"Hajur haru lai ke chaiyoh?", 8 year old Rame asked meekly from behind the door. His heart was
beating fast and his hands were trembling with fear. He knew the reason why those goons were
outside at their doorstep.

"Tero bau ko tauko. Hamilai tero bau ko tauko chaiyoh.", Kale thundered from outside. "Hari bahadur,
bahira nikli sale, Aja chai tah marish.".

Inside the house, Hari bahadur was too scared to say even a word. He knew Kale would not let him
live anymore. He knew that even if he did not go outside, those goons would force their way in. He looked
at his son Rame and gave him a big hug, his eyes welled up with tears. Rame was crying uncontrollably
and he knew he was soon going to lose his father. HAri Bahadur knew he had to go out as he did not want to die
in front of his son. Death was imminent. He again hugged his son.

"Bahira na janos buwa," the son was crying. "Naja nos na."

"Chora, timi bhitra basa. Mah gayera auchu.", HAri Bahadur tried his best to be comforting. He gave a last
look at his son and went out, closing the door behind him. 

Kale was a hardcore Maoist. He had been indoctrinated to the Maoist agenda at the tender age of 16. He had learnt
to kill at an early age. At the age of 20, he had already killed 5 people. At almost 35 now, he had grown to become
the hitman for the Maoists. His nickname had been kale khukuri. He was dreaded in the village for his ruthlessness
which he showed by chopping the heads of his enemies. This had worked well to evoke fear in the hearts of the villagers.
Today his mission was to kill HAri bahadur. Hari had been a police informer and was responsible for giving information
that led to the recent massacre of 15 guerrilas by the Nepal Army.

Hari Bahadur came out of the house. Kale took a swipe with his khukuri and did not miss his target. In a matter of
seconds, Hari had been beheaded. The people who had gathered were all silent. A fellow villager had met his
nemesis. Kale then warned the other villagers againsts betrayal and left the place with his henchmen. Rame came out
of the house and wept hysterically, holding the lifeless body of someone who was once a good human being and
a loving father.

Durga Prasad was an old man these days. At 80, he was frail and hardly could walk. He enjoyed a good standing
in the village because he was Kale's father. He was a god fearing man and never approved of his son's bad ways. He
always prayed to God to show his son the right way and hoped his son would make amends for all the wrongs he had done.
But Kale would never listen.

As Durga was in the front yard of his house, enjoying the evening sunlight, he saw a group of people coming to his house.
They were holding a lifeless body of someone and a severed head. Durga could make out Kale's friends. He could not see
Kale in the group. His heart began to pound. Kale would always be in the group. His tears welled up in his eyes as
they put a severed head in front of him.

"Yoh ke ho?", Durga asked sobbing. He knew the day that he had feared the most had come.

"Hajur ko choro ko tauko.", replied one of the boys.

"Yoh kasori bhayo?", Durga wanted to know. His heart had already melted away in grief.

"Hami Hari bahadur ko ghar bata farkeyra audai theun. Kale ko durbhagya usle Nepal army le bichaye ko
land mine mah tekyo ani hamrai agadi maryo."

Durga was silent. He knew this day would come. He believed in karma. What goes around comes around. He hugged
whatever remained of someone who was once a ruthless killer, a marauder, a hooligan but nevertheless a son. He wept
inconsolably into the night.