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From the Editor’s Desk
Poet (Late) Yog Bir Singh Kansakar (1885-1941) is respected as one of the four pillars of Nepal Bhasa literatures. During his time, he motivated the community to get the Nepal Bhasa language recognized from Indian Universities. He composed numerous highly sentimental poems to this effect. His dedicated disciple and another poet, Chittadhar Hridaya (1906-1982), was not content just with this aspiration and moved on to acquaint the Nepal Bhasa literature to the English-speaking world. He dedicated his whole life not only in writing modern stories and essays, besides poems, but also published his works simultaneously in English and Nepal Bhasa. Inspired by their untiring endeavors and in order to continue in their footprints, the Nepal Bhasa Writers’ Forum decided to bring the outstanding earlier and contemporary literary works in Nepal Bhasa into the modern age of Information Technology and introduce the world with our literature through this online magazine. We strongly believe that this magazine will help in fostering better understanding of our literature in the outside world and vice versa.

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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.
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(From his book “Twists and Turns” translated from Nepal bhasa by Tirtha Raj Tuladhar)
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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.

Tirtha Raj Tuladhar, born on March 10 1925 at Kathmandu Nepal, the first graduate of Patna University India with distinction (1953). Among his major translation works include Sugat Saurabha by Chittadhar Hridaya (1998), A Representative Collection of Nepal Bhasa Poems (1997). He also translated the European short stories into Nepal Bhasa namely Akhe (1965)

a tree.

Pratisara Sayami is a contemporary poetess. She has an M.A. in Nepal Base. She has been decorated with various medals and has won many awards namely Mahendra Vidya Bhushan (1988), Chain Lacoul Sirapa (1988), Rastriya Pratibha Puraskar (1996) and Deepa Janmat Puraskar (1998). Her published works include poetry collections: Ji Chhakoo Nalis Bhon ( I am a petition), The leaves (translated from Nepal Base by Intizar Hussain) and Tikinangu Mi (Dripping Fire) ========================================================================
Nirvana

Basanta Maharjan

Haiku

Taba Maru

Taba Maru, the literary nickname of Amogha Tamrakar, a poet, born on 1956 at Kathmandu. His publications include Lakasan lanpu hila bi and memegu bakhan ( Environment will change its way and other short stories) (1992), Newa Haiku (1993) and my others.

The house of Sankha Sunder, the businessman, was humming with activity that day. Many a young men came and went leaving behind their parting presents, while numerous women filed past the room carrying baskets full of boiled eggs, dried fishes and wine – traditionally sent by friends and relatives as tokens of good-luck to a person leaving on a long journey to Lhasa in Tibet (now in China as autonomous region). The gifts were received and identified by recording the names of each sender on pieces of paper and placed in appropriate baskets.

As evening fell the astrologer arrived to determine the auspicious time for departure. When he announced that 11.20 at night would be the favorable time, preparations for farewell ritual got underway. A metal bowl and a pot of curd were placed on a heap of rice grains, while the lady of the house, Mrs Latan luxmi, wiping tears from her eyes, assembled the other puja items-the holy oil lamp, vermillion ‘tila’ powder, incense, flowers, boiled eggs, dried fishes and wine.

The father and his son, Sashi Sunder, in the meanwhile spent some time in arranging business accounts, while their employees were busy packing the goods to be taken on the long horse-back journey to Tibet. Everyone seemed anxious to have everything ready before departure time.

Shashi Sunder moved about from room to room restlessly, now sitting silently beside his father and then hurrying to his room to talk to his wife Kumud Kumari. It was not impatience that he felt, but an emotional confusion in having to leave his home and family first time in his life. The thoughts of his wife’s sorrowful face and their newly born son promised to make his leave-taking a painful one, but he struggled to maintain his manly spirit. Just then the family priest arrived, enquired about the appointed time and settled down to a quiet conversation with Shashi’s father.

During all these activities, Kumud Kumari sat alone in her room lost in her thoughts. The lamp beside her flickered for want of oil, but she was hardly aware of her immediate surroundings. A cross current of distressing thoughts were passing through her mind. Her mother-in-law appeared to her as a foolish woman, her husband a man without feeling-totally unconcerned of his wife and child. Why do people run after money at the cost of domestic happiness? What is the value of money if this disrupted their married life? Men are cruel-they do not understand the inner feelings of a woman. Her patience and tolerance are too often taken for granted. She heaved a deep sigh and looked at her sleeping child. Her emotions seemed to overflow at the sight of the child, for drops of tears rolled down her face.

“Oh, what is to become of this child? Why must he leave us in this world of isolation? How long must I endure this torture of separation?” Her heart echoed these words over and over again, and embracing the sleeping child she wept bitterly. At that moment Shashi entered the room and said in a firm voice, “Look, you are still weeping. You are disrespecting this auspicious occasion by behaving in this way. Why do you make it difficult for me? I shall possibly be away for two years – no longer than that, I promise you. So why must you weep this way? You should be happy and wish me well in my business venture, but instead you obstruct me with your tears. You may need some money while I am away. Keep this with you.” Saying this Shashi dropped a small bag – full of silver coins on her lap, looked back at her once more and left the room. This seemed to add fuel to the fire for Kumud Kumari burst into tears again, this time sobbing loudly. ”What does he mean by saying that I am obstructing him by weeping? Does he really expect me to be happy, smiling to see him leave? Only two years, says he, but two years is a long time. This money I suppose is the price of my love. Why can’t a man really understand a woman’s heart?” - so ran her desperate thoughts. She looked down at the bag of money again, snatched it and put it away in one corner, She sighed heavily and started to sob again. The lamp, as if unable to witness her sorrow any longer, flickered out, leaving the room in darkness.

Shortly later, the farewell ritual commenced when the other men to accompany Shashi to Lhasa had arrived after taking leave from their homes. The family priest chanted prayers invoking the gods to bless Shashi Sunder for his safe journey. The offerings of egg, fish, flowers and curd were made, while the gifts from friends and relatives were emptied one by one and a few coins dropped into each basket. Then the priest took the names of all the known deities sacred to the family and symbolic coin offering were made to each. In conclusion, every members of the family starting from the eldest to the youngest approached Shashi to bid him farewell. Each were given a half rupee coin as a mark of respect. Some of these coins were put into Shashi’s red cap as tokens of good-luck and good fortune.

Then came the turn of Kumud Kumari out try as she might, she could not advance towards her husband. She stood there like a statue, with her hand covering her mouth to suppress the irrepressible sobs, which choked her throat, and her eyes were red and swollen with tears. Her mother-in-law, sternly rebuked her for weeping and let her forward. She stretched out her hands without looking at her husband, and two coins were dropped in her palms. The feel of the coins seemed to pierce her heart for strangely enough she, at that moment, was reminded of the exchange of gifts on the day of their marriage. She bowed her head to touch her husband’s feet; after which she was withdrawn from the scene to relieve the emotional tension of the final leave-taking.

The astrologer then appeared and reciting tantric incantation, sprinkled holy water in all directions. Shashi Sunder then descended the stairs, accepting further offerings on each floor, and left the house through the main door where he dropped coins into the two water-filled pitchers placed on either side. As she walked away without looking back on the house, the image of his weeping wife embracing the child, passed over his mind’s eye recurring. It was only then that he felt the full impact of separation.

One evening, Kumud Kumari with her two year old son on her lap was reflecting on her past – her memory carrying her back to the days of her childhood, a few simple incidents in her life and finally to her marriage. She had looked forward to a new and happy life after marriage, but the hope she once had no longer held out any promises. Her husband had been away for almost two years now and there was yet no indication of his returning in the near future. Her growing apprehension of a prolonged separation distressed her to the point of divorcing her from the normal realities of life. Her active imagination staged a tug-of-war in her mind, her dream of an ideal future conflicting with illusions of despair and frustration. When her husband comes back she will not welcome him with open arms nor will she allow her son to go to him. She will resent him until he feels fully sorry for the mental anguish he had caused her. But such a plan is soon transformed into meaningless fantasy, the practical and real seemed to elude her. Finally tired out by her brooding melancholia she fell asleep with her child still suckling at her breast. Towards the morning her sleep was disturbed by a strange dream. She dreamt that she was walking along a heard of fierce-looking buffaloes chased her. Looking back over her shoulder she fled for her life and instantly arrived on the bank of a swiftly- flowing river. She ran desperately along the river-bank, and then up a steep hill where to her horror, she found herself on the edge of a dark abyss, and unable to stop, she plunged headlong into its yawning depth. But before she struck the bottom she woke up with a start, her face covered with cold sweat and her heart beating wildly.

That evening Sankha Sunder after his meal sat in his room writing a letter. His wife sitting next to him with her grandson on the lap, said : You should, I think, ask him to return to Nepal without much delay. I have had many bad dreams lately and I not am very happy about this.”

At this moment Kumud, after washing dishes, came down to place a jug of drinking water in the room and overheard her mother-in-law’s remark. She immediately remembered her terrifying dream tat morning and stood there in amazement listening to her mother-in-law speak those strange words. Before Kumud could leave the room, the family priest accompanied by an employee of another businessman in Tibet, entered the room without any warning.

Sankha Sunder although surprised by this unexpected visit welcomed them and asked them to sit down, while his wife stood up with her grandson and Kumud moved away to one corner. The visitors sat next to Sankha Sunder but did not venture to speak; both kept silent as if debating a dilemma in their minds. The suspense they created aroused deep suspicions in the minds of Sankha Sunder and his wife. They could not yet fathom the attitude or the purpose of their visit. The priest finally broke the silence as he spoke in a soft voice, “I see no point in further delaying the matter. The way of the world is inevitable, we must accept our fate.”

Kumud heard those words like a woman in a delirium, her head began to swim, her face turned white as a sheet. Although she failed to grasp any meaning in those vague words, her loudly beating heart signaled a premonition of something terrible. At this instance, the companion of the priest put his hand into his pocket and slowly produced a letter tied with white strings – the symbol of tragic news, the news of death.

Chittadhar “Hridaya” (1906-1982) was not only a pioneer among the modern writers in Nepal Bhasa, but also a major force in the literary movement during his lifetime. He was the founder of Nepal Bhasa Parishad, a literary organization. He has nearly 36 books to his credit. The present story is from Khupu Bakhancha (Six short stories) written and published in 1947 and first appeared in an English version in Nepal Bhasa Short stories (translated by Tej Ratna Kansakar). His Majesty’s Government for his contributions to Nepal Bhasa literatures has awarded the title of
“Kavi Keshari”

The Road I am walking along is extremely muddy, Yes, I am indeed walking along a muddy road. It is muddy around me. The road covered with mud all over is very slippery. I walk along unsteadily like stepping on a fish. I am staggering. Splashing through the mud I walk on. I do not know where my steps are leading me to. Where does this road actually end? Where does it in fact begin? What place would I reach at the end of this road. As I advance, the road seems to keep on stretching before me. I assume that this road will not be tired as long as I keep on walking. Whatever distance I walk, the road does not disappoint me with the message. “ This is the end of the road.” At every step forward it keeps on welcoming me. For this reason I need to have the will, confidence and patience to travel. Truly, I may slip and fall on this muddy road. Simply looking at this treacherous road may be frustrating. To withdraw is to show my weakness. Possibly the rain may fall here in heavy downpour. A frightening storm may suddenly arise here. Further, an earthquake may shake and tear apart the road I walk on and bury me as if the sky has fallen on my head. To end my journey now however is but to show cowardice. I do not wish to be a coward. I do not like to be a corpse before I die. I wish to keep on walking along this muddy road.

There are many others too who are walking along this road. Some walk alone like me, some in pairs and others in groups. At every crossroad I meet many people and many others who walk away. Many of them I met face to face and others fade away from sight. Many of them are moving forward. Some walk steadily, some rapidly and others hurriedly. They are all cautious lest they fall. They are terrified by the thought that they may fall at any time. “Oh…look there!” An old man in front of me actually falls. He falls headlong on the mud. His whole body is covered with mud. He tries to get up but cannot. He tries again and fails! He flounders desperately. All the onlookers start to laugh loudly. Their laughter seems to echo in the sky. I too feel like laughing. I laugh no to mock the old man, but to protest again those who are laughing; to mock the selfish and indifferent attitude of men. The more knowledge people gain, the more selfish and thoughtless hey become. The warmth of human relations has today broken down. How unfortunate t is that man has lost the virtues of love, compassion and humanism in his race towards civilization and progress. This may be why no one comes forward to help the old man to his feet. They have rather chosen to laugh aloud, baring their sharp, ugly teeth. I am extremely annoyed by the psychology of today’s modern man when he trips and causes a standing person to fall rather than help him to get up. I am overwhelmed with shock and remorse by the self-centered personality of man. I see man’s road to civilization a very muddy one indeed.

At this moment I see a crowd of people at a distance. My curiosity is aroused – what can be happening on this muddy road? A loud burst of laughter from the crowd increases my curiosity double fold. My footsteps move forward involuntarily towards the crowd. In the middle of the crowd I see two children fighting and hitting each other. Both of them have swollen lips. The collar on there shirts have been torn apart. Their faces are covered with bloodstains. The onlookers are clapping, laughing and enjoying the spectacle. I am here reminded of a group of people goading a pair of bulls but human beings. These children are the pillars of the country’s future. I could not tolerate the scene any longer. I push through the crowd and separate the fighters. At this, someone in the crowd shouts, “What a meddling person! Why does he have to disturb this entertaining boxing match!” His voice brigs me back to my senses. I then come to realize that the boys simply are engaged in a mock fight, a pre-arranged competition. I feel embarrassed and humiliated at the same time. The sight of blood stained faces smiling weakly revolt me. I could not comprehend the spirit of my contemporary age. To fight and hurt each other has now become a sport, simply a sport and nothing more. Anyone can take part in this sport. Then I realize painfully the state of today’s world filled with quarrels, enmity and wars – the brandishing of hydrogen bomb and neutron bombs (anthrax and chemical bombs?) as if these were toys or pawns in the international games that threaten our existence.

I walk away slowly, looking around me but my mind is elsewhere when suddenly I am startled by a motor horn from behind me. I look behind and see a beautiful car moving towards me. Hurriedly I move to the side of the road. The car rushes past me and I am bathed in a splash of muddy water. I am covered all over with mud and dirt. I lose my temper. My anger has blinding effect on me. But what can I do? The car, which soiled my clothes, has disappeared. I stand there not knowing what to do. I feel uneasy and embarrassed because the car, I realize, has flung insult on my weakness and helpless condition. I do not go about driving a car nor can I afford to ride in a taxi. This perhaps is my helplessness, my biggest weakness. Today a man is judged by his material wealth. A rich person along has status, power and prestige. A strange feeling overcomes me. I feel ashamed pf the mud stain on my clothes. Yet I comfort myself with the thought that the car has simply soiled my clothes, not my heart. Although my clothes are dirty, my heart remains pure. I am able finally to find satisfaction in this thought.

Every person walking along this muddy road leaves behind his/her footsteps. But in time these footsteps will fade and disappear. New footsteps will take their place. Soon on this muddy road one can see innumerable footsteps imprinted now and erased later. In the same way I walk on leaving behind my footsteps. I am walking with much efforts on this muddy road, but I do not yet feel tired. I still, long to reach my destination. In other words, I still have many more years to live. I have not shunned away from these problems. I have not been discouraged by any misfortune because I know that any failure or shortcoming is a source of new hope. I have seen lotus-flowers blossoming on muddy soil. I have seen planting of rice on muddy fields to sustain the lives of countless numbers of people. The problems and failure that we face are therefore the natural outcomes of our life circle. I am not yet disappointed or tired of life. The problems I encounter have not embittered or depressed me. So I still wish to walk further on this muddy road I still aspire to leave behind me my indelible footsteps through the passage of time.

(By the courtesy of Contemporary Writing in Nepal Bhasa edited by Bhusan Prasad Shrestha and Prem Shanti Tuladhar)

Dr. Vijayashwar Vaidya, born on 1961 at Lalitpur, Nepal, is a versatile essayist. He is also a medical doctor. He has won several literary awards including Shrestha Sirapaa. He has published a collection of essays, Dhyachagu Lan (Mudddy road).

Patricia Fritsche is a poetess. She has also ventured into photo/digital art. Residing with her husband, the owner of a small computer-upgrade company, now for sixteen years. She is also assisting him in his business. Her work can be seen elsewhere on the Web at: World Art Poetry StickYourNeckOut, ( Past periodicals; AOL Short Poems and Instant poems 1998/1999, DreamCove, Friends, Alchemy ) Photography; Experience Photography, Better Photo, Pacoart, PhotoBlink (Beyrslf), Photography-Unlimited (**Best Photo of Month), and Shutter City, also been published in many magazines spanning a time period of twenty years or more.top

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a tree.

Basanta Maharjan

Haiku

Taba Maru