September 7, 2026 “This hurts my heart.” That’s what my wife Leija said when I finished reading her something that our friend and partner, Om Thapaliya, had shared on Facebook. His words are below. They were a reflection stemming from his trip to Nuwakot where he was personally led the distribution of Engage Nepal’s first shipment of emergency relief supplies. We brought generators urgently needed to power health posts. We had special packets for the children… drawing paper, a pen, a pencil, a notepad, a bag. And we had comprehensive relief bundles that we were able to distribute to 625 families. We’re proud of that, but, 625 is, at the end of the day, just a number. It conveys a quantity of effort, but it cannot capture the compassion behind the work. Too often our story focuses on the numbers, the end product of our work. But, lest we forget, the numbers are just numbers. So let me bring the focus back to the reason for our work — the reason we care, the reason we try to ease the pain in any way we can. And, if you read Om’s words, I’m willing to bet, they will hurt your heart too. Om’s post: I am searching for the faint traces of lives dissolved into the gravel of the Trishuli. Just yesterday, while distributing relief supplies, 34‑year‑old Sommaya Tamang — originally from Tupche, Nuwakot and now taking shelter at the holding center in Ward No. 7 — held the relief package in one hand and wiped her tears with the other as she recounted how, before her own eyes, her husband and six‑year‑old daughter Dolmaya were swept away by the Bhote Koshi flood in Tupche Bazaar. And so I walked toward that same tragic riverbed — hoping that perhaps the final remnants of those vanished lives might still be scattered there. The moment I stepped on it, the entire ground seemed to swallow my feet. Even now, that riverbed looks as though it could gulp down one or two more lives without hesitation. Still, I moved forward, closer to the terrifying current of the Trishuli. As I examined the riverbed, I saw a coffee table half‑buried in the sand, and nearby, six cups lying upside down. As if, before the catastrophic flood of Bhadau 10, someone had been sitting there enjoying coffee while admiring the serene, life‑giving Trishuli. Looking at that table and those cups, an unwanted scene kept replaying in my mind. I walked a little farther. To the right, I saw the carcass of a dead chicken; to the left, some scattered clothes. Using a piece of wood, I turned the clothes over one by one. By then, waves of emotion were rising inside me even more violently than the Bhote Koshi flood itself. My mind suddenly returned to Sommaya Tamang — the woman I had met only a few hours earlier. She had told me, struggling for breath: “Sir, in front of the school at Tupche Bazaar, my husband had taken on the job of repairing a house. I used to carry sand and bricks, and my six‑year‑old daughter Dolmaya played nearby on the ground. My husband was working below the road, my daughter was close by, and I was a little above, mixing cement and sand. Suddenly there was a loud noise from above. The ground shook. Dust and smoke filled the sky. Everything turned dark. I heard hundreds of people screaming and crying. In an instant, the flood came from above — lifting the house’s tin sheets and wooden beams. I screamed toward my husband and tried to pull my daughter toward me. My husband was trying to climb up to save both of us. For a moment, my hand and his hand both touched our daughter’s hand. I threw the shawl from around my neck toward them — ‘Grab it!’ I shouted. But the flood snatched the shawl away. That wave flung me far from the road, as if saying, ‘You — suffer and live.’ I screamed ‘Dolu!’ and then ‘Dolu’s father!’ But right before my eyes, the flood carried away my beloved daughter Dolu and my husband.” Lost in thought, I wandered away from the riverbed for a while, then returned. Among the scattered clothes, I found a piece of a child’s frock. In that torn piece, I felt Dolmaya’s spirit trembling. And in that same riverbed, I saw the forever‑vanished figure of Sommaya’s husband. My eyes filled with tears. I collapsed onto that tragic sand. I don’t know why, but after that, I could no longer remain there — and I walked away.
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