Ancestral homelands

By YUYUTSU R D SHARMA

"O Raven, scavenger of skeletons, you have eaten all the flesh of mine. /Pray do not touch these eyes, for a glimpse of the beloved one they pine."

Portrait of a scantily clad bony saint/poet with a long flailing gray beard addressing above quoted lines to a crow hangs on the wall. This twelfth century Sufi / Bhakti poet Baba Farid (1173-1265) defines the secret ethos of harsh Punjabi countryside I have been brought up in.

From the idyllic valleys of Himalayas back to my birthplace I feel summer heat thrashing the landscape. Life is fraught with dangers: The same Frontier Mail I missed by chance caught fire, claiming 35 human lives. Awestruck, we watch TV, how train caught fire, how passengers scrambled to come out of this inferno.

In spite of its material affluence, the town looks deserted. Like my own ancestral house. It’s a studio of ghosts. It’s first time I’m back home to live alone, without my mother. I realize how I had ignored her anxiety about her funeral rites .She had been preparing everything in advance, her death rites. I open her Almirah, seventeen glasses, sixteen plates, and five sets of steel utensils to be donated in her name, clothes, and umbrella. Virtually everything.

My Mohalla is an abandoned settlement; most of the inhabitants have left, for Canada, the US, Australia or the Great Britain. Not many of them have come back to claim these dilapidated buildings or money freezing in the Banks.

My own house. Would I never again return to my birthplace? Would this house become another abandoned building? On the mantel I watch portraits of the Dead pile up— Grand parents, my father, my mother, my aunt, a whole generation of them.

Wasps have made their nests in the corner. Glasses have cracked like dreams of mothers who waited all their lives.

One Two Three Four Five—Shrijana counts queasily. Shakti, my brother hardly lives in the home to ward these intruders off.

Like mad men. Or like poets claiming their dead masters’ words, we take charge of the house. Shrijana stirs up a move of cleaning this huge house my grandpa built in the early 20s of Twentieth century .A wasp ferociously charges at her face. "Don’t worry, they won’t do anything, just don’t bother them." Shakti says.

We buy her bed, her quilt, her pillow, her cot, her bed sheets, her pitcher of water, in case she gets thirsty in the Other world. Live in peace, Mataji! Tomorrow priest will come. Every object reminds me of the past ,each brick has a story to tell .I notice cracks have appeared in the walls.

I move out of the house, looking for a passage that I used to take in my childhood to go to the green fields. I notice there’s hardly a soul that recognizes me. Strangers have occupied the area, raising posh villas out of green fields. I can no longer find the path along the fields to reach the water well where I used to take bath every morning. I take a more obvious path and reach the groove where water well used to be.

Over the years that I have been away they have mindlessly pumped out all the sweet waters of my earth to feed the greed of their paddy fields. They could have had these fields full of sunflowers or other crops. Now the water well has dried, says Shakti. Bhani’s water well, my favorite, whose water’s taste I could tell even if placed secretly among millions of pitchers has dried up. Water wells of my birthplace have dried.

Social realism in Junkiri

By DR MOHAN LOHANI 

It is generally admitted that Siddhicharan was a representive poet sensitive to the mood of the times, to the people’s aspirations and their struggle for a future based on equality, freedom, justice, peace, happiness and prosperity. He was also a revolutionary poet, for what inspired and moved him was the miserable plight of his own brethren deprived of human rights and fundamental freedoms under the century-old family rule in Nepal. The suffering masses found in the poet a champion of freedom, justice and universal brotherhood.

Siddhicharan is widely acclaimed and recognised for his epoch-making poetry. According to Ganesh Bahadur Prasai, a noted literary critic of Nepal, Siddhicharan laid the foundation of romantic poetry in Nepali literature, while Laxmi Prasad Devkota gave perfection to such poetry and elevated it to a new height. Prasai affirms confidently that Siddhicharan was by all means an original poet who initiated a new poetic tradition, instead of following in the footsteps of others. That poet Siddhicharan was ten years ahead of Devkota in initiating the romantic tradition in Nepali poetry can hardly be disputed. Before the poet went to jail in 1940, the tradition sponsored by him had reached its climax. It is only around and after 1943 that Devkota dominated the Nepali literary scene. This is not to suggest that Siddhicharan was superior to Devkota. In fact, the two with a unique poetic personality of their own complemented each other and, like English romantic poets Wordsworth and Coleridge, worked together to give Nepali poetry a new dimension and enrich the literary heritage of the country.

Junkiri, a poem of epic dimension, stands out as Siddhicharan’s experiment in social realism. After the poet was released from prison in 1945, he seems to have switched over from romanticism to social realism. The story of the poem can be summarized as follows. Ranbir belongs to the Tamang community of a village called Chalkhel. Junkiri who was brought up by her father Ranbir after her mother’s death falls in love with a young man called Jure who comes from a different caste. Ranbir is opposed to inter-caste marriage and decides to give away his daughter in marriage to Harke who belongs to Ranbir’s caste. Despite Jure’s readiness to convert himself to Ranbir’s caste in order to win Junkiri’s hand, Ranbir is adamant and rejects him. Junkiri as she is deeply in love with Jure is not willing to marry Harke who becomes furious and even hurts Jure physically. Junkiri unperturbed by Harke’s wild behaviour remains faithful to Jure. Finally, Harke undergoes a change of heart. Junkiri and Jure are united in wedlock, forget their past woes and start life anew. This is the beginning of a peaceful and happy life for the couple. Bound by mature mutual love they believe in hard work and simple living.

Junkiri mirrors the social life of Nepal in a rural setting. The caste ridden Hindu society is presented as a foil to Buddhist culture which upholds positive human and spiritual values. Harke’s wild behaviour goes against the Buddhist cultural tradition, but he liberates himself, returns to the cultural roots and becomes a changed individual capable of transcending petty personal traits and interests. By the time we reach the ninth canto, Harke is planning to erect a monastery as he is by now a devout Buddhist. He pleads for reform and advises others to shun self-centredness. He tells the young lovers: "Don’t distrust me and harbour not enmity against me/you have won and I’m a loser forever/I bow my head before you". Harke is determined to dedicate himself and work for the wellbeing of others.

Junkiri and Jure, the two lovers of the poem representing different castes or communities, set an example of selfless and spontaneous love. Unlike other women who are timid, docile and weak-willed, Junkiri is a strong-willed character. Siddhicharan, says Prasai, was the first poet who created a female character of such strong will, firmness and tenacity. Love to Siddhicharan is divinely inspired and such love is free from sensual lust. Love, a union of two souls, transcends the limitations of caste and other social customs and conventions. The poet’s approach to social life is based on realism as it is motivated by a desire for reform and change. Siddhicharan upholds humanism which makes the narrative appealing and realistic.

While simplicity is the hallmark of Siddhicharan’s poetic diction, the poet, like Devkota, cannot resist the temptation of using a few alien words. His attitude to love finds expression in a language which is commonly understood. He has a flair, like Devkota, for minute details. There is a detailed description of ongoing preparations in the Ranbir household when he decides to marry his daughter Junkiri off to Harke. There are also romantic strands evident in the poet’s treatment of nature. Siddhicharan seems to believe that there is a symbiotic relationship between nature and human society. Chukhel village with its natural setting significantly contributes to the mental and physical growth and health of its inhabitants. Siddhicharan was a painstaking creative artist as he had the habit of revising and polishing lines and stanzas in the poem under discussion. In short, Junkiri with its message of spontaneous love binding the two lovers is a great achievement as well as a landmark in social realism in Nepali poetry.

To one and all

By RAJNI KC 

"Alcohol and drug use among street children in Nepal " published by CWIN happens to be the second book that I have read to comprehend yet another tale of the dejected and miserable life led by street children. While it surely can be disheartening to read these reality stories which we think are far beyond, sometimes it becomes necessary to make that extra effort to empathize with their vulnerable state so that one can go beyond just feeling "sorry" for them and take a tangible step towards making a significant difference.

The first book that I had got hold of based on "Glue sniffing" had taken me by surprise by the time I had completed it as I had been quite ignorant with the subject matter. However, this current one on "Alcohol and drug abuse" was something that I was somewhat versed with but had unfortunately, failed to understand the chronic impact it is currently having on the children’s life.

Rupa Dhital, Yogendra Bahadur Gurung, Govind Subedi and Prabha Hamal of CWIN undertook this comprehensive study with the final product being systematically segmented into six chapters enabling the reader to first have a bird’s eye view on the crisis and thereby giving the reader a logical conclusion with recommendations which hopefully would be realized.

The authors have truly mentioned that the initiation, indulgement, dependence and addiction to these substances are dependent on the environment, coping strategy, accessibility, motivators and inclination towards risk behavior.

The book has been compiled after studying the consumption behaviour and lifestyle of 180 children (160 boys and 20 girls). The first two chapters outline the characteristics of the sample population on various dimensions while the last three chapters give maximum possible details on alcohol, drug and tobacco use. Today, these children seem to have accepted their fate with the conclusion that "that’s the way life is", existing each day as the sun rises with no hopes and no aspirations whatsoever. This is where the challenge lies to change their perspective towards life….a life where they have several miles to cover.

Caste and ethnicity has a role on the initial consumption of alcohol and the authors have aptly touched this issue. While Brahman and Chhetri are traditional alcohol non-users, Dalits such as Kami, Damai and Sarki and most other ethnic groups are traditional users. Furthermore, historically Kami, Damai and Sarki have been socially excluded that has had a direct impact on the street children’s lives as most of them come from these groups.

Poverty, without any doubt, coupled with push and pull factors compel the street children to migrate from rural areas to the urban areas. Unfortunately these very factors that initially wooed them are no longer there and today it is too late to look back.

Among the several valid reasons given, "media exposure" as an impact personally caught my attention. Although advertisements of alcohol in the electronic media have been prohibited since February 1999, the strength of the print advertisements can definitely not be ruled out. "Embeds" which are disguised stimuli not readily recognized that are "planted" in print advertisements often tend to persuade consumers to buy the products. Hence, these children having no one to guide them undoubtedly get attracted and are influenced by these silent advertisements.

Among drugs, Cannabis is the most common drug followed by brown sugar, smacks, opium and dendrite. It was depressing to note that most of the children take cannabis as they feel half their problem is solved after taking it since they do not feel hungry. Since consumption of drugs starts at a tender age of 11, targeting younger children needs to be the prime concern of any drug prevention program in Nepal as suggested by the authors.

Use of tobacco happens to be common in Nepalese population. Tobacco use has been classified into two kinds – smoking (cigarettes and biri) and chewing (khaini, pan parag, gutka etc). Research found that tobacco use was three fold higher in boys than girls. Such a variation could be due to power structure of Nepalese society in which boys have more freedom or could be due to underreporting of tobacco use by girls.

As I read the epilogue wherein the street children identified three key stakeholders namely society, social organizations and government that are equally responsible to be involved in the prevention I recalled a simple sentence with in-depth meaning. "Even in a life that is filled with dark clouds time and again a rainbow appears". While the depth of the sentence can be applicable in varied context, I am optimistic that with organizations like CWIN working towards combating the use of tobacco, alcohol and drugs to improve their lives, these children would slowly stop fearing the shadows that they come across each day and night as CWIN lends a hand to help them see the light shining somewhere nearby.

Tomorrow is another day

By SANTOSH POKHAREL 

As I quote this famous line of Scarlet O’ Hara from the novel "Gone with the wind", I can’t help but wonder what she really meant, when she said this. I guess a rendezvous with author Margaret Mitchell would have somehow quenched my inquisitive desire, but the dilemma is that she’s no longer with us. The temptation to delve into the human mind, though subjective to personal conceptions (or misconceptions) gives us a chance to see the world through a different spectrum.

For me each day is a treacherous journey, every morning’s just the reflection of what lies ahead. I crave for something better, something of the blue that will make my day, something spurious like rain in autumn. But it seldom rains in autumn, and in my case, well it never rain after all, not even in the monsoon season of June and July. The parched land, devoid of life, keeps dwelling to and fro in search of that exact moment of bliss, when the rainbow emerges in the horizon and the sun shines amidst the drizzle that seems like a downpour.

But that is the fallacy of imagination, it exceeds beyond the realms of viability, only to metamorphose into preposterous fantasies. Each day is supposed to be a new beginning, and every hour is supposed to open new avenues for us. But when my imagination betrays me time and again, I suddenly fail to distinguish between the old and the new. And it strikes me right then that it is not a failure on my part, but the self-realization, exceeding human emotions, that I succumbed to my own dreams. Those dreams I dreamt yesterday, to go along with the deeds of today, for the future, that is, in the form of tomorrow and the coming days.

Tomorrow, well yes, tomorrow. It is such a wonderful word. Tomorrow I will do this, tomorrow I will do that, blah, blah, blah. The basic fact is that it gives us that precious moment of freedom. Freedom to break away from the rigors of today, a chance to lose something this day only to get it back the next day. Above all, it gives us hope that extra little bit of faith that tomorrow will be different. The hope that tomorrow will overshadow the ghost of today and will paint a bright new future for us.

But does it do that? Well, I have my share of doubts. For me, the red carpet was never rolled on, nor the fact that the dreams I had, did ever materialize. Today keeps on repeating in the form of tomorrow, the day I completed just now will replicate in the form of next day. When it is obvious that the mundane of today will repeat in coming days, notwithstanding if it is in new forms, tomorrow ceases to become a part of the next day. Then, for me, it just becomes a part of a long single day.

The cycle moves on and on, me intertwined in between, rhapsodizing nonchalantly with the ebb and the flow of each day, whether it is today or the next day or just any other day.

Like a vehicle in a garage

By SUMAN GHIMIRE 

I don’t have a motorbike, nor any vehicle of my own. However, my familiarity with the term "servicing" is not, I think, less than others who have. When the vehicle needs to be repaired or checked due to some deterioration in its mechanism, we take it to a garage or an auto workshop. The more we take it there for servicing, the more we might be depressed with its originality and durability. In another words, our impression remains positive until it keeps on functioning well. Otherwise, we may think of buying another one whether or not we’re able to sell it in a low price.

I’ve once been into the garage that is still behind my parent’s home. Since I hated the noises, spread disturbingly in the neighbourhood, I often wished that they do not produce them unnecessarily. Indeed, right from the childhood I was less concerned with how an electrical or a mechanical object functions and kept on using it until it would completely break down. On top of all, not repairing once, I did throw it without a sense of temptation at all. For this habit, I was frequently scolded by my parents, but to no avail. Now, I needed another one at any cost, which should be as new as tomorrow’s constitution that the Maoists are at present stressing on.

Just before a few weeks, when I was hospitalised since I caught typhoid, I never realised that humans are also a vehicle; their bodies also deteriorate and need the servicing in a similar way.

My experiences is almost unforgettable. As I opened my eyes, I was taken aback to find myself in the medical ward of a hospital among other vehicles lying as silently as a grave and sometimes crying as loudly as a thunder. The one who was on my right was a woman. When she felt a burning pain in her whole body, she would suddenly burst with her quasi-laughter, almost amusing to my fevered senses. And her husband, losing his conscience, wandered here and there in a way as if his house was set ablaze in front of him. On my left was a middle-aged man. He was completely unconscious for three days, and his nostrils were being used as a passage for food to pass through the tube because his liver was damaged. One day, as I was greatly shivering with fever, I heard him unconsciously shouting "Hait terika" (an annoyed expression like "damn it!") so loudly that a group of nurses had to hurriedly approach him. From that time onwards, he kept on repeating that phrase after every two minutes. And here I could not help laughing in spite of my own distress. On the fifth day of my admission in that hospital, I found that the man had returned to normalcy. We talked a lot. He was an assistant officer in a private bank. During his conversation with me or people who were looking after him, I couldn’t trace that "Hait terika" again. Perhaps, it was a virus that had just died. How amazing! It is a verbal virus, any way!

The next day, all the vehicles were discharged, and their relatives happily carried them to their houses whereas my fever showed no signs of declining. Late in the evening, a mechanic came and doubled the dose of my medicine. And then only after three days, I was also discharged from that haunting garage. Now, I could dream of a peaceful sleep in quite contrast to my recurring memory that someday I myself produced noises like a vehicle in the garage.