the story again, mommy,” the intent-looking girl prods her mother adamantly. The story must have ended with a happily-ever-after, I think sardonically. Where can you find these three words knitted carefully except on the very last page of a happy story?
You must be thinking I’m a cynic, and that I’ll most probably oppose to that. That I’ll tell you I’m rather a realist, or go on and befuddle you with a sad story from my life that has made me the kind of person I am today. Hold on, I’m not going to do that. I’m not being a cynic, nor a realist. I’m a ghost. Yes, you heard it right. I am a ghost. And yes, that very well means that I am dead. I’m not going to tell you how I died though, for I really don’t remember how I died. And I don’t intend to remember. I mean, don’t wise men always warn you not to dwell in the past? I’m a ghost who tends to live in the present. Well...I’m a ghost who apparently lives in a train that moves unabatedly from one place to another. “A body in motion tends to be in motion,” my Science teacher’s words ring in my head. “How?” I had questioned, “A train stops at far too many places.” I had witnessed her stern gaze as my classmates shared glances and giggles. She would be happy to see the continuum of this train, its routine motion, despite the stops. It keeps moving all the while I keep sitting in this blue-cushioned seat. I remain affixed to this seat. The world around me, its baffling motion, makes me dizzy. The trees move past the windows, the houses never stay put in their places, the people keep drifting with the wind; all the while the motion of this world tries to ridicule me.
The woman and the child have gotten off. There they go and drift along to the people they love, the house they belong to, the windowsills that proudly hold their gleaming photographs. I can’t help but smile as I think of their contagious smiles. I have a beautiful smile, just so you know. Not that you can see it, or anyone else can for that matter.
I’ve seen all kinds of smiles—from smiles with moustaches to smiles without, from a gentle curve on the lips to a wide grin that showcases the twinkle on every tooth, the cat’s purr-fect smug grin.
“Excuse me.” Someone needs to walk past someone, I think past the smiles and the cat’s grins. “Excuse me.” When I hear the same voice twice in a row, I turn right to see who wants to pass. There I see an old man sitting, a shortish man with small eyes, as if someone has just painted two thin lines on his round face. Chinese, says the right lobe of my brain. Korean, the left lobe echoes.
“Excuse me.” After uttering those words for the third time and with some annoyance, the man sighs and moves forward to another empty seat. The Chinese man (I listen to my right lobe) seems to be captivated by something. He is looking steadily at something. There is nothing in this train to be amazed at, to fix your eyes upon. There are only windows, blue seats the fabric on which has started to tear, and the screen that shows you where the next stop is and the stops after that are. Wait, the screen! I follow his gaze and realise what’s been keeping him intent. It’s the screen, the letters changing every few minutes. I’ve spent long enough on this train to be able to tell you what stops come after what. Okay, the names are weird, but I remember anyway. Well, not this man, I figure. He doesn’t know the names and he doesn’t want to miss his stop.
As the train stops at a weird-named place, a bunch of youngsters barge in. They’re 15, I can tell. Their distinct chatter, the shrieks they echo, the words they flaunt, they’ve got to be 15. A few of them walk past the old man and continue with their teenage ways.
“Did you see how was she looking at me the whole time? says the flirtatious one.
“Biology? I slept during that class.” The backbencher.
“I want Gucci for my birthday.” The fashion-stylist.
“x and y and derivatives.” Okay, the studious one.
This derivatives talk makes a man—who has had his head buried in the newspaper all the while—take a peek. The woman sitting by the window, who has been sleeping for quite a while, is wide awake now. Fifteen is quite an age, I smile. I wonder what I was like when I was 15. Is the old man wondering the same? Was he the studious one? I take a long, hard look at him. There’s something gripping about him—his unfaltering gaze. He’s wearing a hat and is quite well-dressed. His fists are clenched, his jaws tight, the creases of his face are rigid. He has the apprehensive look of a soldier. Maybe he’s a soldier. He might have fought some wars in one of the provinces in China. I’ve heard China has many provinces. I once asked a Chinese girl where she was from. “China,” she had replied. “Yeah, but which state?” I had prodded. “Even if I tell you the name, you won’t remember,” she had smiled. She was right, I don’t remember the name. Only if I could go and ask him which province he’s from. Now that I’m a ghost, maybe I’ll remember the name.
“What’s in a name?” a bespectacled teenager smirks. “Names aren’t who we are,” she continues.
“Shakespeare,” a boy sitting beside her yawns. The rest help overwhelm the compartment with a reverberation of giggles. I don’t know what there is to laugh at. Teenagers, you can never understand them. I wish one of them would ask the old man where he’s heading to.
“East,” shouts the studious one. “East…Easter. It’s Easter,” she chirps proudly as she scribbles in her notebook. A word-puzzle, I presume.
As the train comes to a halt, the teenagers get off the train leaving us in utter silence. I feel like the earth has resumed rotating, the woman sways back and forth in her blissful sleep. I like the conundrum of motion—the periodic movement of the train, the ubiquitous flow of the people and the whooping of the wind. The houses by the window never stand still, the letters on the screen keep changing, and the people never stay in one place. There’s something comforting in motion, in the drift of the winds, the gentle footsteps of the people, the fall of the leaves, the harmonic flow of the syllables. Everything is in motion, except for me and the old man. Could it be that he finds solace in his steady gaze? Only if he were to turn his head and see the houses and the trees and the bridges pass by. Only if I could tell him how comforting the prospect of motion is.
“Lichtenbergstrasse,” the screen beeps. I mean, who would call a place Lichtenbergstrasse? As soon as these letters appear on the screen, the old man sighs and tries to stand. The old man moved! I feel like I just saw a waft of wind over still waters, or a twig twinge in the depths of wilderness. He stands up gently and walks slowly toward the exit door. Lichtenbergstrasse, so this is where he lives.
Outside, he’s greeted by the whooping wind that carries him gracefully. Another family waits for him, another smile, and another photograph. Maybe his grand-daughter is keeping herself afloat for another happily-ever-after story. As he drifts slowly by the window, he turns his head and looks straight through the window right into my eyes. Has the world stopped rotating again? No, it’s his unwavering gaze, fixed on me for a fraction of a second. The earth keeps rotating as I’m left dumbfounded by his deep stare, deeper than the Gulf of Panama. How deep is the Gulf of Panama, anyway?

- Barsha Chitrakar 

Love again

Sitting in a chair by his side Binita watches Manish’s pale face covered partly with the oxygen mask. Tears appear in her eyes and roll down her cheeks before she has the chance to reach out for the handkerchief in her purse and wipe them away
The engine keeps purring as Anil waits for his sister to get onto the motorcycle. Binita has forgotten her purse inside and is hastily scanning the room that looks quite messed up. In the lawn, a white Pomeranian is basking in the sun. When Anil blows the horn of his motorcycle urging Binita to be quicker, the dog stares at him and wags its tail.  In the bright sunlight Anil can see the fading flowers in the garden. They seem like they need water if they are to remain alive much longer.
“Where have you gone?” Anil shouts at Binita.
 Binita shuts the door and returns with her purse. Soon Anil drives her to the hospital.
In the intensive care ward, Manish lies unconscious in his bed. He is wearing a face mask attached to an oxygen pipe intended to increase the oxygen supply to his lungs. Saline keeps dripping from the bottle that hangs on a metal stand by the bed side and flows into the pipe that leads to Manish’s nerves.
Sitting in a chair by his side Binita watches Manish’s pale face covered partly with the oxygen mask. Tears appear in her eyes and roll down her cheeks before she has the chance to reach out for the handkerchief in her purse and wipe them away.  Unconsciously, when Manish moves his right hand in his sleep, she clasps his palm and gently caresses his forehead.
A few weeks ago, while Binita was doing with dishes in the kitchen after the dinner, her husband had been watching a video from their wedding ceremony on the computer. And it had occurred all of a sudden. She had heard Manish yelling. He was complaining of a severe pain in his head. The next moment Binita had found him lying inert, motionless on the floor. Needless to say, Binita was left terribly shocked.
Later in the hospital, Manish was diagnosed with having had a brain stroke. The doctor said high blood pressure was to blame for the condition. He had explained to Binita that the stroke had led certain blood vessels in his brain to the rupture, causing blood to seep out into brain tissue.  He had mentioned the complications that would arise due to the haemorrhage.
That night Binita had sobbed in the hospital alley. She had not been able to stand on her own feet and her brother had had to support her. She could remember nothing except Manish’s face and with it she sensed a raging, intolerable pain deep in her heart. Crying, she had blamed god, feeling he had conspired against her and her dear husband.

Pachyderm Lights

With a snap jerk of the lever, the old generator burst into life. It emitted a slight humming sound at first. This was followed by a loud rumble and soon the entire yard lit up in a mosaic of small blinking lights that weaved a mesmerizing pattern of gossamer against the black canvas of the forest behind. Seemed like Dipawali was here again, but it was still the month of August.  The heat was unbearable although the hour hands of the clock were pointing towards midnight. Meanwhile, a swarm of mosquitoes were probing their proboscises deep into the skins of both boys, who were clad only in their torn pajamas.  But Lale and Bhudhan were least bothered. Their eyes were transfixed on the flashing lights, their faces inspired in awe. Wiping off the sweat from his brow, Jaggu gathered his strewn wrenches and placed them carefully in his worn out tool box. “You boys  stay awake ,” he said. “And watch out for elephants”.  That night, however, the elephants did not come.
A couple of months ago Ms Becky, a volunteer from South California had arrived at Jaldevi Lower Secondary School to teach seventh graders English Grammar.  One hot afternoon, while she was explaining the differences between gerunds and past participles to her pupils inside the poorly-lit, thatch-roofed, earthen-floored classroom, she had a hard time gaining their attention. In order to alleviate the boredom of her wards, she had narrated to them the inspiring story of Richard Turere, a Masai boy who had invented lion lights. She told them how Turere had come up with the idea of using flashing LED lights to conjure images of moving people, thus keeping the lions at bay during the nights, ensuring the safety of his father’s cattle. The story certainly struck a chord with her students because the village of Chandrapuri had long been battling marauding wild elephants.
“Can we use that for warding off elephants as well, Mam?”  Bhudhan  had asked excitedly, in his broken English.
“Why? I never thought about it. I suppose you can,” Becky had answered presumptuously.
From the next day onwards the group of children, led by Lale, the eldest of them, had all formed a team to devise a connection of lights to scare away the elephants.
Chandrapuri had always been a black spot. It lied on the outskirts of the Chitwan National Park, and herds of wild elephant migrating from India invariably used it as a corridor. During hot summers, when the mating season was in full swing, tuskers appeared unbeknownst to the villagers, and ran a rampage. Besides, the dense sugar cane fields along the banks of the Rapti River proved especially tempting to the parade of pillaging pachyderms. Last year, after several rounds of pleading with government officials for security went unheeded, the villagers took it upon themselves to form a vigilante group to guard their fields. Young men who had volunteered were provided sticks and batons, and the leaders among them were armed with three Knot Three rifle. Further, they were instructed to repeatedly beat the Nanglo. The sound produced would supposedly scare the elephants away. However, fearing that armed rebel groups may start operating on the pretext of protecting villages from rogue elephant herds, local officials had outlawed such groups, assuring villagers that paramilitary troops would soon be provided to keep the elephants at bay.