Tripureshwar, Kathmandu, Nepal
June 5, 2009
4:45 p.m.
Up a narrow alley leading down to the refuse-strewn north bank of the Bagmati River, punch after punch was being driven into Dawa’s midriff. His lungs, stomach, and bowels had all emptied by the tenth pummeling hit. The crude metal knuckle-duster being used was now tearing the stomach muscle and splitting the internal organs within, snapping ribs when the punches landed high.
When it was clear that Dawa could no longer stand on his own, sprays of blood replacing the vomit that accompanied the first blows, the taller of Dawa’s attackers motioned the other to stop holding him from behind and let him fall. The Sherpa crumpled down onto the dirt and mud of the unpaved side street.
Immediately the pair started kicking the motionless body, each impact breaking the Sherpa some more. The two Gurung were enjoying their work. They missed their old army days spent interrogating Maoist suspects—and anyone else, for that matter—who irritated their masters. Too much had changed since the threat of the communists in the hills had finally ousted their king, forcing them out of the army and into the dark underside of the city. At least Sarron still gave them the occasional opportunity to relive old times.
They particularly hated the Sherpas. As the pair kicked, again and again, they reminded themselves how the climbing Sherpas thought they were such big men in Kathmandu, flashing their dollars around, riding their new motorcycles, always kowtowing to the foreigners. It felt good to be able to bring a couple of them back down to earth and get paid for the pleasure.
Reluctantly heeding the instruction from Sarron to wound, not kill, the tall man stopped the other. He stood above the inert body and paused for a few moments as he slipped the knuckle-duster back into his pocket and looked down, coldly studying their violent handiwork, impressed at how they had reduced the strong Sherpa to a broken, bloody mess. They still had it.
After another minute or two to regain his breath, the man raised his knee and brought his heavy boot down as hard as possible on Dawa’s right ankle. There was a snap of tendon and bone. It produced little more than a dull grunt from the unconscious body. He picked his leg up again and repeated the action on the left knee. With that, the man said in Nepali, “That’ll put an end to your climbing, you monkey. Hope you enjoyed your ‘summit bonus’ from Sarron.”
Laughing to himself, he turned to his colleague. “Two down, one more to go. Let’s get out of here.” They returned to their stolen car, the passenger door bearing the vivid scratches from its contact with Pemba’s Hero Honda. As it sped away, wheels spinning on the dirt, a skinny, black, feral dog wandered over to Dawa’s contorted, immobile form and started licking at the blood and vomit covering him. He didn’t move.