Blog 3 Topic 3 Chapter 3- junge

 

Blog 3

Topic 3

Chapter 3- junge

The palace of Kathmandu in 1846 was a place of whispers and shadows. The air itself seemed heavy with suspicion. Courtiers moved like actors on a stage, their words polite but their eyes sharp, each man calculating, each family plotting. The king, Rajendra Bikram Shah, sat upon the throne but lacked the strength to command it. His voice was soft, his decisions hesitant, and his crown seemed too heavy for his head. Around him, Queen Rajya Lakshmi Devi burned with ambition. She was determined that her son, Prince Ranendra, would inherit the throne, even if it meant defying tradition and bypassing Crown Prince Surendra.

The noble clans—the Thapas, the Pandeys, the Chautariyas—were restless. Each dreamed of the prime minister’s chair, each schemed against the other. The palace was not a sanctuary but a battlefield of words, daggers hidden behind smiles, alliances shifting like sand. It was a time when loyalty meant little, and ambition meant everything.

I, Jung Bahadur Rana, watched this chaos unfold. I was not content to be another pawn in their games. I saw clearly that the nation would never find peace while divided among weak kings, selfish queens, and squabbling nobles. My ambition was not survival—it was dominance. I would sweep them all aside, and like a hawk descending upon prey, I would claim the throne of power.

The death of Gagan Singh, a trusted military commander, was the spark. His assassination enraged the queen, who suspected enemies everywhere. For me, his death was opportunity. It brought me closer to the queen, closer to the throne, and closer to the moment when I could strike.

The queen ordered all nobles to assemble at the Kot, unarmed, to discuss the crisis. The hall was thick with tension, voices rising in argument, accusations flying like arrows. I entered with my brothers and men, armed with guns and swords, my heartbeat steady, my eyes cold. The nobles debated furiously, but when a man shouted my name, accusing me of Gagan Singh’s murder, silence fell. Fear spread like wildfire. Many prepared to flee, but I stood unmoved. My brothers raised their weapons, and the hall erupted in chaos. Shots rang out, swords flashed, and blood flowed. I struck down forty of the highest-ranking officials, including the prime minister. Those who tried to escape were hunted down in the streets of Basantapur Durbar. The city trembled as throats were cut, doors slammed shut, and terrified families hid inside their homes. The streets ran red, painted with the blood of cowards who had once thought themselves powerful.

Inside the Kot, drenched in blood, I looked at the queen. She, who had sought to control the nation, now stood defeated before me. Her ambition had brought her to the edge of power, but it was I who seized it.

The next day, she had no choice but to appoint me prime minister. Yet I knew power must be secured. I placed my brothers and cousins in the highest offices, my regiment alone guarding the palace. The king and queen became prisoners in their own home. Still, the queen’s ambition smoldered. She expected me to crown her son, Prince Ranendra, but I chose Surendra, the rightful heir.

Her rage was silent but deadly. She conspired with the Basnyats, plotting my assassination. Thus came the Bhandarkhal Parva. She invited me to a feast in the Bhandarkhal garden, hiding troops and poisoning food, waiting for the moment to strike. But her plan was betrayed by Putali Nani, my maid, who warned me. I arrived not as prey but as predator, with my armed regiments. Birdhoj Basnyat, the man in charge, stood before me. I ordered his death, and my brother carried it out instantly. The garden filled with the Basnyat family, but within moments it was filled with corpses, their faces stained with blood.

The queen’s last gamble had failed. I exiled her to Kashi, and the king, weak and foolish, followed her. I declared openly that I wanted to be king, to hold the title of Shree Panch, the Great Fifth. But the priests denied me, saying I was unworthy, for I had not fought the king in battle. My pride refused their rejection. If I could not be Shree Panch, then I would create my own title.

“I am Shree Tin,” I shouted, “the Great Third!”

From that day, I was Shree Tin Jung Bahadur Rana, the most powerful man in Nepal. I placed Surendra upon the throne, but the true power was mine. The Kot massacre had not only destroyed my rivals—it had birthed a new order.

Yet even as I stood triumphant, I knew the struggle was not over. King Rajendra, descendant of the brave Gorkhalis, would not accept defeat. His attempts to reclaim power would lead to the Alau Parva, another storm waiting on the horizon.

The Kot massacre was not merely bloodshed. It was the moment when Nepal found its master, a man who ruled not by inheritance but by strength, cunning, and fearlessness. The streets of Basantapur had been painted red, and from that crimson tide, I emerged unafraid, unchallenged, and unstoppable.                                    

 

 

To be continued…