Monday, December 19, 2011

BED NO 223

        Excuse me! It’s time for vital.’ A strange but sweet voice juddered his half-asleep sedative eyes. It was Sanjog’s second day in the hospital and first in the orthopedic ward after he was brought from the post-operation ward earlier that day. His eyes opened to the sight of a beaming face- the white uniform, with stethoscope neatly hung around neck, clearly representing the purpose of her visit. The room was empty, may be because of his tranquilizing slumber. She measured his pulse, fever and blood pressure and recorded the readings on a green file she had brought with her that largely read ‘Bed No. 223.’ The clock struck half past seven in that cold Sunday evening of November.
       Sanjog was laid in a small room- good enough to be called private cabin but a general in real- meant for patients who required some special precautions. He was not one of them but because of his uncle’s close acquaintance with the administrative staffs of the hospital, he was endowed of that privilege. A separate room in hospital at the price of general bed was the only great favour one could have asked for.
     ‘You don’t look unwell at all when your hands and legs are covered.’ His mother threw her consoling remark. When he was taken to the operation theatre in emergency two days ago, no one had literally hoped to see him lying that way sooner – but to everyone’s wonder – witnessed his cheerful countenance as windfall.
      Early in the morning next day, the first thing that greeted him was that congenial smile again. Disposing the scattered medicines and reminding him of its dose, she left the room throwing him an enigmatic glance, and an unfailing smile. Meanwhile, Sanjog was occupied by the thought of Ikchha, not because Ikchha resembled her or their smiles, but only because he was expecting her to be there. The last time he had a talk with Ikchha was on Friday on phone– some two hours before his accident. They had planned a date the next day as it had been long they’d met. She’d been busy with her office and he was out of town until a day before that fateful day. Sanjog asked his sister to look over his mobile, as he was undoubtedly sure some plenty of missed calls must have made its way in, and plausibly many from her. But to his surprise, there wasn’t even a single missed call, neither from her nor from his friends.
       With the word ‘friends’, he happened to remember his favourite jacket that he had lent to Abhisekh on Thursday as he was shivering in that cold evening bash. He presumed Abhisekh to have called him to return it or may be to atleast know his whereabouts but the calculations were opposing. Sanjog was expecting him and with him, many others who were always around him in his days of glee. The day he returned from Biratnagar, his mobile was flooded with calls from his friends as they were expecting a lavish party from him not because of an occasion but as a usual treat that Sanjog threw every so often. Having found no one call, more than him- his phone must have been staggered. ‘Have they come to know about my mishap or not?’ he wondered.
       Until that time, he had already come to know that he was inmate in the hospital for another couple of months, and that he’d have to become accustomed to the quirkiness of the place. Every morning, when the doctors came for round, they used to appear fiend to him, because the way they carelessly fondled the deep laceration, on the area of fracture just below his knee, would every time compel him to respect their ruthlessness. After a painful day in the hospital bed, fighting with broken limbs and shattered hopes, dusk approached and with it, arrived the smile comforting his sedative temperament, as was always of high dosage of painkillers and anti-biotics, to some extent.
     Her smile beamed in that disconsolate ambience of the room, and captivated the entire evening and night till morning. His woes got some space to rest until the aroma of the smile subsided. But that didn’t last for long. She had a rotation in her duty and was supposed to be in the evening for only three days in every fifteen days, the rest being either at morning or day. Nevertheless, the time she showed up was ample in alleviating him. He was unknown to that affinity of her enveloping him but always sensed some peculiar pleasure in it. Her name was Gunja and she had become his sedatives – much more tranquilizing than the pills; his companion – much more endearing than the loneliness.
      Days rolled on, and it was already a month that he had taken to beds. His mobile didn’t witness a single call or message except from his family, but still, he was in hope that one day, Ikchha or Abhisekh or someone would appear at the door. By that time, the everyday smiling acquaintance had turned into brief gossips and intimacy. She put her additional attention in attending him and he enjoyed her company of a comforting companion despite of what the ethics of her profession or his confines as a patient allowed them. They gradually peeped into their personal lives through gossips and most of the time, she was an inspiring factor for him and he a grudging factor. As a result, his isolation and irritation, failure and frustration got moderated phenomenally.
        He believed that his thirteen years association with Ikchha had yielded in him such a strong determination that there was no alternate of her in his life. But this belief started shuddering as the hope of seeing her stand at the door slowly started withering because the magnitude of loneliness he was encountering each day could only be felt by either himself or his new ally. He postulated that she, atleast, should have been there to feel him after all they were getting married in July – as was planned by the families. He was filled with dismay when she had one day said, ‘We are going to the States after marriage. I have many dreams to pursue.’ And the very next minute, she had smirked, ‘I am not going to marry until you own a Terios.’ He had taken it as her jest then, but lying on the hospital bed, all alone, with brutal twinges of hopelessness, he slowly started believing that she really meant it.
      His days in the hospital, as usual, passed with pangs of doctor’s heartless treatment and Gunja’s assiduous service. She was, most of the time, found stationed at 223 in between her break from work, and they used to have hilarious conversations that always ended in serious note. By then, their gossips had transferred abode from bed no. 223 to their mobile phones. From her, he came to know that she was also in a relationship and was getting married soon, but she wasn’t looking happy while saying this. About him, he had told her everything beforehand.
       Sanjog was smiling everytime and cheered everyone, but in loneliness, tears were his best friends. He didn’t feel like crying of the pain that his fractures had induced or that of his solitude or his fate, but of the one that Ikchha or his best buddies like Abhisekh had induced in him. His success, before the accident, had attracted all of them but he had deemed their attraction to be their love for him. All his achievements and his affability came to stake as he was left fighting the battle of living life all alone. Besides family, the most important persons in his life were absent in his hardships when all of them were present in his pleasure before. Gunja, however, filled that part.
       His tenure in the hospital was coming to an end. It was Gunja’s leave that day for no reason, therefore he called her up in the evening-
       ‘Are you coming to see me off tomorrow?’ His hopeful voice dropped.
      ‘No! I have an off day tomorrow and I have much to do at home. And by the way, tomorrow is his birthday, so I am going out with him.’ Her voice, glum and choked, could clearly be heard.
      ‘You will come if you think you need to. Take care of yourself and of your life.’ He ended the conversation.
     The next day, settled in a wheel-chair, he was ready to get discharged. His eyes, wandering around the not-so-familiar world outside 223, failed to stop at his will. The lift took him down, he boarded a cab with heavy heart and the vehicle was about to make its way out when he found her standing at the gate wearing that same affable smile.  
     She opened the door and got in. The cab slowly dissolved into the busy lanes of Kathmandu.

(This is the original text published in The Kathmandu Post Fiction Park dated 19-12-2011 Sunday)

Saturday, November 5, 2011

An Ode to the Past

I witnessed success
afterall happiness is success for me
I saw friends around me
everyone had nothing than praises for me,
but suddenly all those flatters
turned into a lonely submission
no sooner the evil arrows of destiny stroked me
Deserted in the battle of living life,
I was left abandoned in the battle of conquering it again.
There were times when
I was in the umpteen level of frustration,
suicidal tendencies aroused me, and
everywhere I saw were black and darkness.
Those days are not worth remembering, but
life starts then and there for one
who wants to make it all over again.
Though I was physically handicapped and still,
my mental strength has grown to a phenomenal proportion,
and thus making me stable and more productive than before.
Life is full of ups and downs,
I never learnt from ups, but
these downs definitely have taught me to strive,
fight against every odd, and
have encouraged me to live life again
not same as before
but to my hope, much better.

- Saturday, Feb 13, 2010

Wednesday, October 12, 2011


He was very attached to Madhavi… wherever he went, Madhavi would always be beside him… in his every happiness, Madhavi’s decision would be decisive…. Madhavi would be standing lively in his imagination… a friend of his joy, his intimacy and his ups and downs, he loved Madhavi dearly.

Madhavi was like a mother to him… no… like a friend… no… no… like a lover. Infact, he looked upon her in all these forms.

In solitudes, he used to run his fingers down her hair and embrace her… During illness, Madhavi used to sit beside him caressing his forehead with a gentle kiss… Whenever he stumbled upon failure, Madhavi used to raise his spirits urging him to rise from the washout and set his goal again with a greater deal of zeal and fortitude. Madhavi had transpired, in his melancholy and isolated life, a fresh vivacity.

Due to the infinite snags in life, Karun, however, must have been unilingual… he had turned into a soliloquy talking to himself more than the fate talking to his loneliness. He had stockpiled many experiences from the bitter sufferings of past.

Before Madhavi, Pallavi was in his life… Karun and Pallavi loved each other more than anything… they used to get lost in the flight of an affable life collecting the fancies of a beautiful future… in realising that reverie, they both seriously delved themselves in furthering their education and at the same time, devising ways to meet their financial needs too.

Like it was obvious, Pallavi’s parents, one day, came to know about their love scene… Her parents, the strict conformists, poured their rage over Pallavi’s behaviour… She was blessed with scarlet smudges on cheeks and a black-and-blue back… Pallavi couldn’t seek out for any other option than to shed brimming brook off her eyes… their departure was ultimately inevitable… Pallavi was banished away to one of her relatives’ home…

These timid lovers couldn’t afford to confront the social albatross or they hadn’t the courage either. Leaving rest in the hands of destiny, it should also have been the romanticism of their love that induced in them this decision of self-destruction.

Karun, however, appeared a lonesome person thence, studies became far beyond his reach… When he looked at words, letters started dancing for him and reacting with one another… as a result, examinations approached and departed but Karun’s education never raised its bars… he was least concerned of feeding himself… while at home, his quantity of meal intake, only because of his mother’s insistence, would be even less than that of a beggar’s measure… rest of the time, the thought of eating never bothered him… it was hard to distinguish whether his clothes were clean or dirty.. more the dirty, the fittest it looked… but he was satisfied in all that… it had been quite a time when clean clothes had started prickling him…

He saw no meaning in living life and no exception of death… but death also was very reluctant to him… the hardest of thing he found in the world was to die... hanging would invite fear of troubling the neck… burning down in fire would fear of scorching the body… devouring poison would fear of curdling the mouth… and even if he died, that would also fear of losing Pallavi forever… fear engrossed him from all sides and his disorientation proved to weaken him to some more extent.

How he peeped into his failure suddenly amid that fearful life was really strange! But he regarded his incomplete studies the base to his failure…. financial growth as the sign of success… swayed by a feeling that anyone would want their son-in-law to be well-educated and well-earning, he decided to change himself. He left his hometown and reached the capital city to broaden his horizon… accepting educational degree the qualification to marriage, he continued his studies seriously and financial income the guarantee-card of marriage, he devoted himself to work... when success came across, Pallavi was there on his mind… he still had a deep yearning of living a successful life with her… and the qualification and the guarantee-card were also under his arms now…

Suddenly on a fateful day, one of his friends spoke on phone, ‘Today is Pallavi’s wedding’…. his heart exploded at the top of his heartbeat… as if the world was ending the very next minute and that he was going to be buried under the debris… The reason, that he changed himself for, was drifting away along the waves of uncertainty… and he was sinking deep into the oblivion… putting all his achievements on stake, he started moving off at a tangent like a loser… he was like a machine-driven creature wandering around at the instructions of his own piece of code….

In course of this nomadic life, he, at one point, found a friend- Madhavi… Madhavi started directing him to the right course. The unsuccessful tint of Pallavi started fading out slowly and Madhavi’s propitious colour opened up brightly in his life.

All this started when he, one day, happened to get sight of a book put on sale at a footpath bookstall…. a Madan Mani Dikshit’s novel… he bought it against his interest but started reading it with concern… as an influencing upshot, he started regarding Vishwamitra his greatest enemy and began sharing love with the heroine of that novel… it was the same ‘Madhavi’, the novel’s heroine, the name of the novel itself and his newly found love.

Madhavi had come into his life with a wide gamut of possibilities, a zenith of new hope… she was putting him on the right spoor of life spreading coolness over his past tribulations…

‘I love Madhavi dearly… I have spent many nights crying with her… and many times have had intercourse with her… Madhavi is the only love of my life.’ One day, Madan Mani Dikshit was explaining Karun about his relationship with Madhavi this way. Thud! The dais of his love collapsed before a hope had bloomed. The portrait of his unconditional love had already been painted on someone else’s canvas. He envied Madan Mani Dikshit. ‘If I hadn’t been so obsessed to Madhavi, I couldn’t have written this novel.’ Madan Mani continued speaking, drenched from tip to toe in the love of his own Madhavi.

But Karun was walking at random like a lost wayfarer, breaking up his infatuation with Madhavi… in hope of finding another Madhavi of his fanatic fantasy….

(Note: This story is published in The Kathmandu Post, Fiction Park dated October 9, 2011 Sunday)

Monday, May 30, 2011

Preface: In the Battle of Kirtipur

Though I was acquainted with the compositions of Hridaya Chandra Singh Pradhan many years before, I realized the real Hridaya Chandra just few months back. The former acquisition went in quest of literary study but latter was how I came to know his entire literary ability.
In process of searching articles for ‘SATHI’, an english literary-magazine (where I am presently working as an executive editor), our editorial board decided to include a drama of Hridaya Chandra called ‘Kirtipur Ko Yuddha Ma’. Since the original composition was in Nepali, the foremost task was to translate it. Inspite of every effort, we couldn’t get it translated and finally I had to do it myself. The job of translating a drama and that also a portrayal of many ages back wasn’t so easy but I accepting the challenge made myself fortunate. 
When I went through the drama, I, at one moment decided to quit it because I thought I may not be able to give such a beautiful creation its real shape but it took me much endeavours and I eventually got it done but literally unjudged. It was during this time that I came to know how Hridaya Chandra’s writing actually is!  Though it is simply a one-act play but the sketches of the then situation and atmosphere is so artistically done that I guarantee when one goes through it, he might get back to that era. The location seems to gets flashed-back real and the characters seem to come out of the book and speak with the readers then and there.  A revolutionary warrior inside him comes out to fight  and slaughters injustice with the sharpened weapon of pen, he speaks against autocracy on behalf of his protagonist, who is a virtual (fictional) Hridaya Chandra himself.  
The marvellous usage of vocabulary, those typical languages, how simple words thread up to give a beautiful and dense meaning and the dialogues tend to represent the character’s frame of mind vivid. He hasn’t missed to furnish this drama with philosophical restraints of life, the suffering undergone by the prisoners and the sumptuousness of the rulers. Literature is meaningful only if it bears some tint of feelings and actions of the general people and his compositions have touched those traces of progressism and realism. His compositions are the true stories of lives then. His works have thus become living.
Talking about the drama, the story-plot is about the time when Prithivi Narayan Shah, the Great King of Gorkha, set up to unify all smaller territories into a single Nepal and during the stab, he came across Kirtipur. Though Kirtipur is a small town but Prithivi Narayan Shah and his soldiers couldn’t face the brave warriors of Kirtipur and his attempts failed thrice. There are many stories hidden in the womb of history because the winning-rulers generally dominated the losers’ history and established a new history of themselves being all the time true. Same happened here in Kirtipur! Prithivi Narayan Shah’s attack to Kirtipur the fourth time was a deception though everything is fair in war. It was a big festive occasion and he attacked the Kirtipures when they were enjoying. Moreover, some Kirtipures themselves betrayed their country by revealing secrets to Prithivi Narayan Shah. The battle started. The unprepared Kirtipures couldn’t confront the enemies  and finally they had to surrender. Most of the men died and so all the children, women and elderly persons had to fight in disguise. The war-prisoners had to cut their noses. Many repressions undertook place, transgressions went through and autocracies flamed up, but the history is still quiet because the winners were the next rulers and they engraved the truth deep inside the tomb of history. 
But Hridaya Chandra had an innovative knowledge of how the real history was. His creative ability and thorough study of the location (which still exists) demonstrates the qualitative greatness of his compostions, how important and precious they are! There are many of us, even the literature students not knowing the name of Hridaya Chandra because the improper custom of fame and awards has lured our present writers so much that such a true serviceman of literature gets overshadowed. But the time has come to explore the works of such a great writer like Hridaya Chandra and as a result, his drama ‘Kirtipur Ko Yuddha Ma’ has come out in the form of ‘In the Battle of Kirtipur’ before the readers world-wide.
Translation is a hard task and it becomes even harder when question comes of such old hands. I have tried my best to be honest with the true feelings of the composition  and loyal towards the goal of Hridaya Chandra Singh but since human beings are prone to errors, some might have crept in inspite of my unfailing efforts. I apologise if such mistakes have made this great composition disgraceful but I always look forward to rectifying these glitches and it would be a great help if you notified me about it. 
Lastly, I am thankful to the publisher for having faith in me and doing a great task of promoting our veteran writers globally and I can’t remain showering my humble gratitude to Mr. Suprad Chandra Singh Pradhan for his support in every step, by providing either materials or his invaluable guidance. And lastly, I am thankful to our entire team members for their unswerving endeavours to cast such a great doyen of Nepali Literature into the global arena. 

Jayant Sharma 
(Executive Editor ‘SATHI’ Monthly)

Saturday, May 28, 2011

मेरो अन्तर्वाता

(२०६७ पुस २३ गते शुक्रबार नेपाली पत्रमा र २०६७ पुस २६ गते सोमबार जनप्रकाश साप्ताहिकमा प्रकाशित)

सानैदेखि नेपाली र अङ्ग्रेजी साहित्यमा कलम चलाउँदै आउनु भएको साहित्यकार जयन्त शर्मा पछिल्लो समयमा नेपाली साहित्यको अङ्ग्रेजी अनुवादकको रूपमा देखापर्नु भयो । ह्रदयचन्द्रसिंह प्रधानको किर्तिपुरको युद्धमाको अङ्ग्रेजी रुपान्तरण In the Battle of Kirtipur बाट चर्चामा आउनुभएका उहाँले समयको रङ्ग (Colours of Epoch)’, Children Stories from Nepal, Odes from the Himalayas, जस्ता दर्जनौं पुस्तकहरूको अनुवादका साथै The Kathmandu Post, The Rising Nepal जस्ता पत्रपत्रिकाहरूमा साहित्य र अनुवाद सम्बन्धी लेखहरू पनि लेख्दै आउनुभएको छ ।
उनै साहित्यकार जयन्त शर्मासँग विशेष अनुवाद साहित्यको विषयमा गरेको कुराकानीको सारसंक्षेप प्रस्तुत छ ।

अनुवादको औचित्य कसरी प्रष्ट पार्नु हुन्छ ?

-          हेर्नुस्, यसको औचित्य प्रष्ट्याउनु भनेका एउटा सिङ्गो पुस्तक तयार गर्दा पनि सम्भव नहुने प्रश्न हो यो । संक्षेपमा भन्नु पर्दा अहिलेको विश्वको जतिपनि ज्ञान विज्ञान, दर्शन, साहित्यका कुरा छन्, त्यो अनुवादकै माध्यमले सम्भव भएको हो ।

यस कुराको पुष्टी कसरी गर्नुहुन्छ ?

-          हाम्रो समाजकै कुरा गर्ने हो भने या धर्म संस्कृति र परम्पराकै कुरा गर्ने हो भने, आदिम कबिला युगमा मानिसहरू आआफ्नो भाषा र परम्परागत समूहमा बस्दथे । तिनीहरूको आफ्नै खाले श्रृति, परम्परा र प्रचलनहरू रहेको थियो र ती कुराहरू उनीहरू आआफ्नै पाराले व्यक्त गर्ने गर्दथे । ती कथ्यहरू उनीहरूको भाषाका साथसाथै संस्कृत भाषाका पारखी भनु वा ऋषिमुनी, अनुसन्धानकर्ताहरूले संस्कृत भाषामा लिपिबद्ध गरे  राम संस्कृत भाषी होइनन्, न त कृष्ण नै हुन् । तर तिनीहरूको जीवन चरित्र संस्कृत भाषामा अनुवाद भएर आयो । परिणामतः हिन्दू संस्कृति मान्ने समुदायहरूले पछि गएर आआफ्नो भाषामा कालान्तरमा गएर फेरि अनुवाद गरे । यो हाम्रो मात्र नभएर सम्पूर्ण जनसमुदायको एउटा संस्कृति बन्न गयो । संस्कृतभाषाबाट उत्पन्न भएको नेपाली, हिन्दी, बङ्गाली, मराठी, मैथली, भोजपुरी जस्ता तथा दक्षिण भारतिय भाषा तामिल, तेलगु, मलायम, इत्यादि मात्र नभएर अङ्ग्रेजी, जर्मन, स्पेनीजस्ता अन्य युरोपेली भाषाहरूमा समेत अनुवाद भयो ।

तपाईंलाई जानकारी नै होला हिन्दू धर्ममा नै आस्तिक र नास्तिक दर्शनको सर्वप्रथम सुत्रपात भयो र विश्वमा चलिरहेको पदार्थ कि चेतना भन्ने  विवाद र आफ्नो पक्षको पक्षपोषण गर्ने वेद दर्शन र चार्वाक दर्शन (सर्वदर्शन) का विचारधारात्मक द्वन्द्व यही बेलादेखि सुरुभयो र अहिले विश्वभरि यसका विविध हाँगा हाँगाको चर्चा परिचर्चा भयो, त्यसको प्रमाण देह र विदेह जस्ता धर्म दर्शन पनि यसै अनुवादको माध्यमबाट संसारभर फैलियो । त्यसैले यो छोटो रूपमा भन्न खोजिएको सार मात्र हो । हामीले चिन्ने गरेको दार्शनीक, वैज्ञानिक र साहित्य सर्जक कति नेपाली थिए ? उहाँहरूलाई हामीले चिन्न सकेको एक मात्र कारण अनुवाद नै हैन र ?

नेपाली साहित्यको अनुवाद अङ्ग्रेजीमा गरिरहनु भएको छ, यसको खास कारण के होला ?

-          हामी विश्वमा रहेका विभिन्न भाषाका पुस्तकहरूको अध्ययन गरिरहेका छौँ । हामीले नदेखेको मुलुक, नचिनेको मान्छे, नभिजेको परिवेश  तर ज्ञानका लागि ती सामग्रीहरू उपयोगी छन्, त्यस्तै हाम्रो भाषाका कति लेखक सर्जकहरूको पहुच यो विश्वभरी पुगेको छ ? संसारको बहुसंख्यक भाषाभाषीहरूलाई  नेपाली भाषा  नेपाली संस्कृति, नेपाली कलासाहित्य पनि अन्य भाषाको तुलनामा त्यतिकै स्तरिय र गुणयुक्त छन् भन्ने कुराको साधारण जानकारी समेत छैन  किन ? उनीहरूले हाम्रो भाषा बुझ्दैनन्, हाम्रो साहित्य उनीहरूले बुझ्ने भाषामा कति छ ? यही शून्यतालाई चिर्ने सानो प्रयास हो  मेरो अनुवादकर्म पनि ।

नेपाली साहित्यको अनुवादको स्थिति कस्तो पाउनु भएको छ ?

-          उत्साहजनक पक्कै छैन, नेपाली साहित्यका थुप्रै पुस्तकहरू स्तरियताको दृष्टिकोणले विश्वसाहित्यको अन्य उन्नत साहित्यको दाजोमा पुग्न सक्ने संभावना बोकेका छन्, तर त्यसको बारेमा विश्वका अन्य भाषाका पारखीहरूले थाहा पाउन सकेका छैनन् । छिटफूट मात्रामा काम भइरहेको छ, संगठीत प्रयास भने हुन सकेको छैन । त्यसकारण पनि परिणाम सन्तोषजनक हुन सकिरहेको छैन ।

त्यो समस्याको समाधान के हुन सक्छ ?

-          सर्वप्रथम नेपालको राजनीति, र सरकारी नीति स्पष्ट हुन आवश्यक छ । लियो टोल्सटोय, मेक्सिम गोर्की रसियनभाषी, ल्यू शून चिनियाँ, बर्तोल्ड ब्रेख्त जर्मन  तर त्यहाँको स्पष्ट सरकारी नीतीले उनीहरूको प्रतिभा संसारसामु छर्लङ्ग हुन सक्यो । हो, हाम्रोमा त्यही नीति छैन । भाषा र संस्कृतिको जिम्मा लिने एकेडेमी राजनीतिक भर्ती केन्द्रको रूपमा रह्यो । एकेडेमीसियन हुन प्रतिभाको भन्दा राजनीतिको झण्डा ओढेकाहरू प्रतिभावान ठहरिए  सिमित बजेट यताउता टालटुल नीतिमै रित्यायो, मुख्यकाम निरूद्देश्य नै रह्यो । संस्कृति मन्त्रीले संस्कृति नबुझ्दा पनि भयो, विश्व प्रसारणको कुरा त टाढाको फलजस्तै भयो । खैँ नेपालमा पुस्तक प्रकाशन र वितरणको व्यवस्था नै राम्रोसँग गर्न नसकेको स्थितिमा हाम्रो साहित्य अनुवाद भएर विश्वभरि वितरणको व्यवस्था मिलाउन भनेको हाललाई  दिवास्वप्न जस्तो लाग्न सक्छ तर त्यो हुनुपर्छ । भविश्यमा यस्ता काम हुन नसके हाम्रो लेखनीय कुवाको भ्यागुताको भन्दा भिन्न स्थितिमा रहँदैन ।

नेपाली साहित्यको अनुवादको प्रणेता कसलाई मान्नु हुन्छ ?

-          निसन्देह महाकवि लक्ष्मीप्रसाद देवकोटा, त्यो समयमा पनि उहाँको अनुवाद शिल्प यति उच्च, सूक्षम् र गहन थियो की वर्तमान समयमा पनि त्यस्तो प्रतिभा नेपाली साहित्यमा अर्को देखा परेको छैन ।

महाकवि लक्ष्मीप्रसाद देवकोटाको नै अमर कृति मुनामदन को अनुवादलाई कसरी लिनुभएको छ ?

-          त्यसो त मैले त्यो कृतिको तीनवटा अनुवाद पढिसकेको छु, माइकल हट, आनन्द पी श्रेष्ठ र गणेशलाल सुब्बाका अनुवादहरू । यी तिनवटै अनुवादलाई सरसर्ती हेर्दा पनि के देखिन्छ भने माइकल हटले नेपाली लय बुझ्न सकेको छैन, शब्द र वाक्यहरू अनुवाद भएको छ  तर त्यसको गेयता र कलात्मकतालाई छुट्याएर  त्यसकारण त्यो कस्तो कृति भयो आफै अनुमान गर्नुस् । त्यो भन्दा धेरै राम्रोसँग छन्द र गेयतालाई समातेर आनन्द पी. श्रेष्ठले गर्नुभएको छ र त्यो आफैमा सुन्दर भएको छ । र भन्नै पर्दा, स्तरियताको हिसाबले गणेशलाल सुब्बालाई कसैले भेटाउन सकेको छैन ।

अहिले तपाईं केगर्दै हुनुहुन्छ ?

-          यू.के. डायस्पोरामा रहेका नेपाली कविहरूको कवितासङ्ग्रह सिमाहीन विम्ब कवितासङ्ग्रह भर्खरै सकेर विजय चालिसे र तेजप्रकाश श्रेष्ठका कथासङ्ग्रहको अनुवाद गरिरहेको छु ।

साथी साहित्यिक पत्रिकाको अङ्ग्रेजी संस्करणका सम्पादकको रूपमा प्रकाशन गर्दै आउनु भएको थियो तर अहिले बन्द अवस्थामा छ, किन होला ?

-          बन्द गरेको होइन, वाध्यतावश केही समयको लागि यो बन्द गर्नु पर्ने भयो ।  धेरै योजनाहरू बुन्दाबुन्दै आकस्मीक दुर्घटनाले गर्दा लामो समय म स्वास्थ्य उपचारको क्रममा नै रहे । र, अहिले पनि म स्वास्थलाभ गर्दैछु । तर अब म फेरि काम गर्न सक्ने अवस्थामा आइसकेकोले यसलाई फेरि निरन्तरता दिने प्रयासमा रचना छनौट, अनुवाद र प्रकाशन गर्ने तर्फ काम गरिरहेको छु । अब चाडै नै यो  पुनः प्रकाशन हुने तरखरमा रहेको छ ।

अन्तमा केही भन्न चाहनु हुन्छ कि ?

-          नेपाली साहित्यलाई विश्वमा चिनाउन अनुवाद बाहेक अन्य कुनै विकल्प छैन, त्यसैले साहित्यकारहरू, प्रकाशकहरू, अनुवादकहरू र पाठकहरूलाई पनि यो अनुरोध गर्दछु कि यो अनुवाद कार्यलाई गम्भीरताका साथ लिइदिनु पर्यो ।  

Sunday, May 22, 2011

आउँदैछन् हिसाब माग्न

 तिमीले दिएको आश्वासनको तिउन-आशाको ढिडोसँग
विश्वासघातको अचार नमज्जाले मिसायौ है?
तिमीले देखाएका नयाँ सपनाहरू साँच्न नपाउँदै
उही पुरानो नमीठो थप्पडले फेरि बिउँझायौ है?
अत्याचारको शिकार, अन्यायको मूक गवाही
बोली त तिमीले पहिले नै खोसिसकेका रहेछौं !

तर भुस्याहा कुकुरहरूको मिथ्या भुकाइमा
तर्सिन छाड्यो त्यो कमजोर रामबहादुर
दबाउन सक्दैन आवाजहरूलाई कसैले
बोल्ने बोलेरै छाड्छ अब अन्धकार विरूद्ध
भीरबाट खस्ने गोरुको लङ्गडो ढिपीमा
राम राम भनिन्छ अब काँध थाप्ने छैनन् कोही !

लाखौ आमाहरूको आँसुले सजाएको त्यो मन्चमा
तिम्रो देशभक्तिको कालो चिठ्ठा मन्चन हुदैछ
कुरिति र कुशासनको पटाक्षप हुदैछ
गाँस-वास-कपास दिन्छु, नयाँ आश दिन्छु
झुक्किने छैन घरिघरि त्यो सोझो मानबहादुर
तिम्रो यस्तो फुस्रो कुरा गराइमा ।

न्याय, समानता, हक र परिवर्तन
कुनै किराना पसलमा पाइने खाध वस्तु हो?
पाइने भएको भएपनि तिमीले कहाँ दिन्थ्यौ र?
खोक्रो आडम्बर, ढोङ्गी सहानुभुति त हो तिमीले दिने !
कुरा ठूला-ठूला तर सस्तो मानसिकता
उदघोष नयाँपनको तर सोच बर्बर
अब छोप्न सक्दैनौ तिमीले आफ्नो नपुङ्गसकता !

भाइ मारेर ज्वाँई पोस्ने तिम्रो फोहोरी चाललाई
अब कसैले सफा भन्ने छैनन्
तिमीले फेरेको काचुलीलाई परिवर्तनको नाम त दियौ
तर उही पुराना रुग्ण मानसिकता भने छाड्न सकेनौ
तिमीले पनि त कति गाडि, घरहरू फेर्यौ
कङ्गालीको करङ्गमाथि घुम्ने कुर्सीको स्वाद पनि फेर्यौ !
गरीब श्यामबहादुरको खुन पसिनामा बाँच्ने तिमी
कति लासहरूमाथि महङ्गो व्हिस्की पनि फोड्यौ ।

तिम्रो स्वार्थ पूरा गर्न हजारौ सपनाहरूले बलि चढाए
तिम्रो विश्वासको भूमरीमा लाखौ इच्छाहरुले आत्महत्या गरे
तिमीले पनि तिनीहरूको मृत्युलाई बलिदानको नाम दिएर महान बनायौ
श्रद्धाञ्जलि स्वरुप तिनीहरूको लासमाथि सहिदको ‘लेबल’ पनि टाँस्यौ
महानताको गाथा गायौ अनि डकार्यौ उनीहरूको खुनको सर्बत
तिनीहरू सहिद भएर अमर, तिमी सहिद बनाएर अमर !

तर अब जुर्मुराउँदैछन्
तिनै राम, श्याम र मानबहादुरहरू
बुहारीको पुछिएको सिन्दुर, मुछिएको मर्म
छोरीको लुटिएको अस्मिता, फुटेको कर्म
खोसिएको आफ्नो घरबार, मान्छे हुनुको धर्म
सबैको हिसाब माग्न उठ्दैछन्, जुर्मुराएरै आउँदैछन्।

Published in Asar 2067 Issue of Madhuparka

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Setting Sun and I

the setting sun is setting its eyes on me
as if its saying when i would again see
the sweetness of life in those sad eyes
after a hard night bout and again i rise
with new zeal, and a new hope to live
striving against odd is all that i believe
cold tears washing away night's dread
on the bosom of life, angst here i tread

Thursday, February 10, 2011


This comes as an obligatory reality for Nepalese living abroad that whatsoever and howsoever they do there, life comes in pretty sad face demanding much and giving less. This anthology of Nepali poetries from diasporas is a proof to that reality. The poetries here demand an analytical eye and unconventional vision in comprehending its essence. Most of the poems, based on the hardships of life faced in either native or foreign land, are adorned with strong metaphors and sharp similes that give us significantly a mellow reading. A sense of nativity and racial discourse though abundant throughout the volume do not look superfluous, when the indigenous dialects and communal jargons employed add a blissful taste all over the journey.

Translating ‘Reflections Beyond Border’ was completely a new but pleasant experience. Though it was very hard for me to muddle through the jargons, I have given utmost care in retaining the originality of the creations and even if some errors have crept in, I apologise sincerely for that. Thoroughly enjoying the poetic experiments done, I am therefore convinced that this volume will carve a distinct niche in the poetic fraternity of Nepali Literature. Playing with words is harder than understanding them and I was no other exception but I dared it not only because of a personal request from one of my close acquaintances but because I personally wanted to feel the pleasure of diasporic writing and especially of the writers from army background. The poets included in this anthology are all in one way or the other associated with security jobs or are army men abroad. Therefore, this book has helped in exhibiting the poetic heart of soldiers fighting at the frontier, and surpassing the fact that they appear hard from outside rather has revealed their soft corner.

On whole, this book will prove to be another milestone in introducing the literature from diasporas and the poetries a benchmark in the future of Nepali poetry. These poetries on one hand portray stark realities of human obligations and torments and on the other hand unfold beauty of nature that lies hidden for ages. Though some poetries are based on romanticism and brighter sides of life, many of them are revolutionary comprising darker shades of life. The poets speak of their native lands and the beauty they encompass, some compare them with the foreign lands and some write of the different facets of humanly emotions. Whatever is the thing, the poets tend to weave their personal experiences into words. I am grateful to the poets, the editors and to everyone who helped me make this venture a success. My dream of Nepali literature flying beyond borders as I have always mentioned is gradually taking shape and this one stands as a stepping stone in the flight.

Without much elaboration, I would like to end this brief note with one of my poems that explains the feeling that this volume occupies in whole-

The restrained gash of battlefields
The melancholy of being far away from home
The glorious victory at various theatres of war
The defeat of destitute proximity
The appeal of abounding affinity, and
Everything on your own-
Come flying
In different painful letters, and
Blood stained words
To spill over the scraps of haunting memories
And daunting experiences.

Note: This is the translator's note on my latest translation 'Reflections Beyond Border' published by Nepali Prativa Pratisthan UK.