The Van That Never Came Back
It was supposed to be a normal Monday. The kind of day that begins with sleepy yawns, half-packed lunchboxes, and hurried kisses at the door. Sonakshi Yadav, age nine, had braided her hair herself that morning — a little uneven, but proud. She wore her favorite sky-blue uniform and clutched her backpack like a shield. Her mother, Meera, watched her climb into the school microvan with a wave and a whispered prayer.
The van pulled away from Kuleshwor, winding toward Edify International School in Kathmandu. Inside were other children — laughing, chatting, some still drowsy. The driver, Harka Bahadur Karki, had driven this route for years. The principal, Suraj Pokharel, was onboard too, overseeing the morning routine.
No one expected the crash.
At 12:50 p.m., the van veered off course inside the school compound and slammed into a concrete pillar at the gate. The impact was sudden, brutal. Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. Screams pierced the air.
Sonakshi was critically injured. She was rushed to Sahid Memorial Hospital. At 1:36 p.m., she was declared dead.
🕯️ The Silence That Follows
News spread quickly. Parents arrived in panic. Children were pulled from classrooms, some crying, some confused. The school gates, once symbols of safety, now bore the scars of impact — a twisted reminder of how quickly routine can turn to ruin.
Meera collapsed when she heard. Her husband, Ravi, stood frozen, unable to speak. The hospital room was sterile, quiet, and unbearably final. Sonakshi lay still, her braid undone, her backpack unopened.
Outside, the city moved on. But inside that family, time stopped.
🧠 The Weight of Responsibility
Investigators arrived within hours. The van was electric — newer, supposedly safer. But questions mounted. Was it mechanical failure? Driver fatigue? A lapse in oversight?
The driver, Karki, was injured but conscious. He claimed the brakes failed. The principal, Pokharel, suffered minor injuries. Both were taken to Balkhu’s Old Age Hospital for treatment.
Seven other children were hurt — some with broken bones, others with concussions. Their names were listed in the news: Reshma, Neshiya, Nikisha, Simran, Premisa. Each one carried a story. Each one bore a scar.
The school issued a statement. “We are deeply saddened. We are cooperating fully.” But for Meera and Ravi, words were hollow. Their daughter was gone.
🧵 The Threads of Grief
Sonakshi was bright. Curious. She loved drawing foxes and stars. She once told her teacher she wanted to be “someone who helps people smile.” Her desk at school still held her sketchbook — half-finished, full of color.
Her classmates lit candles. Her teacher cried during roll call. Her seat remained empty.
At home, Meera folded Sonakshi’s clothes, one by one. She found a note tucked in her drawer: “I love you, Mama. I’ll be brave today.”
Brave. That word echoed through the house like a ghost.
🌍 A Larger Pattern
This wasn’t the first school van accident in Nepal. Nor the last. Roads are congested. Vehicles are often poorly maintained. Drivers work long hours. Safety checks are inconsistent.
And yet, every morning, parents trust. They wave goodbye. They believe the van will return.
Sonakshi’s death sparked outrage. Protests formed outside the school. Activists demanded stricter regulations. Some called for electric vans to be reevaluated. Others blamed the school for negligence.
But amidst the noise, Meera asked a quieter question: “Why did no one listen before?”
🧭 The Children Who Survived
Reshma, age 8, had a fractured arm. She told her mother she saw Sonakshi smile just before the crash. “She wasn’t scared,” she said. “She was brave.”
Nikisha, 9, had a concussion. She asked if Sonakshi was coming back. No one knew how to answer.
Simran, 11, drew a picture of the van — whole, flying through the sky, with wings. “It’s safe now,” she said. “It’s going to heaven.”
The children carried their trauma quietly. In drawings. In dreams. In silence.
💬 The Vanishing Routine
The school van route was suspended. Parents began driving their children themselves. Some withdrew their kids entirely. Trust had been broken.
Meera visited the school once more. She stood by the pillar, now repaired, and placed a single flower. She didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She simply stood — a mother in mourning, a witness to what should never have happened.
The principal approached her, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded. But forgiveness was not yet possible.
🕊️ Final Reflection: The Fragility of Everyday
Sonakshi’s story is not just about a crash. It’s about the fragility of routine, the weight of trust, and the unbearable cost of oversight. It’s about a child who wanted to be brave — and was.
Her name became a symbol. Her memory, a call to action.
Because no parent should bury a child because of a van.
And no child should die on the way to learn.
