JAYANT POST

BED NO 223

2011-12-18T23:33:00.000+05:30

Excuse me! It’s time for vital.’ A strange but sweet voice judderedhis half-asleep sedative eyes. It was Sanjog’s second day in the hospital andfirst in the orthopedic ward after he was brought from the post-operation ward earlierthat 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 hervisit. The room was empty, may be because of his tranquilizing slumber. Shemeasured his pulse, fever and blood pressure and recorded the readings on agreen file she had brought with her that largely read ‘Bed No. 223.’ The clockstruck half past seven in that cold Sunday evening of November.

Sanjog was laid in a small room- good enough to be calledprivate cabin but a general in real- meant for patients who required somespecial precautions. He was not one of them but because of his uncle’s closeacquaintance with the administrative staffs of the hospital, he was endowed of thatprivilege. A separate room in hospital at the price of general bed was the onlygreat 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 operationtheatre in emergency two days ago, no one had literally hoped to see him lyingthat way sooner – but to everyone’s wonder – witnessed his cheerful countenanceas windfall.

Early in the morning next day, the first thing that greetedhim was that congenial smile again. Disposing the scattered medicines and remindinghim of its dose, she left the room throwing him an enigmatic glance, and anunfailing smile. Meanwhile, Sanjog was occupied by the thought of Ikchha, notbecause Ikchha resembled her or their smiles, but only because he was expectingher 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 ithad been long they’d met. She’d been busy with her office and he was out oftown until a day before that fateful day. Sanjog asked his sister to look over hismobile, as he was undoubtedly sure some plenty of missed calls must have madeits way in, and plausibly many from her. But to his surprise, there wasn’t evena single missed call, neither from her nor from his friends.

With the word ‘friends’, he happened to remember his favouritejacket that he had lent to Abhisekh on Thursday as he was shivering in that coldevening bash. He presumed Abhisekh to have called him to return it or may be toatleast know his whereabouts but the calculations were opposing. Sanjog wasexpecting him and with him, many others who were always around him in his daysof glee. The day he returned from Biratnagar, his mobile was flooded with callsfrom his friends as they were expecting a lavish party from him not because of anoccasion but as a usual treat that Sanjog threw every so often. Having found noone call, more than him- his phone must have been staggered. ‘Have they come toknow about my mishap or not?’ he wondered.

Until that time, he had already come to know that he wasinmate in the hospital for another couple of months, and that he’d have tobecome accustomed to the quirkiness of the place. Every morning, when thedoctors came for round, they used to appear fiend to him, because the way theycarelessly fondled the deep laceration, on the area of fracture just below hisknee, would every time compel him to respect their ruthlessness. After apainful day in the hospital bed, fighting with broken limbs and shattered hopes,dusk approached and with it, arrived the smile comforting his sedativetemperament, as was always of high dosage of painkillers and anti-biotics, tosome extent.

Her smile beamed in that disconsolate ambience of the room,and captivated the entire evening and night till morning. His woes got some spaceto 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 threedays in every fifteen days, the rest being either at morning or day.Nevertheless, the time she showed up was ample in alleviating him. He wasunknown to that affinity of her enveloping him but always sensed some peculiarpleasure in it. Her name was Gunja and she had become his sedatives – much moretranquilizing than the pills; his companion – much more endearing than theloneliness.

Days rolled on, and it was already a month that he had takento beds. His mobile didn’t witness a single call or message except from hisfamily, but still, he was in hope that one day, Ikchha or Abhisekh or someonewould appear at the door. By that time, the everyday smiling acquaintance hadturned into brief gossips and intimacy. She put her additional attention inattending him and he enjoyed her company of a comforting companion despite ofwhat the ethics of her profession or his confines as a patient allowed them. Theygradually peeped into their personal lives through gossips and most of thetime, she was an inspiring factor for him and he a grudging factor. As aresult, his isolation and irritation, failure and frustration got moderatedphenomenally.

He believed that his thirteen years association with Ikchha hadyielded in him such a strong determination that there was no alternate of herin his life. But this belief started shuddering as the hope of seeing her standat the door slowly started withering because the magnitude of loneliness he wasencountering each day could only be felt by either himself or his new ally. He postulatedthat she, atleast, should have been there to feel him after all they weregetting married in July – as was planned by the families. He was filled withdismay when she had one day said, ‘We are going to the States after marriage. Ihave many dreams to pursue.’ And the very next minute, she had smirked, ‘I am notgoing to marry until you own a Terios.’ He had taken it as her jest then, butlying on the hospital bed, all alone, with brutal twinges of hopelessness, he slowlystarted believing that she really meant it.

His days in the hospital, as usual, passed with pangs ofdoctor’s heartless treatment and Gunja’s assiduous service. She was, most ofthe time, found stationed at 223 in between her break from work, and they usedto have hilarious conversations that always ended in serious note. By then, theirgossips had transferred abode from bed no. 223 to their mobile phones. Fromher, he came to know that she was also in a relationship and was gettingmarried soon, but she wasn’t looking happy while saying this. About him, he hadtold 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 hisfractures had induced or that of his solitude or his fate, but of the one that Ikchhaor his best buddies like Abhisekh had induced in him. His success, before theaccident, had attracted all of them but he had deemed their attraction to betheir love for him. All his achievements and his affability came to stake as hewas left fighting the battle of living life all alone. Besides family, the mostimportant persons in his life were absent in his hardships when all of themwere present in his pleasure before. Gunja, however, filled that part.

His tenure in the hospital was coming to an end. It wasGunja’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 voicedropped.

‘No! I have an off daytomorrow and I have much to do at home. And by the way, tomorrow is hisbirthday, so I am going out with him.’ Her voice, glum and choked, couldclearly be heard.

‘You will come if you think you need to. Take care ofyourself and of your life.’ He ended the conversation.

The next day, settled in a wheel-chair, he was ready to getdischarged. His eyes, wandering around the not-so-familiar world outside 223, failedto stop at his will. The lift took him down, he boarded a cab with heavy heart andthe vehicle was about to make its way out when he found her standing at thegate wearing that same affable smile.

She opened the door and got in. The cab slowly dissolved intothe busy lanes of Kathmandu.

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

An Ode to the Past

2011-11-04T21:40:00.002+05:30

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

FANATIC FANTASY

2011-10-12T09:06:00.000+05:30

He was very attached to Madhavi… wherever he went, Madhaviwould always be beside him… in his every happiness, Madhavi’s decision would bedecisive…. Madhavi would be standing lively in his imagination… a friend of hisjoy, 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 andembrace her… During illness, Madhavi used to sit beside him caressing hisforehead with a gentle kiss… Whenever he stumbled upon failure, Madhavi used toraise his spirits urging him to rise from the washout and set his goal againwith a greater deal of zeal and fortitude. Madhavi had transpired, in hismelancholy and isolated life, a fresh vivacity.

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

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

Like it was obvious, Pallavi’s parents, one day, came to knowabout their love scene… Her parents, the strict conformists, poured their rageover Pallavi’s behaviour… She was blessed with scarlet smudges on cheeks and ablack-and-blue back… Pallavi couldn’t seek out for any other option than toshed 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 socialalbatross or they hadn’t the courage either. Leaving rest in the hands ofdestiny, it should also have been the romanticism of their love that induced inthem this decision of self-destruction.

Karun, however, appeared a lonesome person thence, studiesbecame far beyond his reach… When he looked at words, letters started dancingfor him and reacting with one another… as a result, examinations approached anddeparted but Karun’s education never raised its bars… he was least concerned offeeding himself… while at home, his quantity of meal intake, only because ofhis 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 todistinguish whether his clothes were clean or dirty.. more the dirty, thefittest it looked… but he was satisfied in all that… it had been quite a time whenclean 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 theworld was to die... hanging would invite fear of troubling the neck… burningdown in fire would fear of scorching the body… devouring poison would fear ofcurdling the mouth… and even if he died, that would also fear of losing Pallaviforever… fear engrossed him from all sides and his disorientation proved toweaken him to some more extent.

How he peeped into his failure suddenly amid that fearfullife was really strange! But he regarded his incomplete studies the base to hisfailure…. financial growth as the sign of success… swayed by a feeling that anyonewould want their son-in-law to be well-educated and well-earning, he decided tochange himself. He left his hometown and reached the capital city to broadenhis horizon… accepting educational degree the qualification to marriage, hecontinued his studies seriously and financial income the guarantee-card ofmarriage, he devoted himself to work... when success came across, Pallavi was thereon 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 beburied under the debris… The reason, that he changed himself for, was driftingaway 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 likea loser… he was like a machine-driven creature wandering around at theinstructions of his own piece of code….

In course of this nomadic life, he, at one point, found afriend- Madhavi… Madhavi started directing him to the right course. Theunsuccessful tint of Pallavi started fading out slowly and Madhavi’s propitiouscolour opened up brightly in his life.

All this started when he, one day, happened to get sight of abook put on sale at a footpath bookstall…. a Madan Mani Dikshit’s novel… hebought it against his interest but started reading it with concern… as aninfluencing upshot, he started regarding Vishwamitra his greatest enemy andbegan 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 spreadingcoolness over his past tribulations…

‘I love Madhavi dearly… I have spent many nights crying withher… and many times have had intercourse with her… Madhavi is the only love ofmy life.’ One day, Madan Mani Dikshit was explaining Karun about hisrelationship with Madhavi this way. Thud! The dais of his love collapsed beforea hope had bloomed. The portrait of his unconditional love had already beenpainted on someone else’s canvas. He envied Madan Mani Dikshit. ‘If I hadn’tbeen so obsessed to Madhavi, I couldn’t have written this novel.’ Madan Manicontinued 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 ofhis fanatic fantasy….

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

Preface: In the Battle of Kirtipur

2011-05-29T20:46:00.000+05:30

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)

मेरो अन्तर्वाता

2011-05-27T19:49:00.003+05:30

(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 युद्धमा’को 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 आ–आफ्नो भाषा र परम्परागत समूहमा बस्दथे । तिनीहरूको आफ्नै खाले श्रृति, परम्परा र प्रचलनहरू रहेको थियो र ती कुराहरू उनीहरू आ–आफ्नै 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 आ–आफ्नो 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 कला–साहित्य 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 ।

आउँदैछन् हिसाब माग्न

2011-05-22T13:24:00.002+05:30

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 पटाक्षेप 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

Setting Sun and I

2011-05-07T11:30:00.000+05:30

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

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

2011-02-09T23:25:00.001+05:30

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.

Nepali Literature Sans Center

2010-08-18T14:04:00.002+05:30

Nepali language and script have always been surrounded by controversies. The first literature in Nepali language is considered to be ‘Baaj Parikshya’ written around 1700 BS which is conflicting in itself. Though the historical evidences depict that Nepali language is derived from ‘sinjali’, it was also not in the Nepali form initially; it was in ‘khas’. Its region of birth is Jumla from where it got propagated all over. Research has excavated copperplates and some folk songs of that time, written in 1393 BS. Moreover, Nepali language used to be written in ‘kalaukshyari’ script which afterwards was slowly replaced by Hindi script ‘devanagari’ because of the people who went to Banaras to study. The ‘devanagari’ script which we use today is a progeny of ‘brahmi’ script. Therefore, even if ‘khas’ is accepted to be the mother of Nepali language, some facts indicate that though ‘khas’ exists in history, it didn’t fall into a scriptural group that is proven by the non-scriptural names they used like ‘krachalla’, ‘chapilla’, ‘chap’, etc. Thus, researchers claim Nepali language to be independent of ‘khas’ language.

Current debate

Nevertheless, there are plenty of such arguments regarding Nepali language and presently, another topic that has heated the debate table is about the center of Nepali language. Nepali students who went to Banaras to study then, influenced by Hindi and Sanskrit literature, established the press culture of Nepali literature - many years before and after Bhanubhakta’s ‘Ramayan’, no substitute of Banaras could be seen. Above this, the literary movement initiated by Motiram Bhatta fueled its momentum to a phenomenal extent. Later, because of a more educated class living in Darjelling and Pastor Gangalal Pradhan’s translation of Bible into Nepali followed by activities of ‘SuDhaPa’ slowly shifted the command of Nepali literature to Darjelling. Balkrishna Sama hence could say without hesitation, "What Darjelling thinks today, Nepal thinks it tomorrow" but the end of Rana regime, rapid literacy awareness in Nepal and the dignity of capital city finally transformed Kathmandu as the center of Nepali literature. The era after this transformation gradually increased the number of writers focusing on the centralised system of state governance that established Kathmandu as the only center of Nepali literature and the fertile land for writers in the coming several decades.

Literature from diasporas

But today Nepali literature has crossed the geographical boundary and has established itself as a language spoken and written in almost every continent of the world. If we calculate the number of magazines and books published in Kathmandu in Nepali language, it’s just 10 per cent of what is published around the globe. In this estimate, north-eastern states of India alone cross the count of the overall books and magazines published in Kathmandu. What about the publications in other Asian countries along with Europe, America and Australia? Presently, after Africa joined this bandwagon and because of the excessive use and easy access to Internet, the focal point of Nepali literature has been completely upset.

This interpretation has practically been justified even more after Tribhuwan Univesity, realising the importance of Nepali literature produced by the diasporas, recently decided to start its study incorporating two Nepali novels, one from Hong Kong and the other from United States, into its Masters level curriculum. From the coming academic session, these novels will be studied as the 9th Paper Nepali literature course namely under ‘Diasporic Studies’ in the Humanities and Social Science faculty. All these amendments indicate that Nepali literature is now going beyond borders and the conventional notion of regarding Nepali literature from the diasporas qualitatively low has been defeated, giving rise to a new philosophy that seriously needs to be contemplated in the days to come if we want to understand Nepali literature more sincerely and accurately.

Off the Center

Kathmandu, after reigning for ages, has now no hold over the dominion of Nepali literature. And also the fact that Kathmandu is the capital of Nepal doesn’t necessarily validate that the bridle of Nepali language and literature should also be in its hands because a lot of Nepali language speakers are now living in diasporas. This reality of Nepali literature should be realised properly by the ones ensconced inside this bowl of Kathmandu valley rather than the writers outside.

my blog

2010-08-04T16:40:00.002+05:30

world of random thoughts, i reflect

amid chaos, my contemplation

vague and irrational

words drop but by a hair's breadth

without rules, without borders

stirring an uneven stillness

and silently surpassing

my refraction of life

to a resurrection.

Worlds Apart

2010-08-02T16:00:00.001+05:30

I met him at a roadside tea junction of New Bus Park where he and his mates, in the biting cold of January, were trying to fit themselves inside an old jute sack. I and a friend, after the hangover of exams had started out at that solitary hour of night just to relish a cup of tea and cigarettes. The whole world was asleep and the only hope of slaking our nicotine dosage was that hubbub of bus terminal. We ordered a cup of tea each and started making clouds of smoke.

My eyes wandering slowly to the activity of the place stopped at these small kids covered under a rag. Altogether three in number, two were in deep sleep while the third was struggling to find his space. The dew drops hitting their rugged face from the branches of the tree they had chosen as shelter were left unnoticed. But this very struggler was sprawling with discomfort as the cold wind peeping through his torn shirt was making him tougher every minute. With sympathy, I lent him a voice. It went unheard. I made a louder try. His ears, hard of hearing humble voices, first were confused at my call but my gestures finally fetched him to us.

“Do you want some tea?” my friend asked.

“Yes,” he said, without much hesitation.

We ordered the tea-shop Didi another cup of tea. Looking at us, she giggled but again set her hands busy on the stove.

“Boy, where are you from?” I voiced my curiosity.

“Jhapa.” His answer dropped.

“Where from Jhapa?” My friend added since he also hailed from the same place.

“Sitaganj.” He answered with bigger amplitude.

“How have you come here?”

“By bus.” His straight reply annoyed my friend.

“I know that… I mean why did you come here?”

He kept quiet for sometime as if he was thinking something but my sound broke his meditation.

“Tell me boy.” I caught his hand and brought him close.

He grew restless and trying to free from my grip, snapped, “It’s none of your concern.”

“Is this the way you talk to your elders?” My friend gave a hint of his changing mood.

“If not this, teach me how… I… I have left my home.” His assertive answer came as expected.

The tea was ready and Didi handed three cups to us. We pointed one towards our guest. No sooner did the cup touch his grubby fingers, he hurried up and bounded straight for his habitat. We watched how he went near to his sleeping friends and woke them up. Instead of having the tea by himself, he gave it to his friends. They finished it in the wink of an eye leaving the cup empty for the boy to deliver back, and they took to their sleeping caps again. He returned sad, but satisfied. I was surprised at this humility of our gentleman.

“Are they your friends?” I tried to clear my doubt.

“No, they are my brothers.” He chuckled.

“Are they your own?” I again inquired.

“No, but does it make any difference?” He retorted back.

“Then why did you let them have your tea?” My friend asked.

“Because they are my brothers.”

His words of wisdom left us dumb-founded. We hadn’t finished our tea yet. He started staring at us with his blank yet innocent eyes. I again ordered for another cup of tea.

“You are having it alone this time, understood?” My friend’s command bumped.

He nodded but angrily. Suddenly everyone’s attention converged to the sharp siren of the police van patrolling on the road until the sound faded away. The tea was ready but this time, Didi handed it directly to the boy and looking at us, giggled again. We started our second cigarette and the boy, looking at me asked for one.

“Do you smoke?” I expressed my surprise.

“Yes, nicely! Give one and I’ll teach you.” His sharp delivery came again.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve,” he said, hesitantly this time.

“Don’t you know smoking is bad?” I tried some moral classes on him.

“Then why do you? If you can, I also can.” He threw his swift piece of wit.

Instead of being angry, we started laughing at his words. As we were feeling hungry, we ordered for boiled eggs. “For me also,” he quickly said. Didi understood, and she finally opened her mouth, “These rogues are like this only. Give them an inch and they will ask for an ell.”

“Why did you run away from your house? Don’t you have anyone there?” I resumed the conversation.

“Yes, I have a father but also a step-mother. My mother left me some two years ago when my alcoholic father one day beat her to death and….” He now gradually got comfortable with our queries. He paused for a moment and again continued.

“…and next day, he brought another woman home. She used to scold me, beat me and didn’t feed me for days. When I reported this to my father, he also in return thrashed me. This continued for months and one day, I managed to escape from that hell. I boarded a bus from Damak not knowing where it was for and finally arrived Kathmandu.” I could see the sadness in his eyes and hatred in his tone as he was narrating this.

“So, how did you meet your friends… I mean… your brothers?”

“I arrived here in the morning, hungry and tired. I was wandering here and there when they spotted me. Knowing I was hungry, they shared their stuffs with me and from that day, they are my brothers.” He was a different person now.

“So what do you do to make your living?”

“We collect plastics, and transport it to the factories. They give us… “

“Brother, here are your eggs.” Didi’s voice punctuated his sentence.

As soon as he got his share of egg, he again ran to his friends. After a while, we could see silhouette of three figures enjoying their dinner happily under the shade of cold night. Another minute, on hearing some voices approaching them, our boy with his siblings grabbed the rag and took to their heels. On our turning back, we found two policemen poking a nearby vendor. After Didi explained it to us, we came to know that they had come there to claim their share of night business. The children ran away because the men in uniforms harass and beat them.

Till then, our gentleman was out of sight but his vacant eyes kept asking me, “Do we share the same world?”

Late To Translate?

2010-06-29T18:23:00.002+05:30

My Article featured on South Asian Media Net OPINION published in The Rising Nepal on June 12, 2010

Nepal Bandh Frenzy and the Pollution

2010-05-04T13:37:00.001+05:30

(This article published in 2002 is still relevant and don't know till when.)

Time was when ‘Nepal Bandh’ was regarded a pollution but now, it itself has become an agent of reducing pollution; it was then a trivial issue for the social life and economy of the country but at present, it has become copious like ‘mushrooms after rain’ that people have become used to it; it was specific before, but today, it has become general.

Talking about Kathmandu, running such ‘bandhs’ has atleast helped in reducing the pollution to some extent knowing that we can’t eliminate it completely. ‘Nepal Bandh’ of course hampers the economy but unknowingly, it has assisted somewhat these days. The major finances done in environmental awareness projects can be cut and used for something else.

‘Bandh’ simply is not good but as every coin has two faces, it also has both merits and demerits but the most depressing factor is that it has demerits more than merits. Should the air pollution caused by smokes and busy traffics be overshadowed for an instant but then there is this foul pollution of politics behind the curtain, which is far more dangerous than the impact caused due to the environment pollution.

Whether it is air pollution or pollution due to dirty politics, it is harmful from every figure and isometric, and the losses borne are by us. Government should take initiatives such that neither we suffer from the adverse effects of ecological disorder nor from the pungent fumes of the pinchbeck pseudo-politics. The main reason for ‘Nepal Bandh’ has major offences to Maoists, who declare themselves right and powerful, even though the war they are crackling is in the course of annihilation. The antecedence of this terror lies back in the history of unstable politics. The Maoists, what we call now, emerged as a result of its suffocation. The position and power holders are only on the wrong side of the law for letting such woes happen.

After this, comes minority aggression to the factor like price hike of petroleum products, due to which bus syndicators and vehicle associative become fury and as a result, they demand decrement in price or opt for increasing fares. Ultimately, the one crushed under the grindstone of this tribulation is general populace. Then, those frantic people enter into the battlefield backed by the selfishness of some chance-seeker political parties and thus this war to nowhere goes on and on. Furthermore, unanticipated increment in school/college fees also results in ‘Nepal Bandh’. Be it in the name of serving students or general public, the parties go on protests and strikes only to enhance their political career and make their wants fulfilled but they term it as their humanitarian tusk. And also these ‘bandhs’ are truly encouraged by the visiting students, who are pleased at getting time to kill time. There is no underlying principle for ‘Nepal Bandh’. A ruling party leader slips his tongue and next day will be marked ‘bandh’ by the opposition, a crook journalist gets caught and their association seeks a ‘bandh’ to set him free. This is what is happening since a long time and still if the higher bodies remain voiceless, then surely a day is inevitable when Nepal will be suffixed by ‘bandh’ and will be replaced by ‘Nepal Bandh’, in a sense that a country named Nepal doesn’t exist, it’s closed (bandh!!).

It is better to die than to extinct. Scandals have always been a part of our country, whether it is in the field of politics or in the film industry, be it music or literature, Darwin’s ‘Survival of the Fittest’ has been proved successful. Evil pollution goes on as a vicious circle and the serene eyes have no vigour to argue anymore. So easy in itself, ‘Nepal Bandh’ is the tragedic misuse of power and democracy. Simply, anyone can run ‘Nepal Bandh’ because people never complain and their silence is understood as their approval, they are so afraid and timid that these ‘bandhs’ most of time go successful. It has become a trend and competition to all the concerned parties. The more number of ‘bandhs’ they do, the more powerful they are to be called. In this perpetual plight of power and position, eventually that are put into problems are the poor folks.

Pollution should be eradicated, not merely by ostentation of power but by a common consensus between the authorities and masses. But I personally feel that there should be more ‘Nepal Bandhs’ so that the people here always ramble on the poverty line and remain the same ignorant, illiterate, indigent ‘Nepali’… better they be called ‘Nepali’ than never be. Happy Nepal Bandh!!!

Crossing Borders

2010-03-17T15:05:00.001+05:30

Last week I got to peek through the pages of ‘Mother’ again, a work by Russian novelist Maxim Gorky that changed the ideologies of many people around the world. This revolutionary novel depicting the story of a rebel during the time of the Russian revolution carried the history of Russia across the globe after being translated into many different languages. Like Gorky, many other Russian writers of that time — Dostoevsky, Gogol and Tolstoy — won international fame through their writings. Similarly, Hindi, German, Chinese and many other authors have been successful internationally.

In Nepal, the literary pieces of Laxmi Prasad Devkota, Parijat, Bhupi Sherchan, Gopal Prasad Rimal and others are forever remembered with reverence. But, compared to world literature, Nepali literature is yet to find its international readership.

Here comes a question: why is this so? Have we ever thought of how Russian and other literatures were able to keep such a significant mark in world literature?

It is not only because those works were good pieces of literature. Rather, one of the reasons for their broad international fame was because they were translated into many world languages including English. Translation into many languages made it possible for them to take their place in libraries around the world, helping people to read and understand them.

Translations not only help literature cross borders, it also helps writers survive. Diamond Shamsher Rana’s ‘Seto Bagh’, translated into English as ‘White Tiger’, is one example. In one of Rana’s interviews, he has revealed the fact that his ends, so far, are met by the royalties of ‘White Tiger’, published by a British publication decades ago.

Contrarily, a few Nepali literatures have been given the opportunity to be translated into English, like Parijat’s ‘Shirish Ko Phool,’ which is now incorporated into the curriculum of some US universities. Recently, Ramesh Vikal’s ‘Awiral Bagdacha Indrawati’ earned the honour of being the only Nepali literary work to get a place in the Cultural Endowment Project, formed by a committee of US Senators dedicated to translating popular literature of the world. There are still many other great Nepali literatures, like Madan Mani Dixit’s ‘Madhavi’, waiting to come out of the wrapping to reserve a space in world literature.

For every country, its language, culture and literature hold its identity. Literature reflects the social order and practices of an era and transmits that to its readers. If Bhanubhakta had not translated ‘Ramayan’ into Nepali, many of us still would not have known the great epic and the time of that era.

Promoting the culture, language and literature of a country for its broader readership is the responsibility of the state. But unfortunately, enough work has not been done by the sector responsible for looking after literature and culture. It seems the culture of sycophancy has plagued every section of Nepali society. Even for the promotion of Nepali literature, politics plays decisive role. Still, academicians are politically appointed. The centre lacks the zeal to promote Nepali literature in the world. Whatever few translations have been done so far is only because of the self-initiatives of the writers and self-proclaimed translators.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

2010-03-07T09:30:00.003+05:30

Dear Positive,

You had been complaining of my letters all the time and I always took it as your suggestions. You had been telling me how badly I write and I acknowledged it as an inspiration. You had been grumbling on how I had changed all those years and I anticipated it as your verdict. Your biting words sometimes discouraged me but again, I saw wisdom in your rebukes. Your cold spoofs often hurt the small ambitions inside me but the very next minute, I sensed knowledge in your bitterness. After all, it was you who told me to do so.

You had been grousing of how I got on my nerves quickly and only if you could have understood, it was all because of the solitary disorder. Your cutting words often heated my temperament but again, I comprehended the process to be physiological and became ice. When you dragged me by the lane of abuse, I understood it as the freedom that you use. I remember the day you handed me a paper of separation to get signed and I duly did it thinking you had given me a freedom to write.

With furling of every season, I embraced the decision you lodged on me to be what I am not. With the curl of years, I clinched the inner-self in you regardless of my being what I really am. With fold of every morning, I induced the ‘what-I-want’ in you irrespective of what I always wanted. After all these years, you have still been grudging at my smile and here I cry not because you want it but because my eyes have been straining for quite sometime now.

Yours,

Negative

Some Poetries-V

2010-02-28T20:01:00.003+05:30

When trees of survival start lamenting

Over the pathetic failure of reasons

Tanned beliefs start weaving young reveries again

The old verves start measuring the unexplored paths

I am lying here still, and destination peeping at horizon.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Faith smeared with shades of fear

Desires tarnished with tints of despair

Colours, you couldn’t paint my aspiration

And happiness, you disguise in black.

------------------------------------------------------------------

When the emptiness in eyes stare at hopes

When skinny belly stretches against poverty

When mud begrimed faces make its gesture

The dark lines of sorrow covering their wrinkled smile

Tell the taunting tale of civilization.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Unable to hold the load of corroded thoughts

Dreams like autumn leaves are falling down

Rotten ethics eaten by the worms of debacle

Are peeping from the holes in my pocket

The once upheaval of principles insane

Is quietly attacking my existence today.
------------------------------------------------------------------

Lost on the way...

2010-02-21T19:46:00.003+05:30

Words seized, and mouths stitched

Hopes burnt, and hands fettered

Has democracy been redeemed?

Has revolution been justified?

Old mind, and outdated thoughts

All is new to eyes that never opened

Priceless gifts of treachery and turmoil

The never-ending list of martyrs.

Terror and threat, rebuke and retreat

Spinning chairs on spine of skeletals

Suffocated by the whiff of gunpowder

Flowers die before their dreams bloom

Hapless state, and a helpless situation

Where intimidation is independence

When ego of power bull bumps

Crushed are the hopes of poor folks

Reconstruction and reformation

Have bullets ever built a castle?

To the road of drafting new rules

Lost are the architects on the way.

Talking To My Loneliness

2010-02-15T23:01:00.005+05:30

I was captivated in your solitary world the day my destiny freed me from its extravagance. Frustrations and failures, sorrows and sufferings, medicines and meditations followed then. Thank you so much for your arrival in me, for the way you have walked beside me all these 15 months. The instigation of your coming into my life was more of an obligation than a relevance that later transformed into an inclination. I hate to think that you were with me but still I thank you for all that you have explored inside me and taken it out in one or the other form. I never was a thoughtful person and never was an introvert but because of the brunt of your cold isolation, I was able to indulge myself into my not being. I started writing just for the sake of writing (not good though and neither for good but still content). I started looking everyone with skeptical eyes which I think I should have done long before. I became too selfish suddenly and I am very happy to be. I finally could see that I had a family, and many regrets to the past. I stopped drinking but started profuse smoking just to overlook your presence. I could finally see the specks of dust layered on the books of my shelf, my good old friends who were sleeping unnoticed in hope of my revival one day. Thank you so much Camus and Kafka, Gorky and Dostoevsky for waiting me all these years.

I hate to think that you were with me but I confess that I had started liking you. I tried to avoid you by diverting myself to some abstract paintings hung on the walls of my room but you were there also, telling me off from inside the frames. I tried to ignore you by busying myself on the clicks of google and facebook but my slow ADSL connection didn’t allow it again, kudos to Nepal Telecom. There were times when suicidal tendency evoked me but then you were there again to convince me a big ‘no’. The DVD’s of Visual Studio and SQL Server lying in the cabinet were laughing at the dreams of an unsuccessful software engineer. My HP Notebook could hardly give a break from your company nor could the old melodies stored on the chip of my new Corby Pro. The vacant face of letters marked on the heaps of certificates and achievements I had once earned were laughing at a loser’s defeat and only you comforted me of the loss I had incurred. You were always vigilant on your duty. At all these times, only a thing that could keep you free from me was my Alvanz Guitar but it wasn’t meant for all day and long, again you were there clasping me with your intangible claws. I many times had tried to free myself from your mean quietness but was left with an unusual submission. You didn’t leave me, not even when I was talking to her. Some translations and articles kept me away from you for a time being but at the end of the day, you were standing there tall again with your insane smile making me uncomfortable and irritable. With you by my side, I was never alone.

After all this, I now think that your arrival in my life was for a reason. Though you have changed me completely, more badly from surface but meaningful and fruitful beneath, your loudness was never inaudible, your harshness was always filled with learning. You have taught me to live once again and spread the wings of hopes. The sleepless nights you gifted me nevertheless loaded dreams in me. You gave irritations, frustrations and negations only to experience and overcome it. Now I am free from all those psychosomatic elements disturbing me now and then and want you to be with me forever but unfortunately you also are not there anymore, leaving me behind with my purpose only. I am now trying to pull out all the stops to reach it.

Stages of Life

2010-01-28T16:24:00.008+05:30

Stage I (HOPE)

A seedling once thrown carelessly

After thousands of years

Sprouted into a beautiful plant

Where pleasant flowers of my dreams

Bloomed like I'd yearned for so long.

Stage II (STRUGGLE)

The yacht of life flowing random

With uneven tides of thunderstorm

The dark night engulfing

My destination with its fiery convolutions

Finally reaching the shores of void.

Stage III (EXISTENCE)

The heat of battlefield

After a long war

Still breathes the cool air of peace

Besieged long before

With hopes alive though.

Stage IV (END)

Life is very short

Whispered that old tree standing

Aimlessly for thousands of years

One day, it fell down

Really! Life's too short

Like my unfurnished dreams.

(These pieces of poetries have already been published independently. I just compiled them to make a meaningful single.)

The Guide: Revisited

2010-01-16T15:42:00.001+05:30

I was wandering through the narrow lanes of Bagbazar (and dirty obviously) when a sadhu gesticulating his weird demeanours came towards me. I was afraid to see him because I was told that they rob you of all your senses but fortunately, the sadhu went passed by me and it was when I sighed a breath of relief. A little far, I was encirlced by a queer feeling of how these sadhus had been in their childhood and adolescent days. Were they sadhus by birth or some hefty circumstances triggered this spiritual transformation? And yes, I remembered the railway guide, Raju.

I found the answer in the review of TIME which read, “The Guide floats as gently as a lily pad on the surface of Indian life and yet suggests the depth beneath. It manages to describe a saint who is neither born nor made but simply happens, almost like the weather.” It was only last weekend while removing some old papers I happened to get sight of the 39^th reprint of my long lost reading ‘The Guide’. I don’t pretty remember the number of times I have read this book but I can definitely tell that I have watched it only once and that also many years before during my stay in India when the only channel of the time, Doordarshan-I had aired it in its weekly dose of movies. At that time, I didn’t know that this 1965 blockbuster was based on R.K. Narayan’s award-winning novel. I got the original script only ten years after, when I happened to find a road-side second hand(more correctly, third hand) book vendor put it under a stack of old magazines on the streets of New Road.

‘The Guide’ received the Sahitya Academy Award in 1961 and four years later, ‘Guide’ bagged seven filmfare awards. The critically acclaimed novel with its excellence is a magnum opus in the world of literature and Guide, a movie of its kind, is a masterpiece of the Indian film industry. The introduction published in the 1994 reprint explains the greatness of this brilliant work of art. The railway Raju is a disarmingly corrupt tourist guide who lives by his wits and falls in love with a beautiful dancer. More by chance than skill, he seduces her away from her husband, a lonely writer who is obsessed with local rock-carvings, and transforms her into a celebrity courted by wealthy and influential dignitaries wherever she performs. Raju makes and loses a fortune, finds himself in jail, and – through a series of hilarious, ironic circumstances – becomes one of India’s great holy men. The history of his success and unexpected fame has all the excitement of a suspense story, told with Narayan’s customary tolerance and delightful humour. At the same time, it raises many profound and disturbing questions. These textures of human nature have been brilliantly portrayed in the visual rendition of the novel and the justice given by Dev Anand to R.K. Narayan’s character has been complemented by the soothing melody of S.D. Burman which still leaves us sing along the libretto of Shailendra.

Even after 50 years of its first publication, ‘The Guide’ is still new in its form and The New York Times Book Review thus had some verses of appreciation in store for this opus- “The latest of R.K. Narayan’s pensive comedies is a brilliant accomplishment… In the first pages of The Guide, we recognize the charity, the unstartled comprehension, and we settle down to a gracious but knowledgeable evening.”

In the year 1985…

2010-01-11T22:05:00.002+05:30

I have been grumbling in my writings for quite some time now and it seems to have made me look cynical towards life, towards what I write. Changing the course of letters this time, I hope I won’t sound judgmental. Time and again, the best chapters of bygone days, nostalgia has attacked me hauling me to a period of time when all the hoof marks of memory appear vague. Even the chronicles of those periods have been flushed out of my head but this is one of that can never be over and done, this is my story of first love. Having passed the entry exam, I had just been admitted to Montessori One in Holy Cross School. It was back in 1985 and I was just three years old. Her name was Sushmita Mukherjee, a beautiful Bengali girl and I was her proud class mate. I don’t remember so much of other things, but the break time was when our love would take its deeper roots. It was the time when she always used to share her tiffin with me and many times, my parents had caught her feeding me with her hand. Our love bloomed in a childish innocence; her love, true like a dream and my falling for her as natural as a breeze. It was more of an acquaintance in the clear which my family making fun of me later had translated as love. Love it was indeed and intimacy but of our purity, of our simplicity, and of our juvenile affinity. I don’t have any idea of where and what she must be doing now. After completing our Montessori, she left for some other part of India and I joined St. Thomas. We have never seen or talked to each other since. Of an age that nothing can be recalled, I still remember her chubby face smiling at me and her handful of morsel moving towards me. Years have gone by and life has put us to different edges; many things have changed and many forgotten but still when I have to think of her, a blur image clearly shines on my mind and I hear Tim McGraw singing-

“I worked so hard for that first kiss

And a heart don’t forget something like that

Like an old photograph

Time can make a feeling fade

But the memory of a first love

Never fades away.”

A Writer's Perturbation

2010-01-07T21:22:00.002+05:30

After years of scribbling in a scrap and throwing it in the trash, I don’t know why I have still been writing. The trash can is full of my aggravation, my failure; even the recycle bin of my conscience cannot salvage my humility. But I still write with a hope that one day I won’t have any chip on my shoulder. My perception of writing is against those factors that babble insignificant stories of the social order. My norm of writing has an association with the progression and pragmatism of society and life. My impression of writing is a demarcation between the upper crust and the subjugated class. My reflection of writing has a message, a story to tell of the everyday life. These must perhaps be the reasons why my writing breathes its life only in a litter. My pen never belched out the ink of treachery, my brush never stroke the contours of deception, the verdict of my principles never allowed me to haggle for pleasures and my writing always followed the esteem of my being. I was never taught to write for penny, power or praise unless it is compassionate to the sentiments of the laypeople. I won’t trade it against a meagre lump of comfort no matter how long these contaminated feelings transport my letters to a stack of garbage.

Complaints Unjustified...

2010-01-04T10:48:00.006+05:30

Though we Nepalis till now have adequately learnt to deal with every problems, we still can’t remain without grudging. Why do we forget that we are one of the world’s poorest countries? There were many complaints registered in his psyche overnight. The load-shedding snag, the mobile network, bad roads, traffic mismanagement, increasing population, disturbing pollution, political instability, corruption, worsened educational sector, no employment, price-hike, no social security, growing criminal activities, and the list went on till he finally concluded with nothing going right. It was the day of his flight. He flew away with a new hope to a nation where such complaints sounded like a myth leaving behind a helpless nation of his belief which he thought would never prosper in any way and even if it does, it would take hundreds of years. Salute to his thoughts of finding all the odds he found in Nepal met in that foreign land though he didn’t care to work there as a substandard labour (even if it is believed that work is never small but not for Nepali mentality).

A year passed by and one day he called me up. “It’s very hard to work here, no night, no day. Though the problems and scarcities we face in Nepal sounds like an illusory tale here but whatsoever they say, our country is ours. We can never be a friend to this nation.” I never heard from him since that day. One day, a news broke into my ears. He has been diagnosed with cancer, a throat cancer. He has returned from Australia and has been admitted to the Bharatpur Medical Hospital. I was wondering how he got affected to the throat after all he was never into smoking or something that disturbed his wind-pipe. This was my presumption but the reality was in itself perilous.

I ran to see him. His once cheerful face hid behind the quilt of agony clearly exhibited the dark lines of sorrow and tanned marks of hopelessness. “When did you return? You didn’t inform me! Everything will go fine, don’t worry.” No sooner had I said this, he started crying bitterly. His swollen eyes clearly depicted the frequencies of his cries. Seeing him, my tears also couldn’t stop its way. He had gone too feeble and his hope of conquering every odds now seemed like a fairy tale to me. He is fighting for his life, for his existence in the darkness of this helpless nation.

I pray for his better health (if possible in any case) and wish he gets enough strength to fight with the ailment; who knows if a miracle happens!

After Many Days...

2009-12-31T09:31:00.002+05:30

After many days, I am trying to get my words done but the stumbling blocks laid on my path since a period of time has anesthetised my mind-set to such a magnitude of obscurity that writing seems really impossible for me nowadays. Still, I can’t remain immune towards the significance of this day, the day that marks an important event in the calendar of my life, not because it’s a New Year eve (though it keeps some special place in my heart and have some beautiful memories to share with) but because of an encounter with the God of my belief.

I remember this day last year, struggling in the hospital bed fighting with my woes and it hasn’t got any better still but this fateful day mesmerizes my nerve with bliss amidst all those hurdles and tribulations. The feeble mind of a man with broken limbs and hopes can never point it that way and never was it my aspiration either but the destiny finally had something good for me after all those brunts of bad shower. My agnostic school of thought was shaken by advent of the God of belief that I never believed in... my God of faith, my essence of living, my articulation of existence. A year has passed by; 31st December was no more than a day of celebration for me before that but now it’s a day of prayers. I thank my destiny for putting me into such big troubles only to let me understand the happiness of small things. This metamorphosis of convictions and conventions will truly give a new course to my hopes.

HAPPY NEW YEAR to all!!!

Some Poetries-IV

2009-12-15T10:21:00.001+05:30

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All troubles and miseries

Looking at you

Changes into happiness

Are into blackmagic?

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When earthquake of misfortune

Strikes the epicentre of fate

What remains only is hope.

The tremor of your leaving behind

Didn’t even spare my hopes

Drowning me into oblivion.

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A tiny bud

With its colourful innocence

Swinging along the breeze

And gently soaked with the fluid of energy

Is growing with sun to absorb its confrontation.

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What is the result of one plus one?

Everyone says its two but I say its one only.

For me, everything is single from the day

You left

And everything alone

Like my deserted heart.

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बागबजार: एक पोट्रेट

2009-12-11T20:33:00.000+05:30

बाटो छेउमा

राती फ्याँकेको वासी फोहोरको दुर्गन्धसँगै

बागबजारले बिहानीको आँखा खोल्छ ।

रातको नशा अझै बाँकी छ?

नाक छोप्दै कुनै स्लम बस्तीमा हिँडेका ‘मर्निङ वाकरहरू’

फोहोरको डङ्गुरमा

आफूले राती फ्याँकेको मोबाइलको चार्जर खोज्दैछन् ।

कलेज जाने उत्ताउला ठिटीहरुलाई

चुरोटको सर्को तान्दै जब जिस्काउँछन् उन्मत्त ठिटाहरू

हाँसोको फोहोराले कुनै ‘कमेडी फिल्म’को ‘सिक्वेन्स’ तयार गर्दै हुन्छ ।

फोहोरमा जिन्दगी खोज्दै बालकहरू

‘डेन्ड्राइट’को नशामा जब बाटो काट्छन्

सुरक्षाको ‌डण्डाले बिथोलिएका प्रदर्शनकारीजस्तै

चिल्ला गाडीका हरनले तितरबितर तिनीहरूको भीड

कुनै गाडीमा कुँदिएको छ- “बाल सरोकार केन्द्र” ।

‘सटर’हरू खुल्छन्- चिया पसलमा भीड

अखबारमा छापिएको हिमानीको ‘प्याराग्लाइडिङ्ग’ को दृष्यमा

शुरु हुन्छ पारसका कर्तुतहरूको बेलिबिस्तार

एन्जेलिना र ब्राड पीटको गफमा मस्त ‘प्लस टु जेनेरेसन’

सन्तानको बारेमा चिन्तित अभिभावक

तरकारी किनेर फकर्दै गरेकी गृहणी

कोही इराकमा मारिएका नेपालीहरूको बारेमा

कोही हिजो हेरेको सिनेमाको प्रसङ्ग जोड्छन् ।

पुरानो कोटमा सजिएको एउटा कवि बाटो काट्छ

“एउटा कविता पुर्याउनु छ, पत्रिकाको लागि”

स्कुल जाने विधार्थीहरूको हूलबाट

कन्डक्टरको एकोहोरो चिच्याइमा अफिस जानेहरू

बस भित्रको ठेलमठेलमा आफ्ना गन्तव्य खोज्दैछन् ।

डान्स सिक्नेहरूको ‘कजरारे’सँगै

सरगमका आलापमा

नयाँ फिल्मको ‘स्क्रिप्ट’ खोज्दै निर्देशक

नायक-नायिकाको बलिउड गफ र सपना साँच्दै

अडिसनको लागि हतारिदै गरेको एक हुल ।

“नयाँ किताबको प्रुफरिडिङ्ग बाँकी छ,

प्रेसमा पठाउन हतार भइसक्यो”

पाण्डुलिपी च्यापेर प्रकाशन गृहमा छिर्छ लेखक

दुइवटा भरियाहरू स्याँस्याँ गर्दै उक्लदैछन्

एउटा भवनको माथिल्लो तल्लामा दुइओटा अल्मारी बोकेर

रातीको घरचुवाले ‘स्टामिना’ कमजोर बनाइदिएछ

गाडीको हरन, मान्छेको चाप

कोही काममा, कोही अनावश्यक

हल्ला र हाँसो, रोदन र आक्रोस

यसरी नै चल्दैछ बागबजारको दिनचर्या ।

विदेश जाने रंगीन सपनाका साथ

‘आइएलटिस’ र ‘टीओइएफएल’ कुँदिएको बोर्डमा हान्निएका युवाहरू

कोही ट्युसन, कोही कम्प्युटर क्लासको हाताभित्र हतारिँदै छन् ।

नारा जुलुस, बन्द हड्तालको मुहान

विधार्थी नेताहरुको तात्तातो भाषण

पुलिसले डाडमा सेकेको लाठीसँगै

तितरबितर भएर गल्लीमा पसेको भीड

एम्बुलेन्सको साइरनले कोलाहल चिर्दै

‘पल्सर’को टायरमुनि आएका एक वृद्धालाई ओसारेको बेला

कलेज युनिफर्ममा ठाँटिएका ठिटीहरु

व्वाइफ्रेन्डसंग भोलीको प्रोग्रामका बारेमा

छलफल गर्दै घर फर्कदैछन् ।

छेउमा बज्न थालेको गानाको आवाजले

साँझ ढल्कन लागेको संकेत दिन्छ

क्रमशः दिनभरिको थकाई मेट्न तिनै सामान्य मान्छेहरु

कोही घर, कोही भट्टीतिर लाग्दा

तिनै चुपचाप आँखाहरू अब असामान्य बनिदिन्छन् ।

डान्सबारमा लागेको गाडीको लामसँगै ठिटीहरुको नृत्यले

रातको मदहोसतामा रौनक थप्दैछ

पुलिसको गाडी बाहिर पार्किङ्ग गरिएको छ

कुनै भिआइपीको प्रतिक्षामा बसेजस्तै ।

पैसा र रक्सीको नशामा लठ्ठ तिनै सामान्य मान्छे

बाध्यताको शिकार बनाएर कति चेलीहरूको

अस्मिता लुट्न असामान्य बन्न थाल्छन् ।

रातको मध्य प्रहर पछि

क्रमशः बागबजार सुत्छ, उस्तै दिनको पर्खाइमा

केही नयाँपनको आशमा, फेरि हिँडिइरहन्छन्

उही पाइलाहरु ।

Getting Started: A Literary Journey

2009-12-09T17:01:00.000+05:30

It is not long before when I realised the truth that writing has an immense strength, a power to hold thousand hearts at a time like an apostle addressing a congregation, such a crave that no hungry belly gets relinquished even by foods, an apex of satisfaction that one gets only once in a life-time, an immortal sense of freedom though grinded hard in the everyday factory of life. A regression in quest of knowledge, a movement started within me the day I was not really prepared for what I afterwards figured out, preparations were never needed. It was instant and natural like the sparkling of a thunderbolt, so much feelings encircled me that I came to know how Laxmi Prasad Devkota could have written Kunjani in a whole-night, a thunderbolt of mind-set. I could have written even more but the only difference was, those feelings were very raw, not even suitable to have been poured in a scrap with dirty inks. They were teasers, exciters to encourage the sleeping ‘next-me’ inside me and my mind was asking for food, a food of thoughts, a food of matured conscience to fill the so far empty brain dying of a never-ending hunger.

Ten years have slipped by but the quest going through many ups and downs is still meandering around, the writing though looking bit matured comparatively in certain groups is still crude. I remember my first attempt, a literary-beginning when I used to read the English verses and translate them into Nepali and vice-versa. The instigation was whatever, but it helped an ample in learning rather than in writing. Many might have felt the complex of when they get started, I also underwent but it was late before I accepted the reality that shaping feelings in a paper was a very hard task.

There was a time when my Nepali was very poor though I am not still good with it and this proved to be the greatest boon for me to enter into the world of literature. If I’d been an average going in Nepali, I would have never dealt the massive books but luckily, my weakness at this moment of life turned out to be the greatest help for me. Our Nepali Sir often used to tell me practise reading and writing, there were many times I got humiliated, demoralized in class only because of my ill-knowledge in Nepali. The course for me was so tough to be dealt with and I used to feel very helpless. It was that time I really took Nepali studying seriously, as a challenge and started a thorough reading and writing of Nepali language and literature. Within a short span of six months, improvement in the ignorant me could be clearly seen, as faint traces of maturity had sprouted in the writing. And about a year after, I must have started writing nicely that in the last days of my school, I got a big inspiring compliment from the same Sir and it was that he wanted to keep my note-copy with him for reference to the junior students.

Incidently, ‘SATHI’ itself was the first magazine to publish my article, nearly eight years ago.

The gesture though was a small leap, was so inspring that it made me devote even more into the literature. My first days of learning comprised reading novels and stories. I used to borrow those books from school library and some of them, I used to buy myself sparing my pocket money. It was a passion that I never wanted to come out of. Then after, I could comment somehow on those compositions myself and so afterwards, I enjoyed reading critics, how the evaluation of someone’s composition is done! I here learnt that one should go with every aspects of literature even though being a special sect writer, they need to know how feelings wind up in other forms and what can be other means to deduce them! Poetry was the sect I never liked until I started with Devkota, Bhupi, Rimal, etc. I, at this time, coming out of the translation phase had started writing my own compositions. Proper evaluation was required and then I found that my family members all were into literature. Then I needn’t go anywhere, I found a whole lot of books in my own home and as the evaluators, my family members themselves. I used to write and show them, the response used to hurt me. I thought I couldn’t be a good writer but I didn’t know then, those comments were merely for my improvement. Still I write and I know I don’t write good! The only change now and then is that now, I can judge my own compositions and this has helped me judge other’s compositions also irrespective of unpolished verdict then.

Along the quest, what I think I missed was philosophy, the backbone of literature. Then came the involvement of philosophy in my learning phase. A small pond of enlightment what I, at beginning, used to think literature actually was, ultimately turned into a huge ocean of infinite and unlike erudition. The entire tree of literature was based on the roots of philosophy and still I find many so-called good writers missing the philosophical intercepts and regarding their works a model of realism, progressism and many more not knowing the fact that these “isms” are all the tints of philosophy itself.

Knowledge is infinite and the more you study, the more you want to study. Writing is not so easy as it appears easy to the non-writers. There lie lots of dedication and determination, however good feelings can’t be expressed nicely and whatever nice expressions don’t possess good feelings. This is where expressions and feelings though seeking one another have a propensity of inconsistency and it is the point where one should be very vigilant, the presentation of ideas should be done so artistically that it requires a thorough and indepth knowledge and a good understanding of literature, a powerful grip of and inclination towards social life as well as a subtle creative fictional power and a sound presence of mind. Literature is present in everyone’s life, the life we undergo everyday and the life we dream of undergoing. Infact every literature is a story of one of those lives. We only need to carve those lives into words artisitically with a perfect blend of feelings and expressions. The tragedy here is those who can understand life better and have keen interpretation of their own existence can present it more efficaciously and they are those who have so far been able to write true stories of our lives successfully unlike those who don’t write are missing the presentation though their everyday lives are the inputs to literature, they are the artists who play almost every episodes of life but never improve acting, they possess all those true stories of life but never script them out! And it is only because they are unknown to it.

To the novices of literature (what I am also), I think learning is necessary and the most important factor is learning for betterment. Whom are you writing for and what are its consequences? Literature without knowledge and a definite objective is worthless. Language is no barrier in writing, it is the expansion of expressions to the understandable masses. Devkota and Sama had high influences of English Literature and our great story writer Guru Prasad Mainali had influences of Indian Literature. Reading world-literature, in different languages and of different situations, helps to reveal the life and literary styles of those provinces.

Then after what we need is to practise writing, writing in a sense that it appears to be rectitude, hints are there to be taken from the learnt literatures. And then finally come out with a gist that should contain the various intercepts of philosophy, it should be useful to the readers as well as to the masses all over and also to the writers. Literature is a mirror of society, it should reflect the smiles and tears of humanly emotions. A good literature then exists when it reveals the feelings from the very low dominant life to the highly dignified life and with not only the whim of happiness but also a warm fragrance of their sweat, it should contain the story of everyday life of the general populace, as pure, as true as the lullaby of a mother. So read and practise writing literature. It has an immense strength, a power to hold thousand hearts at a time like an apostle addressing a congregation, such a crave that no hungry belly gets relinquished even by foods, an apex of satisfaction that one gets only once in a life-time, an immortal sense of freedom though grinded hard in the everyday factory of life.

Some Poetries-III

2009-11-20T19:24:00.001+05:30

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I wrote a story about a boy

Who was always happy and carefree.

The story was short and a happy-ending!

I folded the pages and placed it under my pillow

Morning, I again opened the pages to complete it

But the ending was already written,

Vacant, void as those white sheet of papers,

having faint traces of happy letters written yesterday.

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I asked my past, "Who am I?"

Past replied, "Ask with your present."

I asked my present, "Who am I?"

Present replied, "Ask with my future."

I asked with my future also, "Who am I?"

Future remained silent where,

Past and Present were laughing at me.

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A seedling once thrown carelessly,

After thousands of years

Sprouted into a beautiful plant

Where pleasant flowers of my dreams

Bloomed like I'd yearned for so long.

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The yatch of life flowing random

With the uneven tides of thunderstorm

The dark night engulfing

My destination with its fiery convolutions

Finally reaching the shores of void.

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A New Dawn

2009-11-15T19:58:00.001+05:30

The lustre of light has dispersed, its magnificent hues making the decorated lounge on the stage look vibrant, where Anmol and Sujata rendering the shades and sensations of their characters are completely lost in the boundaries of their art.

‘Let disaster reign the world… let the sky get ruptured… and the earth ripped… even if the sun loses its existence, I am still ready to take everything for you, just for your sake.’

‘No dear… how… how is our union possible?… such a lofty wall of society exists between us… this great mountain of riches stands stubbornly between your family, shimmering brilliantly with the splendours of prosperity and my family, entangled frigidly in the swirl of poverty.’

‘… this love… true love… genuine love… affectionate love… our love… will bloom like flowers in the garden of fortune, where other radiant flowers will behold the very being of our bond. Soaking in the shower of that ecstasy, we will back each other in every ups and downs of life; smearing the colours of that joy, we will overcome every hardship that hinders our subsistence.’

The clattering of claps covered the hall… but even in that distinguished sound of admiration, Anmol today felt that his performance looked simulated, not natural as before. In other words, his romantic reflections with Sujata today seemed insignificant. However, he knew that the history of his past had made the acting of his present look lively in the eyes of spectators. Some youths started bounding and whistling uncontrolled. More of its drive than its deluge has brought Tsunami in the hearts of the viewers… they were drifted by its flow to an isle of bliss.

The curtain is again raised and this time, with the introduction of artists. All artists are standing in a queue with their hands joined. The announcer starts the acquaintance. The spectators, with thunderous clapping, produce sounds of appraisal. Finally is the turn of the protagonists. The viewers cannot refrain themselves from coming to the stage, hauling, embracing and congratulating Anmol for his outstanding staging.

Anmol, engaging himself in tape-recorded answers of constant ‘thank-yous’, could hardly afford time and opportunity to speak anything more.

“You are such a fine actor!”

“Thank you.”

“Congratulations… your acting has portrayed a real picture of true love.”

“Thank you.”

“Your performance has given a new course to the theatrical history.”

“Thank you.”

Anmol, thus held up with such conversations, is thrilled at the success of the drama and the unlimited failures inside him dissolve into oblivion for a time being. After the ending of drama and bidding adieu to the stage, his restrained obligation, ready to assimilate into his actual life, comes out in silence like a night-prowler.

Anmol is measuring the steps to his destination, his rented room. The road is full of activity as always. People are going here and there … colliding sometimes with the crowd of people is very usual… but he is walking, with his reality and responsibility getting along.

Anmol, infected by the virus of acting, became a playwright in hope of getting roles in the drama… above it, to direct the drama himself.

Newspapers and magazines featured his plays with phrases of appreciation.

The rattling sound of claps filled him with satisfaction. But the momentary contentment faded in the wink of an eye when he collides with anyone in that crowd.

Vehicles ply on the road, resulting in a serious traffic halt. But that jam has never stopped Anmol’s vehicle from going ahead. He is deprived of luxury. He doesn’t have an apartment of his own amidst those towering buildings… those deluxe restaurants also do not converge with his convenience. The pursuit of his reality plays hide-and-seek with the sufferings of his destiny.

The solitude of the damp room is waiting for him. The truth of cooking meal and eating welcomes him. The expensive price of rice and vegetables scoffs at his cheap life and describes vividly his adversities in one way or the other. Still, Anmol has learnt to survive in scarcity. He has excelled in being satisfied with what he has… but also, today…

He does not feel like cooking or doing anything. Little before, a great hero was standing in front of his impulsive spectators. But now, that hero has all of a sudden changed into a disturbed, fugitive-like man. The sound of isolation drowns the turmoil of the stage earlier.

Sujata is the heroine of his drama. But it would be better to say, she is the heroine of his life. They love each other deeply. Sujata too was brought up in misery and is good at understanding Anmol’s obligations.

That is why the love-scene in their drama also used to come out with its flying colours, its natural tinge. The spectators never came to know if it was acting or a reality.

“Anmol… I’ve got a marriage proposal from a rich family.”

“What are you saying?”

“We embraced poverty… now I want to embrace prosperity.”

“Meaning…”

“I am getting married to that man, so this is probably my last play.”

“A last one on this stage but a first one of your life, isn’t it?”

“Don’t turn your nose up at me.”

“What better can such a heart give?”

“Let’s become good friends. Let’s overlook the bygone days and begin a new one.”

An end of today’s drama such thoughts roil in Anmol’s heart. He tries to sleep but is unable to calm his turbulent mind. Like Sujata, sleep also has abandoned him.

Curse this life! Why should I suffer in the memories of Sujata when she is busy painting the portraits of her new life? No, I’ll also find a new… new life… The curtain has not dropped yet.

When did the sleep come, he doesn’t know. In his dream, a sweet dawn beckons.

Some Poetries-II

2009-11-12T15:04:00.001+05:30

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Too many people

Too many questions

No Answers

Is it politics?

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So easy it was

To make people laugh at other's misery

Now it is so hard

To stop people from laughing at his own misery.

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Sometime ago

I was hallucinated

I didn't recognize anyone,

I was throwing words at them and snatching hopes from them.

A flash and

I found myself in the streets

Those people throwing hopes at me and snatching words from me.

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The heat of the battlefield

After a long war

Still breathes the cool air of peace

Besieged long before.

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My Childhood Vacation

2009-11-09T14:21:00.000+05:30

After hearing about our great grandma’s death, I suddenly remembered my childhood days when our winter vacation would transport us to our grandma’s farmhouse from our schools in Sikkim. I used to run, without much haste to reach home, just to find her sitting on the terrace of one of our fields when others would direct their way to the house. I used to return home in the evening fastened on her back with sweets in my hands, only ending up to quarrel with Uppa for not letting her have some. I was very much familiar to that place, where Uppa, Robin and I have many times tried to climb the trees just to pluck a mango or a bunch of hog plum and bruised ourselves. The sixty-five years old historical farm-well that witnesses all of our birth was our favourite play ground. Running in the open paddy fields where golden seed-pods swaying in the mild gust of breeze would indicate its time of harvest; boarding the back of buffaloes and splashing muddy water all over was our diurnal, when one day a buffalo sprung up and nearly ditched Sanjoo di and Pravin mama. I still remember Rikesh da with his newly made catapult aiming the innocent sparrows, when I would assist him by providing pebbles for his weapon only of fear that he would thrash me, otherwise I was more into handling a non-violent front. Ramu Baje’s rebuke after finding us getting into the fields trampling the new sprouts still tingles my ears, how Ramu Baje dug the potatoes for us and we baked it in a hearth along with tiny rice-grains and enjoyed the childish bash. Oh! Ramu Baje is also too old now to look after the fields. Jageshor’s Baje grudging at having found one of his fishes missing, which Rikesh Da had stolen quietly and later I was accused of having it done. Alas! Jageshwor Baje is no more. I recollect the times when we used to rest behind the dense bamboo thicket (famous ‘baas ghari’) where I had shared my first puff of cigarette with Robin and wander into the fields, where our footmarks have left an indelible imprint on the surface of memory. Uppa and I one day accidently set fire on our storehouse when we were imitating to smoke with a jute straw and I finally took the charge of it only on Ganga Aunt’s sweet cajoling and how grandma had defended me off the situation else I would have been beaten out of life. I remember how grandma used to take my support whenever I made a mistake; afterall I was her dearest one. It was one day when Rikesh Da was digging a space on the ground with a spade and accidently the spade took its way to my feet leaving me seriously injured, I just made a lame-excuse of a buffalo having stepped on my feet only to avoid Rikesh da’s thrashings later. I hadn’t disclosed the secret for long until few years before when I happened to talk to grandma about the scar on my feet. After two months of our restless actions, our vacation would be over. The time of returning back to our schools after vacation would be the bitterest part of my life. I used to go and hide in the fields just to avoid my journey but I never succeeded. My grandma’s eyes watered with love hugging me tight and my eyes full of tears hating to leave her, when our guardians would be pulling me along. I miss all those days…

And today also, when I get blown by the wind of nostalgia, I turn the album of my memories and bookmark the pictures of those days when life was such a fun. And nowadays when I play FarmVille in Facebook, the picture of our farm-house shines in my mind, a perfect village-life of my imagination.

Some Poetries-I

2009-11-07T10:52:00.001+05:30

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Tattered and battered

Lies the soul amidst

Marshy highlands

With palm wide-open showing

The life-line so long.

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The dusty eyes wandering around

Sticks on a clean heart

And tomorrow,

The dusty heart reads

Pain in those clean eyes.

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Life is very short

Whisphered that old tree standing

Aimlessly for thousands of years

One day, it fell down

Really, life's too short

Like my unfurnished dreams.

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They said they'd protect us

And they really protected us.

They said they'd give us shelter

And they really gave us shelter.

Merely, protection from happiness

And a shelter of misery.

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Demise of a History

2009-11-06T12:55:00.001+05:30

It was a gloomy day but not Sunday. I was paralysed in my hospital bed. I didn’t know whether it was the pain of my fractures or of my instinct predicting even worse of matters. My great grandma passed early in the morning leaving behind a history that will be recollected for the rest of my life.

I was brought up in her shadow. She used to wake up in the middle of the night just to find whether I was hungry or not and used to serve me with ghee, beaten rice and sugar. I used to accompany her to the rice-mill just to get a packet of biscuits and a big lump of molasses. I used to follow her to the land revenue office just to find a tea-shop selling fried papads on the way. Once I got drowned in our pond, where jute was harvested and since that day during rainy seasons, she used to tie my leg to a stave on a bed-side incase I might follow her to the fields and get drowned again. She was an ocean of love and I too loved her very much and still love her and will always do. There were many times I committed serious mistakes but she was always there ready to argue on my behalf. Last time when I visited her, her poor eyesight mistook me as Rikesh da and the warmth of her weak, wrinkled palms fondly caressing my cheeks couldn’t stop tears in my eyes. She had gone too feeble!

The news of her demise reached my ears very late, after six-seven months and credit goes to Buwa for whispering with mom in Newari but clearly mentioning about her death otherwise everyone was planning to conceal it for more sometime. The news left me dumb-founded; I again almost took the same condition as of when I had been admitted to the hospital for the first time after my accident. Everything has now come to normal but the vacant space created by her absence is beyond words. I still can’t believe that the next time I visit our farm house, I won’t be seeing her. She won’t be there to greet me with her unrestricted love. Fortunately, I was the last one to meet her among her descendants. Few days after meeting her, I met with the accident and few days after my accident, she passed away.

It’s been a year after that and this is a special tribute to one of the most influential icon of my life, a history of our lineage. May your soul rest in peace ma!

A Dream That Could Come True

2009-11-05T07:52:00.000+05:30

A place full of love and solace, a heaven adequately woven with warmth and tenderness, a life devoid of strife and a 'better earth' with dearth of exploitations and discriminations .... I landed a miracle, a strange place where solitude had its own hustles and bustles of ownness. Repugnant to this gloomy ditch of glitches, beyond the hazards of an offensive life, aloof of gregariousity and its unwanted impacts, I tacked a beautiful world of sound human values and thoughts, where color of fortunes painted a life, lost somewhere, ...it was better to be lost than never to be.

My legs traversed the bewilderment of the place ... using my bird-like autonomy and self-dignity. The heart-alluring geography could make anyone dive in its ocean of contentment and drink its fluid of beauty and absorb the warmth of its existence. Big rocky mountains and at the same time, flat terrrains seemed to forecast a big political contradiction within it, green vegetations, tall trees, fragrant flowers and indistinct murmur of waterfalls made that place resemble a heavenly garden ... a brilliant specimen of nature.

One of those God's abode, like those sacred places told by my Grandma in her stories during my lullaby days ... it was a part of heaven dropped in. I went for reconcilement, curtailment of time was racing against my aspirations. A man wasn't there, he was a society; I wasn't there, we were; with regards to one another's feeling, leading one another's labor of warm affection, adorning the tunes of justice and equality, the eyes of aheading childrens, youths and oldies were glowing brightly with a beam of self-glory. However the weather was, change of season couldn't wash the warmth of peoples, a thousand years past existence of cordiality.

The angelic abode was charming, giving delicacy of equal opportunities for no barrier of races existed there, no castles of castes figured there, no one was so superior for anyone to feel inferior, no one was so dignified to be placed at the shrine of luxury or so small to be left working at the mine of destitution. An epitome of Buddha seemed to end the tyranny of thousands of despotic Ashoka, smiling the air of quietude. There was an educative punishment system against prejudice, on the side of justice and people banished away from the materialistic world and rashed by the communal inferiority could even forget their sentiments of depression, whim of failure and march ahead with a belief of hope, trust for bravery and desire for boldness, inevitably giving invitation on its tranquil dais.

A colorful butterfly tempting a child, I was lured by the waves of beauty; spreading the feather by a dancing peacock, I stretched my wings of sovereignity and tarnished my dirt with the serene bleaches of "a never-ending joy". Feeling started boiling inside me, a reason was absent to pour it. I forwarded with a notion of development, scrutinizing its every nooks and corners to reveal the secret realisation of its subsistence ... in a Holmeish act. As a result, I got justice/equality, levelled opportunities in its progress, engraved with diversities of life, that place was a beaten track of inspiration to the human-beings to walk along the path of progress. Those milieu, nature and societies turned to be immortal in my conscience.

I was brainstormed and overwhelmed with the whimiscal notion of making our world the world I've been seeing since a couple of hours. Could we change our land this way? Had we been a part of this society? A revolutionary social change was required and no sooner was I remembering the sensitive period of struggle-trial, a road heading destination where history had no credits to complain for, I was prickled from back. I turned and it was my mom, "Get up, how long do you sleep?" I was mute, all those glimpses were a dream. I was opened to my reality, preserved those scenic ideas, made my heart strong, lifted my courage .... a dream that could come true, ... the rays of sun were peeping me from the window pane, I went out in quest of light.

Life from a top angle

2009-11-03T16:22:00.001+05:30

Human beings have become wild/wild, who prefer to live in barbarism

Spatters the arrogance of one's victory in the misery of others

Considers one's success in the unhappiness of others

Hurling ember in the garden, bask themselves and warm their bodies.

Is human below or above civilization?

Is he near or too far from intimacy?

Can't be distinguished and thus gets roasted in a cinder

Human beings get targetted to the muzzle of cannons

Hands are chained, but invisible

Legs are fettered, but invisible

Mouth is stitched, but still invisible

Can't be seen but can only be undergone/covered.

Human beings have become wild/ wild, without shape/without scene

Flowers are wringed before they can bloom

Flowers blooming are trampled and made shrunken

Blossomed flowers are thrown in a trash can

Wasting even the seedlings-

In the presumption of establishing another society

Destroying even the seedlings-

In the presumption of making the society developed

Our present society is thus living.

A bullet doesn't distinguish a man and an animal

Makes a single graveyard and never do they separate again

The battle of pride and selfishness –

Is forbidden to be belched out by the pen of literature!

Is forbidden to be broomed by the brush of an artist!!

The tint of life has faded

The colourful rainbow is obliged to emancipate its existence

No sooner a dream has bloomed within it

Restricted it is to ask for a healthy, beautiful and secured life.

Let this life be coloured by the ink of pen

Let the real eyes be opened for our duties and responsibilities

If it is written without confining boundaries/ without any motive

Then where is the blind elephant to walk over?

Can't say- may be on our own fate.

Beware! Let the life be like the world we dream of living,

Like a mighty image where our belief and determination could bloom

Our endeavour, your endeavour, endeavour of all of us.

Together

2009-11-02T14:01:00.001+05:30

Together we go
Into the battlefield of life
Where weapons of hatred
Cut like sharpened knife.

Together we graze
In the meadow of survival
Where grasses of existence
Sprout with many ups and downs.

Together we move
In the forest of struggle
Where beasts of endurance
Roar like thunderstorm.

Together we strive
In the ocean of reminiscence
Where waves of memory
Splash like tidal current.

Together we thrust
In the dungeon of betrayal
Where darkness of solitude
Reigns like a no-moon day.

Together we spread out
In the garden of love
Where flowers of affection
Bloom like youthful lass.

Together we reach
The vine of destiny
Where the fruits of success
Are ripened like early harvest.

In this battle of struggle
In this journey to success
In this moment of love
In this attempt of making life
Have we really been together?

My Beloved

2009-11-02T13:50:00.001+05:30

When I meddle up with things, looking uncertain
When misery attacks like a gang of hooligans
When life is shattered in crumbling pieces
Then those profound eyes come and say,
‘I am with you.’
Oh! How strikingly they stare at me!!

When I am lost within the void of nothingness
When I lose hope to win the war against my sufferings
When fate outshines my existence
Then that enigmatic lip seems to say,
‘I will rescue you.’
Oh! How beautifully they move for me!!

When I am happy with a trifling matter
When I want the world to know of my deeds
When destiny brightens up my ecstasy
Then those anxious ears tend to hear
‘This is for you.’
Oh! How mysteriously they capture my whim!!

When I am in the dark of my mood, gloomy
When things don’t go the way I want it to
When sadness reigns brutally over my fate
Then that delicate nose smells my affliction
‘Everything will go alright.’
Oh! How curiously it sniffs off my emotions!!

When I am happy with what I am
When things don’t come in big packages
When satisfaction overshadows every desire
Then the warmth of that skin makes me feel
‘This is what you are for.’
Oh! How sensational is its clasping my heart!!

With hands stretched, ready to hold me
With feets beside, ready to walk with me
With silence approbation, embraces my existence
My being of real.