Issue –2

Layalama Online Magazine

Quarterly

Nepal Bhasa poetry & prose in English

Volume 1 – Issue 2

15^th. October 2002

Editor:

Pushpa Ratna Tuladhar

(mailto:pushpatuladhar@hotmail.com}

Co-editer:

H.K. Kapali

(mailto:kapalihk@hotmail.com)

Publisher:

Amir Ratna Tamrakar

(mailto:tamrakarar@hotmail.com)

All rights reserved

In this issue

 1.       From the Epic “Sugat Saurav” by late Chittadhar ‘Hridaya”
 2.       Poetry collections – Durga Lal Shrestha, Purna Vaidya, Buddha Sayami, Pratisara Sayami, Bhagat Das, Madhav Mool and Taba Maru
 3.       Short Story (Modern short story in Nepal Bhasa)  – Shattered Dreams (1999) by Laxman Rajbansi
 4.       Essay (Prose) – I cannot sleep by Amir Ratna Tamrakar
 5.       Pahan Chwami (Guest Writers) – A poetry “Winter Vigil” by Franklin Magalhaes, a Brazilian poet, whose mother tongue is Portuguese as guest writer of this issue.

From the Editor’s Desk

LUMBINI

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 The sweet odour of the jasmines

Told us that they too were in bloom;

Or else e might be led to think

That some shrubs were set with gold ear drops.

The whole landscape was redolent

Of blossoms of fruit-bearing trees;

And the endless variety of flowers

Dazzled the eyes with their splendour.

The honeysuckles were lined up

Like anklets of silver bells;

But the scent pervading the air

Revealed the presence of the lotus,

The swallows migrating in autumn

Were flying back by the skyways

Like daughters to their mothers’ homes

For the long-awaited sojourn.

The fluffy young ones of the hares

Were at play, hopping and jumping,

Or were they the beams of the moon

Falling down from heaven in bits?

Many a monkey forming groups

Performed such acrobatic feats

As if they personify

The spirit of agility.

Near here the she-monkeys running past

With their young ones clinging to them;

Out there the male members swinging

Up one branch and down the other.

The newly-clothed bamboo grooves

Swayed and creaked under the gentlest breeze;

And the pines were waving their arms

As if to greet the passerby.

The silver-tongued waters of the stream,

Cool and pure, undefiled and clean,

Flowing along with a murmurous sound,

So delicious to listen to!

The willows standing on each bank

Seemed poised to plant a kiss on it;

But as the wind urged them on,

They drew back a step as if abashed

To be CContinued …

Chittadhar “Hridaya” (1906-1982)

=======================================================================
This is from “Sugat Saurava”, an epic on the Life and Teachings of the Buddha. It was written while he was imprisoned (1941-1947) by the autocratic Rana regime for his Nepal Bhasa Literary Movement and activities aimed at keeping alive the Nepal Bhasa language and its literature. It was translated into English by Tirth Raj Tuladhar and published by Nepal Bhasa Academy in 1998. This book is also translated into English by Mr. Todd T. Lewis of Holly Cross College in USA in association with Suvarna Man Tuladhar and expected to publish soon from USA.

A Distant Call

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 It was dark

With a storm raging,

And someone was proceeding

As if he were afraid

Lest the wick

Sheltering behind his palm

Should flicker and go out.

Across the dense darkness

Of the moonless night

A streak of light was seen

Through the frayed edges.

Gnashing his teeth,

The spirit of darkness

Was going for it,

Howling and growling;.

But, unmoved, he pressed forward

On the road step by step

Like a chalk-mark on the blackboard.

Wide-eyed, the present looked on

At the future,

Following the flashes

Which marked out the scene;

While someone at a distance

Sent a call to come and sit by his side.

Copyright 1992 Durga Lal Shrestha

Durga Lal Shrestha

(From his book “Twists and Turns” translated from Nepal bhasa by Tirtha Raj Tuladhar)
=========================================================================
Durga Lal Shrestha, born in July 1937 at Kathmandu, Nepal, well-known poet in Nepal Bhasa and Nepali. Besides Jhasuka (Sigh) and Lisan (The solder), Pija (1967), Ji Swayambhu Twath (1986), Yaka Phalecha (1987), Inquilabya Palasa (1991) and many more. Winner of Shrestha Sirapa (one and only award in Nepal Bhasa Literatures established by late Swoyambhu Lal Shrestha) His poetry collection recently translated in Japanese language.

 Water is water (Water as water?)

Water-

never blocks the light-

its ever moving skin

radiates, its single vision parsed into colors

explicates what embodied

within light

That rainbow

water sketches on a blue slate

is a disquisition –

what is and what is seen

borne forth in their fullness

by light

Me? – That very drop !

that attempts to write of light

self emergent; the enlivened heat of it,

and the gentleness

resplendent on its surface

To express that outside itself

Copyright 1997 Purna Bahadur Vaidya

Purna Bahadur Vaidya (translated by Wayne Amtzis)

Sorry, Against the light

True, I am out

To put out the lamp.

I prefer darkness to such light.

Light breathes life to the eye

I know well

Without light

The eye is but a ball of opaque glass.

But the big lamps on all sides

Focusing on my eyes

Are eager enough to gobble up the light within,

And are eager to pierce my eyes.

Was I Wrong to ask to keep my eyes?

Was it a revolt on my part?

I have only ask to let me live

Could it be a revolt to ask this much?

True, light serves the eyes as its feet,

But I like not the feet -

That tramples upon my own eyes.

 
Copyright 2001 Buddha Sayami

Buddha Sayami (translated by Kesar Lall)

(mailto:lumana_mdr@hotmail.com )

 So that the troubles may not spill over

Everyone asks me questions

this one echoes-

why are you like the sky before downpour today?

I’ve often said-

Pain has no language

It’s something to be felt

in the restlessness

in the sufferings

in the agony of death

borne by the sacrificial fowls

buffalo, bulls and he-goats

I pack up my troubles

like mustard seeds

in a bag

that even the kind words

said to me in my troubles

pierce through

spilling all the content

leaving nothing in the bag

and I distribute them

mixing with the tears

with the words

with the sobbings

with the sighs

with the silence

among those whom I regard as mine

Once again

I become an empty mustard bag

like the sky emptied of the rain

clean like the floor freshly shined

tight like the belt of cotton cloth

and shine up like the face of a mother

just returned from the dooryards of death

after the bitter-sweet taste of maternity

Indeed

with the mustard seeds of pain

pressed hard within me

I fall like the drops of lamp oil

on the path of life

How can the wicks burn without oil?

How can life flow smoothly devoid of experience?

So I feel up my troubles

like the mustard seeds

in bags

within and without me.

Copyright 2002 Pratisara Sayami

Pratisara Sayami (translated by Dr. Abhi Subedi)

(mailto:pratisara@hotmail.com)

The Psalm of Life
 

 There is no need to go afar breathlessly and hurriedly

Rather should move determined steps forward again and again

Coping with core of heart

Apprehending the late of equanimity

Where, the steps of incessant everything can be found there.

You might have scrutinized yourself zenith the inside layers.

But, not hither and thither, proceed examining yourself.

Merely, you would to be apparent,

You ought to stir yourself, everything can be found there.

Whateverism is whatever religion of but frail and flexible.

In order to seek humanity when a man does commence for journey of life.

Emancipation or arhat whatever he obtains

But to search for human as a human is celebrity.

To attain humanity is spacious virtue.

And he flawless deserving is the glorious aspect

Nowhere can be found the relish of such life

Copyright 1998 Bhagat Das Shrestha

Bhagat Das Shrestha (translated by Rajani Mila)

(mailto:bhagat_das@hotmail.com)

Robots in dream

I am not left by the dream of yesterday

Comparing men, robots are many in number

Skeletal computers are completing their works

Putting on their own clothes

Moving with their own steps

The Machines are finishing their missions

They don’t raise any questions

Nor seek for water, air ‘n soil

Nor look up sky ‘n moil

They are only doing their jobs in my dream

Men are decreasing and decreasing

Robots are increasing and increasing

Copyright 2001 Madhav Mool

Madhav Mool (translated by Mrs. Sylviya Shrestha)

(mailto:madhavmool@yahoo.com)

Haiku

A leaf is falling

In the winter’s chilly breeze

The evening set

Upon the bedside

Fade a flower of jasmine

In the chilly night

Bloody fool spring

Fly away with a cuckoo

In the hottest age

Copyright 2002 Taba Maru

Taba Maru

(mailto:tabamaru2002@hotmail.com)

Modern Story in Nepal Bhasa

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Shattered Dreams (1999)

By Laxman Rajbansi

During the Second World War I was a child. However, I was learning fast about the world and had begun to have my likes and dislikes. It was a chilly December morning in 1943 when, wrapped up in a shawl, I looked out of the samjhyah (an ornamental wooden window with three opening) and saw the soldiers come marching past our house, their foreheads covered with grains of rice and garlands of sinhyasvam (leaves of a plant used for religious ceremonies) around their necks while the public walked in the sidelines, intermingling with them.
 

Like an army of ants, the soldiers made their way towards the temple of Bhairab (deity) at Indrachowk (a square in the central part of old Kathmandu city). I had never before seen so many of them in the streets. It was very exciting and I craned my neck and looked towards Indrachowk. The street was full of men as far as I could see. However, none had a bright face. Except for one or two individuals, everybody’s eyes were not only moist but red like peaches.
 

The Gurkhas were duty bound to help the British empire in accordance with a treaty made with the East India Company. Thousands of youth from Nepal had consequently died in the jungles of Burma, as if they were fatted lambs. Hitler, the proponent of the hated fascism, was, of course, an enemy of humanity, and it was incumbent upon the worthy sons of Nepal to defeat the dictator as ell as his ideas. The poor soldiers dragged their feet as they marched to the cry of “Gorakhnathki Jaaya! Stri Pashupatinathki Jaya!” to join the colours of the British Gurkha regiments. They were like flocks of sheep who knew little which butcher would cut their throat. The women, your and old alike, looking out of the windows along the street threw taya (puffed rice thrown as confetti at celebration) and abir (a red powder used in rituals) at the soldiers, as if they were goats upon whom water was sprinkled to make them shake before they were slaughtered.
 

One of the soldiers looked up at our window. It was Narayan Prasad dai. I yelled at him. I didn’t know if he heard me or not, but he didn’t looked up again. So, I ran down the stairs in one breath. My mother pulled me by my clothes and cried, ”They will take you along with hem.” And with that threat she took me upstairs. Once more I was back at the window, but Narayan Prasad dai, who lived at Khikhammuga lane, had gone. He was a clerk at the army headquarters. As he was not required to put on the regular army uniform, I had not known him before to be a soldier.
 

He was the butt of jokes for his friends every time they came across him. That angered him and he walked away towards his home, as if that was the end of their acquaintance. However, within an hour he would be back among the same people. Every morning, as soon as it was light, he arrived at our house, with his child, an only son. In the evening, he lingered until my grandmother shoved him off our premises.
 

All those people who saw him go to the war ridiculed him. When someone called him a hiero who went to the war with tears in his eyes, his white shallow face suddenly turned red. But he never admitted defeat. His battle with Hitler’s army never ended. To the amusement of his audience his story changed every time he repeated it but for him, it seemed just the same without the least variation. Sometimes, he swelled with pride when his bullets riddled Hitler’s minister and he played football with the dead man’s head. At other times, his khukuri knife, bright as lightning, cut the commander-in-chief’s body into two. His audience twisted their lips wryly and labeled him a hero who cut a dead enemy’s head or a hero who decorated himself with medals taken from a dead German soldier. But he was on easy terms with everyone, be it an old man or a child. There was a singular charm in him and whenever he failed to come to our house, we felt rather lonely. If he met a young woman in the street, he would at once joke with her, “Ah, You won’t bow down to your uncle-in-law. Bad manners!” It didn’t matter whether he was acquainted with her or not. Women who knew him better hit him hard, “Why should I bow down to you, you rotten Jyapu!” But that only made him give a resounding hearty laugh. He was a nice fellow despite his age, so gentle at times that he could easily take away the food from someone’s mouth. None took offence at his banters. If he had but a couple of drinks, he embraced his wife and danced. Red to the roots of her hair, the women would escape from his clutches. And everyone envied their deep love.
 

Ram Prasad’s wife was an aji, the community midwife. Whenever any woman in our family was uneasy with a slight headache or a pain in the stomach, I used to go running to fetch her. My sisters were afraid to go on such errands as one had to go deep down an alley to a dark cold house. She never delayed in answering a call, following closely on the heels of whoever went to fetch her. Arriving at the sick room, she called upon the gods “Oh, Ajima, kindly forgive us, if we have erred in any way” and scattered grains of rice in the all directions. She gently massaged the stomach, until sleep overcame the patient. And so, whenever there was a dainty dish in our kitchen, the aji had a share of it.
 

There was however none to help the midwife herself whenever she gave birth to her own children, the first a girl and then two boys in succession. She even fainted due to the pangs of childbirth. There was no one even to boil some water for her. Tired after a long, hard day in his office as well as in the house of his boss, her husband would stretch himself like a log on the straw mat and slept soundly. No one could wake him up. After the birth of her boy, however, she had problems with her breast and the milk dried up, so that the baby did not even know the taste of mother’s milk. Her appearance betrayed her; she was apparently a picture of health. She looked stout of body, but like a termite-eaten beam, the poor woman collapsed suddenly after a brief illness.
 

After his wife’s death, Narayan Prasad did not cross our threshold for a long time. His mirth died with his wife. There was not even a faint smile on his lips. Clasping both children closely, he sobbed like a woman and on occasion fell down in a faint. However, at other times, he laughed madly until it was whispered about that he won’t be a man for long. Sometimes, he would be ready to go his office, and then he suddenly took off his clothes and holding his children to his chest, he sat at the top of the stairs and shed copious tears. He received a monthly salary of two and half rupees. From his fields, he got some rice, wheat and maize. And on that he lived at subsistence level.
 

His son, Ram Prasad, was six years younger than me. He must have seen his own dark future in is father’s eyes, glazed with the tears that had dried on them. The boy looked like his father in appearance, but his height and his shyness he had inherited from his mother. He used to come to our house in the morning and evening and sit close to my father, learning to write with a reed pen on the Nepali paper placed on his upright knee. On the contrary, I was an inept pupil as far as writing and reading were concerned. Sometimes, I teased him by hiding his paper, pen and clay inkpot. He searched for hem and begged me with tears for their return. I was the only son of a man with many bhakari of rice, while his father lived a hand-to-mouth existence. Yet, people who didn’t know much about us thought we were brothers. None, not even my grand mother, hesitated to call him a member of the family. He had his daily meals with us. Because he was brought up in a Syesyah family, sometimes he was ridiculed by his own people as a Jyapu-Syeshah.
 

 As soon as he acquired a good hand, Ram Prasad adopted the profession of copying official documents and for this purpose he took his seat on the steps of a temple in front of the shrine of Kal Bhairab. He developed a positive attitude early towards life, and he never frowned despite the fact that he had to fill his stomach with poorest fare – maize, soyabean, wheat or gvarca. He appeared always neat and clean in his simple clothes. Soon after breakfast, he would be at the temple all the day long. His stock in trade was his tidy appearance, soft words and honesty. Before he was fifteen, he had a job in an office and was earning a salary of Rs. 4.75. As soon as he received the salary, the dutiful son handed it over to his old father.
 

Whatever extra money he earned beyond the office hours, Ram Prasad kept for the little luxuries of life. With his hard work and honesty, he won the hearts of his officers. His helpful attitude opened to him the doors to every home in the neighbourhood. He lived simply, humbly and steadily. He got promotions every few years from the lowest clearical positions – Nausinda, Baidar, Mukhia, Khardar- to the administrative post of Nayab Subba, through the kindness and blessings of everybody that knew him. His humility was exemplary. Whenever he was introduced as Subba Ram Prasad Dangol, he blushed and withdrew like a snail within its shell.
 

 Within a few years of his marriage, a daughter was born to Ram Prasad and then came a son. When his friends in jest got hold of his cap until he promised to give them sweets to celebrate the birth of his son., he provided them with postikam. Despite his poverty, it was his ardent desire to give a good education to his children. However, his wish to see his daughter become a doctor had to be sacrificed as she had to work in the kitchen and in the fields in the place of her mother, who was almost always suffering from some illness or other. He spent whatever time he could spare in teaching alphabets to his son. He dreamt of giving his son as high an education as possible, acutely aware as he was of his own limitations and inability to rise above the post of Nayab Subba because he lacked an English education.
 

On the morning of the child’s fifth birthday, e bathed him and dressed him in new clothes. Then he carried the child to the shrine of Saraswati next to the shrine of Ganesh. He made the child bow down his head at the feet of the deity and swallow five grains of rice. Next, he made the boy so round the shrines. Returning home, he took the boy to his room and wrote down the words, “Om Namo Shivaya” on a wooden slate, That day he took leave absence from his office. The whole day lon he taught his son to write the alphabet.
 

The boy was ill when he returned from school. He was sleepless that night. The whole body was hot and the face was swollen. He ate nothing. An aji was sent for and she offered a kala to Ajima. Four days had gone since then, but the fever did not abate. Other healers, the jharaphuki and the vaidya, did their best, but with little effect. The boy became worse. Finally, he was taken to the hospital, only to be sent back home with the diagnosis that it was a case of meningitis. By the grace of Ajima, the child survived, but as a vegetable. He had lost almost all the motor functions of his body. He just opened his mouth if the food was taken to his mouth, but without moving his jaws, he swallowed it. He failed to indicate that he has had enough. If he was carried out of the house, he staggered a few steps. But he knew not how to turn back. The dream that Ram Prasad had dreamt for years was shattered when the oldest boy, who was destined to light his funeral pyre, became physically impaired forever.

“Say ‘Good Morning’ to uncle.” Ram Prasad coaxed Arun, his younger son, when I picked up the child in my arm, “Would you like to go to uncle’s school?”

“Where is uncle’s school?” said the boy “Daddy, buy me a watch like uncle’s.”
 

That was a moment of happiness for a proud father. As he was about to leave, Ram, Prasad stretched his folded hands towards me with an invitation card to his daughter’s wedding. “Dai, I have no one else except you,” he pleaded, “Please consider my daughter as your own. The wedding is in four days. The young man has passed matriculation and he works in the bank. Please do come.”
 

 Joujubai came to me with sad news of Ram Prasad’s death the previous night after having paralyzed and senseless for a fortnight. Ram Prasad was almost like a brother to me. Alas! He was gone now but before his departure, he had paid all his debts and provided his daughter with a dowry that consisted of a parsi of brocade, blouse, shawl, hold and silver ornaments, utensils, bedding, coverlets, rugs an a Chinese carpet. His 80 year old father., Nrayan Prasad, who had survived him and Hitler’s bullets, lay curled up, sobbing dry tears. His wife lay senseless at the cremation ground; she had been returned from the hospital as an incurable case of cancer two years before. His older son, who was almost always stretched out on the ardhajal due to meningitis, sat by the window staring at the fire that consumed Ram Prasad’s remains. No one knew how soon Ram Prasad’s thwarted hopes and scotched aspirations would return to haunt like a mulkatta, the headless ghost, and be the death of countless men.

The Essay

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I Can’t Sleep

By Amir Ratna Tamrakar (translated by Dr. Tej Ratna Kansakar)

 I had eaten an early lunch and gone out. I am already starting to feel hungry. I find myself walking unsteadily, my body bent. Perhaps a gust of wind would have knocked me down. I have been preoccupied the whole day with applications, examinations and interviews. It was the same yesterday. The pressure of it all is beginning to affect my health. The polluted environment of the streets has weakened my body considerably. This can be seen in my staggering footsteps, my sun burnt face, my shabby-looking worn-out pair of shoes, my two empty hands, empty to-day as well.
 

 The doors are shut a usual. I rattled the door and called out loudly. No one came to open the door. I knew that no one could have gone to sleep so early. I also knew that all of them were quietly listening to the rapping sound I made on the door. And yet no one was prepared to respond nor felt the need to do so. Why should they respond when I am not paying salary to any of them? They are not paid to come and open the door for me. A person who will open the door for me is yet to be born. After a long struggle with the door I finally managed to unbolt it. I went up to the top floor hoping to satisfy y hunger with a bellyful of rice. But in the kitchen I found the pots and pans empty and already washed clean. Where is my share of rice? I looked all around but found nothing. There was not a single grain of rice. Didn’t anyone cook any rice today? Perhaps they did not have any money to buy rice. Or is it possible someone has eaten my share as well? I did not know what actually happened. There was no one around to ask. Even if someone was present I would not get any response to my queries. They in fact refuse to speak to me. I cannot expect the wall to tell me what happened. The plain fact is that there is no rice left for me. I will have to go to bed hungry. But my empty stomach revolted with noises of protest. By body to shivered in anger and I felt like throwing all the empty pots and pans over the roof. Trying to control my temper I came down the steps. 

Amir Ratna Tamrakar, born on 1955 in Kathmandu, Nepal, is an established as versatile essayist in Nepal Bhasa literature. He is also the writer of short stories, poems and satire. He is the General Secretary of the Nepal Bhasa Writers’ Forum and publisher of Layalama Online Magazine His publication includes a collection of short stories, Nikacha/Two Branches (1979).  Contact: tamrakarar@hotmail.com
==============================================================

Pahan Chwami (The Guest Writer):

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 WINTER VIGIL

Enwrapped in hot woolen jogging pants,

leather boots and a high-collar pullover,

I read and dive into more poetry

and everything warms me on this winter night:
the clothes, my body; the poems, my soul.
 
The dripping of the badly fixed tap,
the ill-humored dogs grumbling afar,
the monotonous humming of the refrigerator,
the sensual woman requesting my caresses,
all touch me softly,
cradling me, comforting me,
making my legs numb,
transporting me inebriated to another dimension.
Flash Gordon, with neither rocket nor space suit,
I wander my cosmic journey,
scanning the galaxies,

looking for the quasar

whence poems emanate

permeating the Universe.

In the apparent silence of the sleeping night,
small noises,
residues of a lively day,
tell me that I am still on the ground.
So I feel, Old Bard, my brother,
that this new day,
awaking at the rooster's call,
the roar of the first bus,
moistened by this fragrant dew,

it will be a perfect one.

Now sleep whispers to me
that I must rest, in order to be ready
to go on promoting the friendship
sowed along the ways of all the world,
collecting miracles,
living, in their plenitude, the moments

and details of this wonderful life

that dazzles, amazes and almost smothers me.

Copyright 2002 Franklin Magalhaes

Franklin Magalhaes(mailto:franklin_magalhaes@hotmail.com>