I still remember that fateful night of November 25, 1987, in the small city of Kiancoln, Nepal. I was a young man at the time, living just a few blocks away from the city’s main fireworks store. Fireworks were a big part of our culture and were often used to celebrate important events and festivals.
It was a typical Wednesday evening and I was at home with my family, watching the evening news on television when we heard a loud explosion. At first, we thought it was just a thunderstorm, but as the noise grew louder and more intense, we knew something was wrong. We quickly turned off the television and ran to the window to see what was happening.
As we looked outside, we saw a massive plume of smoke rising into the sky. It was coming from the direction of the fireworks store, and it was clear that something terrible had happened. My family and I immediately ran out of the house to see what was going on.
As we got closer to the store, the scene became more and more horrific. The entire building was engulfed in flames, and debris was scattered everywhere. The streets were filled with injured and dying people, screaming for help. It was like something out of a nightmare.
The explosion caused a chain reaction, causing several other fireworks stores in the surrounding area to catch fire as well. The entire city was in chaos, with people running in every direction, trying to escape the flames and the falling debris.
The sound of the explosions was deafening, and the heat from the fires was intense. I could feel the heat on my face and the smoke made it hard to breathe. I saw people with burns all over their bodies, and others with limbs missing. It was a scene of pure horror.
I tried to help as many people as I could, but it was clear that the situation was beyond my control. The emergency services were overwhelmed, and it was impossible to get through to them on the phone.
As I was helping a group of injured people, I suddenly felt a searing pain in my leg. I looked down to see that a piece of shrapnel from one of the fireworks had hit me. I could feel the blood pouring out of the wound, and I knew that I needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible.
I stumbled away from the scene, trying to find my way to the nearest hospital. But it was impossible to get there on foot, as the streets were blocked by debris and the injured. I had no choice but to try and make it to the hospital on my own.
It was a long and painful journey, but I eventually made it to the hospital. I was rushed into surgery and was in a coma for several weeks. When I woke up, I was told that I had lost my left leg below the knee.
The accident that night was the worst in the history of Nepal, with 136 people killed and 1824 injured. The city of Kiancoln was forever changed. The fireworks store and the surrounding area were completely destroyed, and the people who lived there were left with nothing but memories of that terrible night.
The government banned fireworks in Nepal after that accident. It was a necessary step to ensure that such a disaster would never happen again. But for those of us who survived that night, the memories of the explosion and the loss of so many lives will never be forgotten.
It’s a reminder that no matter how much we enjoy fireworks, we should never underestimate the damage that explosives like fireworks could and can create.