On New Year’s Eve, revered figures, across one sweep of the eye—the evening tumult—were surrounded by the local commotion of Anil and a Bikram. Still, the duo were instead in an altogether different realm. The time, as it seemed, was coming. The drums were being banged, and momos and incense smelled around.

With his eyes wide open over the noise, Anil screamed, "Bikram, this is the best New Year's Eve in Nepal!"

"Yeah, but it is a bit congested," came Bikram's less enthusiastic reply. “Let's find a quieter spot.”

They moved through the throng, the crowd pushing and pulling like an ocean wave. As they neared the hippie street—Thamel, a rumour spread like wildfire: thieves were among them, stealing from the festival-goers.

"Watch your wallets!" someone yelled, and panic rippled through the crowd.

Anil felt a tug on his bag and turned, "Hey! Someone tried to steal my iPhone 16!"

Bikram, protective, shouted, "Who was it? Show yourself!"

The crowd, already on edge, began to murmur accusations. "It must be those outsiders!" someone pointed at Anil and Bikram, who were less familiar with the streets.

"No, no, we're from here!" Anil protested, but his voice was drowned by the rising tide of the mass.

A man with a loud voice stepped forward, "We can't let thieves spoil New Year's Eve! Grab them!"

The crowd, now a mob, surged towards Anil and Bikram.

"Hold on, you've got the wrong guys!" Bikram felt he was drowning in fear and anger.

"You look different than us; you must be the thieves!" another voice accused.

"Listen to us!" Anil begged, but the people had stopped listening; fear and misunderstanding curled the corners of their mouths.

It got out of hand very fast. Someone slammed into Bikram, causing him to crash into a food stall and knock over a pot of hot oil. Taking this as a show of aggression, the crowd moved in.

"No, stop!"

Anil yelled to protect Bikram, but it was too late. In the frenzy, they were overwhelmed by the mob. Caught up in the confusion and darkness, the two friends were trampled underfoot, their voices drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Later, as New Year's Eve continued with a sombre tone, the real culprits were caught on the outskirts, but by then, Anil and Bikram were already gone.

In the quiet village of Sudurpashchim, nestled in the hills, two friends, Hari and Rajan, stumbled home late after a night of local brew. The town was asleep, wrapped in the silence of night, broken only by the occasional bark of a dog.

Hari, swaying slightly, chuckled, "That was some good local kodoko raksi, eh Rajan?"

Rajan, equally unsteady, grinned, "The best! But my head's spinning. Let's get home before we wake the whole village." As they passed old Kancha's house, his dog, Tiger, started barking furiously.

"Quiet, you beast!" Hari yelled, his voice echoing through the stillness. The dog's bark only grew louder, rousing the village. Lights flickered on, and curtains were pulled back. Kancha, an elderly man known for being easily alarmed, appeared at his window. "Who's there? Who dares disturb the peace?"

Rajan, trying to calm the situation, slurred, "Sorry, Kancha-ji, it's just us, Hari and me. We didn't mean to—". But Kancha was already shouting, "Thieves! Baccha chor! Child thieves!"

The word spread like wildfire. Doors flung open, and villagers, armed with whatever was at hand, converged on the scene. "Baccha chor? Here?" a woman from the crowd shrieked, her voice laced with fear.

"No, no, we're just drunk," Hari protested, but his words were slurred, making him sound even more suspicious. "Drunk or not, you shouted at the dog to keep it quiet—why would you do that unless you were up to no good?" another villager accused.

"We were just trying to get home!" Rajan argued, but the crowd was already in motion, driven by fear and anger.

"Look at them; they can barely stand—they must be here to steal our children!" someone else shouted.

The mob encircled them, sticks and stones in hand. "Beat them until they confess!" came the cry.

"Please, listen to us!" Hari pleaded, but the first blow landed, followed by another. They tried to run, but the crowd was relentless. "We didn't do anything!" Rajan screamed between hits, but his voice was lost amidst the chaos.

The beating continued until some more rational villagers managed to intervene, recognising Hari and Rajan in the dim light. But by then, both friends were battered, lying on the ground, their pleas for mercy ignored in the hysteria. The morning brought clarity and regret. The village was silent, the truth out, but the damage had been done.

Making the TU Cricket Ground in Kirtipur an arena of energy and fervour, the Nepal Premier League had descended here. Tickets were sold out, stands were packed, and Nepali young and energetic cricket fans' cheers electrified the air.

Today's match between the Kathmandu Gurkhas and the Biratnagar Kings promised high stakes and drama.

A gathering of two friends, Ajay and Deepak, who played street cricket, came to watch the fifth season of the NPL. Ajay, a hardcore supporter of Gurkhas, proudly donned his team's colours. At the same time, Deepak—who supported the Kings—wore blue and gold. "Look at this crowd, Deepak! We are in a different world," Ajay said, scanning the waves of faces."

“Yeah, but remember, the crowd can turn in a second," Deepak said, sounding slightly ominous. As wickets fell, one more exciting phase of the game was underway. The Gurkhas were down and slowly expressing frustration among fans, especially Ajay-turned-jeering.

"Gurkha, you sold us out!" yelled Ajay over the chorus of other voices doing the same. Deepak shrugged, "They're still playing, Ajay. Give them a chance."

But even the crowd had come into motion. A bitter controversy over a decision by the umpire suspected of favouring the Kings took flight on the wings of intense anger. "Cheats! The league is rigged! Fully one-sided game," someone yelled from behind them.

The crowd, like a beast awakening, began to surge with discontent. Signs were waved, bottles tossed onto the field, and the once-celebratory atmosphere turned hostile. Ajay, caught up in the wave of anger, joined the chants, "We want justice! We want justice!"

Trying to calm his friend, Deepak said, "Ajay, this isn't right. This isn't sportsmanship." But, by this time, Ajay was far beyond listening and speaking. "They're snatching away our 'victory!' We have to show them something!"

These words intensified the turmoil when a fan group, including Ajay, started marching towards the field to take on the umpires. Security was straining hard to hold them back in vain since the crowd's will was far too strong.

"Stop this nonsense!" Deepak shouted, but his voice became a whisper before the mob's roar. The crowd's rage had now turned against the umpires and the rivals' supporters.

"Out you go, Kings!" were the words the crowd used as ugly violence broke out.

"See, Ajay, this is not about cricket anymore!" pleaded Deepak as he attempted to rescue his friend from the protesters. "What have we done?" It was no longer a question; his head was spinning from finding himself amongst a mob filled with rage and fear.

"What have we done?" The reality hit him when he saw a crying child with his team's scarf wrapped around his neck. The match was halted, and players were escorted off for safety, but the crowd's energy didn't dissipate. It transformed into a debate, a reflection.

"Why do we lose our minds over a game?" one fan asked, his voice now one of sadness rather than anger. Another responded, "It's the power of the crowd. It feels like we can change things, but look at what we've changed."

Now sitting back down and speaking softly, Ajay said, "We let the game control us instead of being able to enjoy it. We became the enemy of what we love.” Deepak nodded, putting an arm around his friend, “This crowd is a force, Ajay. It can uplift or destroy. We need to keep that in mind.”

As the crowd meandered out slowly, the blame game turned into understanding, revealing the complex power of collective emotion under the stadium lights.