Opinion (Spotlight Weekly)

A Poet on Fire: Shailendra Sakar

By Yuyutsu R.D. Sharma

Yuyutsu RD

It is beginning of Spring. But on this day of Bandh, a general strike called by the Maoists a dismal note hangs over the valley.

Outside my apartment in Baneshwore we sit in a small floral garden. Sakar seems jolted by yesterday's violent incident in which Maoists put a bus on fire, claiming half a dozen lives, including a young seven-year-old Muslim girl. We are addicted to wander through busy bustling bazars of Asan, Bhotahitee, New Road, Putli Sadak. "But today, no way. It's safer here "he cooes "You know, anything can happen."

I recall one of Shailendra Sakar's poems where the poet watches his own former self, a rebellious poet of the street reading his own poem on the TV screen. As momentum gathers, the poet abruptly leaps out of the screen and starts kicking and thrashing the present poet, calling him names. Having had his fill, he spits on the poet's face and returns to the screen.

"It's safer here, isn't it? " He addresses Shreejna, my wife, expecting a response. It's second day of the Bandh. Shreejna is busy cooking 'Khaja' (Nepali word for brunch) for us, as we sit, proverbial pigeons in the garden. A weird guilt-like sky watches us. People have listened to the message of the Maoists loud and clear. Not a leaf moves.

Not a leaf. I recall my own rebellious days at the University. Was that rage justified? In one of my poems in Hunger of our Huddled Huts a boy asks his mother, "Why can't we kill the dog that bites? But isn't the question of violence far more intriguing and complex than I had imagined.

How did it begin? It looks awkward; probably this isn't the right moment to interview my best friend for Pratik. The Poet of the street, of discarded communities, part of the Hungry Generation movement inspired by Beatnik movement, finally in the eighties joins Nepal Television, becomes a personal secretary to the Minister of Communication, builds a house and raises a family of five. "Even today if I go back to the village, they know me as a communist. "He laughs.

Sakar

"But the question of communism in a country where even democracy hadn't arrived seemed like a distant dream. So I had a vision of multiparty in my mind." And what about the multiparty democracy you so avidly longed for?

My landlord's dog comes sniffing at us, little distracting. We hear ambulances howling on the empty roads, probably carrying victims of political turmoil triggered by the Bandh. The dog seems adamant, raises a tiny cloud of dust with brush of his tail. I shout for Shreejana's help. "We are victims of political activism. Now everyone seems fed up with the corrupt politicians and democracy. In this part of the world we need a utilitarian type of Govt., comprising people, maybe not exactly elected, but experts, technocrats, poets, social workers, doctors and the like. Now personally speaking, I feel ashamed of having taken birth in the land of Buddha and Sagarmatha. "Word-warriors have started hungering/for solid of the stones -- crazy marble/ Our revolt has become an alcoholic revolt/ Hasn't it become destiny of the Revolution to serve itself in tiny morsels of outrage/ and anguish in our poems only" (Naked Wire, trans.).

We wait. Hyena like hooter of another ambulance whizzes past. "As a writer I feel so far the State hasn't acknowledged any Nepali writer. Thatís why no writer has found a place in our Parliament. Instead, we have writers who have sold themselves to the political parties. I see some very sensitive writers holding flags of illiterate corrupt politicians who have no respect for written word or writers. "Having sprouted cactus over their tongues/ hands coming forward to plant roses/ have dropped like a leper's." (Naked Wire, trans. mine)

My three year old son Yugank comes out and starts pulling the dog by its ears. I panic, ask him to leave it alone. I shout for Shreejana again. But 'little rascal' seems adamant. Dog lifts itself a bit, mockingly as Yugank pulls his ears but then suddenly drops back to the ground sheepishly. Yugank laughs. Is this the little game they play secretly all the time? But dogs are dogs. I know at times Yugank pulls it by the tail. In that case it's sure to panic and bite him.

"There are awards in this country which in words of my mentor late Shanker Lamichane, can't even buy enough firewood for a writer's funeral. This Shanker Dai said after he received Madan Puruskar. In Nepal most of the donors are themselves beggars. They always expect some kind of return from the writer. Then there is Royal Nepal Academy's Prithivi Puruskar, the biggest one. In the history of Nepali literature the recipient of the Award has never ever lived long enough to see his successor receive the Award. The Award is given at such a phase of an author's life that on hearing the news of the award the respective author instantly orders his Will and funeral rites, and even critics wake up from their beds to write the obituaries. What's the point in receiving such awards?"

Shreejana brings Khaja. She seems to be enjoying the situation where at least for a day we have been forced to stay indoors.

"I completely disagree with B.P. Koirala that it's society/readers who should look after the poets/writers and not the Govt. How can writer who doesn't get proper plate of Dalbhat go for a world competition, face/denounce the tricks of modernism, post - modernism? I think it's duty of the Govt. in a country like Nepal to look after the writers. Because we in here have something which the West has lost. In here poetry like innocence, has survived. Poetry here is the last refuge, the 'blank spot' stuff. As the Sun sets beyond the opposite hill range we believe the whole world has gone to sleep. There is mystery and an innocence left to believe this illusionary myth of mystery as reality which the West hasn't. Perhaps humanity like poetry has survived in Nepal only. Now it's Western poets' turn to learn from us'. "But I shall wait/for a conscious naked wire, a live one,/thrumming, thoroughly electrified/. In the six billion blood vessels of the world/shall the currents of its revolution run/for the birth of a naked wire/ I shall wait, my eyes fixed on the invisible road. /For a procession of naked wires of the World." (Naked Wire, trans. mine).

(Yuyutsu R. D. Sharma has published three poetry collections and has recently brought out a collection of Nepali Poetry in English translation entitle Roaring Recitals : Five Nepali Poets. Currently, he edits a literary magazine, Pratik.)