As I walked to my voting station, two things became very apparent. The first was that I had not walked down this road for a very long time. What once used to be a cow trail was unrecognizable. Two cars could pass through now. Water-filled paddy fields had given way to parched but orderly vegetable plantations. On one side, a pink and brown combination of neo-rana and neo-nepali architecture stood monstrously tall. I gawked at it, disoriented. I realized, I could no longer recall what used to be there.

The second was the fact I carried no cell phone or money. I had earlier been warned by eager early morning voters that no cellphones, cameras or wallets were allowed into the voting station. So, I only carried my voter ID. There was a time not too long ago, when the bamboos shaded this trail, I would walk everywhere without a phone and without any money. There were no cell phones back then and I never had any money. I only recognized the repetition of those days once I caught myself daydreaming and storytelling my way through the landscape. It had been so long.

The crowd at the voting station had already thinned. It was 2:30 pm. The women’s line was longer. “Looks like the ladies are more keen to vote,” I said to the officer that felt my crotch for a bit longer than necessary. “Oh, no, it’s just that a lot of the men are abroad,” he explained.

The lists were organized alphabetically, there was no line in front of me. One young man drew a bright red tick next to my name and photo, the lady next to him gently rubbed some ink on to my thumb, and the man next to her handed me the first of my voter sheets. It was for the individuals who were standing for election, the first-past-the-posts. I signed above the tear and went into the semi-enclosed booth they had set up.

Looking down at all the symbols, I reconciled myself with the thought that the process of stamping and the exercise around it was perhaps more important than the outcome of this election itself. With the even bigger Proportional Representation sheets, I found myself wondering how wonderful a democratic process it would be to vote for ideas and ideology with complete faith that no matter who gets picked, they will fight the good fight and stand up for those ideas.

Then it was done. My vote cast, my duty done. Or was it?

Regular elections will probably allow for the democratic process to settle in and people to gradually get to know the 120-odd parties and people who want to represent you. At the very least, seeing the spread could induce some curiosity. It could maybe allow one to hope that candidates and parties more attuned to one’s own interests or beliefs might eventually emerge. The gap in information will perhaps eventually be bridged as technology becomes more ubiquitous. The process and spirit of informed choice and the validation of this will perhaps eventually allow us to explore and extrapolate the formation of better democratic systems.

I met some of my childhood friends outside the voting station. They had grown old like me. We chatted about what we were doing now. The years drew on us. I could sense they were curious to ask who I had voted for, but they hesitated. I didn’t really want to talk politics with them. I didn’t think I could explain how I had voted for a dream I had, and not for the people or the parties who claimed to represent me.

As I walked home, I noticed that the old dhungedhara was till there, still providing water. The little pit where it stood was still filled with water covered with a slime of green algae. An old discarded doko rested submerged in the water. Some things still remained.