Page 7 - AMA Summer 2024

I was privileged to have the opportunity, but there was also pressure. My father stated that he wanted at least one of his sons to join the army and as the eldest of three siblings, my role presented the opportunity to escape poverty, runaway from child marriage, and to financially support my parents in their retirement and brothers in their education in Nepal. That context only made what happened on 17th April 2010 harder to take.
The tour was the now infamous Helmand Province in Afghanistan and on that day our mission was twofold: take two engineers on reconnais- sance to a damaged well, with the aim of eventually providing the locals with drinking water, and familiarise ourselves with the local area.
It was about 3pm and our 20-strong squad was strung out single file. We walked past military compounds, poppy fields and irrigation ditches. I was wearing 15kg of body armour, carrying my radio, water, rations, first aid kit, ammunition, and a spare weapon by my side. I remember the local children asking us for sweets and me stopping to give them some. Not long after that there was a bang and my life changed forever.
We’d trained for all eventualities so I knew what to do. Yet the improvised explosive device had massacred both legs, and my right arm was also a mess. With my medical kit on my right-hand side, I needed my friends. Within 17 minutes the helicopter had arrived, the tourniquets held, and I was returning to Camp Bastion.
My life was saved but I thought 33, I thought it was over. The following years were the toughest. Growing up in Nepal, people of disability were seen as a burden of the Earth; it was punishment for sins in a previous life. Wrongly, and for uneducated reasons, there was a shame attached.
Then there was the guilt. I had been second in command to a young officer whom I trained alongside for six months before deploying to Afghanistan. I was the most senior Gurkha, and the squad relied on me to make decisions. Our aim was simple. Complete the six-month tour, do a good job for the regiment, stay safe, and return home. I couldn’t see that through, so when I woke from the operation, I was filled with further shame. I sobbed to the commanding officer: ‘I’m sorry sir’ but lacked the courage to lift the bed covers to look at my legs.
I had married my second wife, Urmila - this time for love - in 2006, and we had young children in Canterbury in the UK. My Nepalese family had moved to Kathmandu, and all of them were relying on me for support. I was supposed to be the breadwinner. My guilt piled high.
Growing up in Nepal, people of disability were seen as a burden of the Earth
The way ahead!
My treatment at The Defence and National Rehabilitation Centre in Loughborough was first-class, but I struggled to lift myself. I turned to alcohol and prescription drugs to control my pain and emotions, and at times I was drinking so much, I couldn’t see straight - metaphorically and literally.
An approach from the charity, Battle Back, helped spark the turnaround. At first it was the lure of skydiving. It was something I’d always wanted to experience, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a certain kamikaze element to it. Half my body had already gone. If the other half went too... well, at that point it would have been fine by me. I didn’t know the power of the mind at the time. But my mindset did shift. I needed to live for my family if not myself and once I accepted the reality that I no longer had legs it became easier. I started being proud of my past and heritage instead of feeling ashamed.
In hindsight, the number of charities and organisations that have supported me has been humbling. BLESMA, Pilgrim Bandits, Combat Stress, Style for Soldiers, the Royal British Legion and, of course, the NHS to name but a few. The message is that they are out there for veterans and asking for help is a sign of strength, even if it doesn’t always feel like it. I’m now fortunate enough to be an ambassador
Hari and Krish (Credit: Ryan Sosna Bowd)
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