Cut is the branch that might have grown...

-Dr.Sangita Rayamajhi

On the first of June, at twelve thirty a.m. I heard the dreadful news! Numbness overwhelmed me. Phone calls, more phone calls and still more calls. Time dragged on. The heavy aching arms of the clock finally grinded to four thirty. I drew back the curtains and looked outside. The birds were flying, the temple bells were ringing, people were walking the streets, life was going on. I had thought the world would stop for her; it went on but with a difference. Nepali earth and air, would not be the same again after the unbearable tragedy—the massacre of the King and his family.

Gentle, soft, polite, shy and ever so innocent of the ways of the world, she had lived twenty-two years of her life within the walls of Narayanhiti Palace. As an outsider I could see the sheltered life that she led, perhaps replete with all the amenities of modern times as any princess of the world, but very sweetly oblivious to the normal happenings outside. How does it feel when there is load shedding at night? What do people sell in the footpaths of Kathmandu? To any person her questions could perhaps sound too casual, so offhand, but to me it was just an innocent girl making a cautious inquiry.

The two years that I taught her at the bachelor’s level are beautiful memories which will always remain with me, and I hope will help me obliviate the fateful Midnight Memories. I had the last class of the day with her, 7-8 p.m. Each day was a full day for her and so in my class she was often a bit tired, a little fidgety, but like any student always ready to learn. Giving her any homework was always so useless. I often told her this. As soon as I left her room I knew she would transform from a student into a princess again. But while I was with her she did work, she was attentive, curious, asked lots of questions and at times was quite playful, and when she laughed her eyes twinkled, sparkled and crinkled at the corners in the same manner as her daughter Grivani’s does today.

As a teacher perhaps it was not the right thing to do (we do make allowances sometimes) but we did bunk a couple of classes in order to see her paintings and drawings that were kept in a room a little further down the same corridor that her study was in. An exhibition of her paintings was soon going to be held at the Royal Nepal Academy. She was excited but frightened. It was to be her first solo public appearance. The paintings were works of an amateur no doubt, but they were beautiful because her heart lay in her art works, especially the charcoal drawings which were her favorites and which she told me she had initially learnt from her father. In this respect she was completely her father’s daughter.

From her teacher I grew to be a her confidante, we talked for hours, outside classes, over the phone. On the day of her exhibition all of us invitees were crowding the lobby of the Royal Nepal Academy. The princess arrived. She came in, stood a little further in from the entrance, looked around saw me and came straight to me. "I am nervous," she said. (A photographer has captured that moment). I talked her out of her nervousness. And then the crowd verged in, in the form of individuals all wanting to pay their respects to their princess.

Besides painting and drawing she wrote poetry too. She used to read aloud to me quite a number of poems from the red diary that she kept. Though of course I cannot recall the lines I can still remember that her early poems were very fragile, of love and separation and failed dreams and the later ones were romantic, of dreams and hopes woven by a maturing woman. She used to begin reading her poems (first asked permission-pandhu hai?) shyly at first and then as the poem gained momentum, her voice too would gather strength as it entered into the depth of feelings and passion.

Her married life was a bliss. Now our phone calls were few and far between. But still we communicated. Amongst the many questions I had put to her I remember one distinctly. "What does Sarkar desire most in her life?" Pat came the answer. "To go for long rides on a motorbike sitting behind Gorakh," and then she laughed and continued, "but he doesn’t know how to ride a motorbike."

The public loved her, so natural, so unpretentious, so simple, a princess who wanted to be like one of us, to love and to be loved. She was just beginning to share a part of her life with the people —functions, inaugurations, exhibitions. She was always willing and ready. But God desired otherwise.

Princess Shruti will always remain the princess of the people’s hearts. She will be remembered by the country as a princess with great promise but who died in such a tragic manner.

The mind refuses to believe that she has passed away.

McVeigh’s case still

By Manoj Rijal

I took just four minutes and Timothy McVeigh was dead.

The Oklahoma bomb-blast-murder-case was a recent and much talked about incident of capital punishment that was carried out in Indiana State of USA on June 11. Telecast live, some 300 people watched the execution of the "beast" (a word chosen by McVeigh to describe himself in a letter published in a New York newspaper), who claimed 168 lives, injuring 600 people six years back.

The McVeigh case may be considered a major addition to a century-long debate on two very controversial topics, namely: The death penalty. Or life imprisonment.

Back in history, we find that execution as a form of punishment has been very common since the start of crime in human society. There were various methods, such as hanging, shooting, drowning, decapitation, spraying salt and lemon on skin-extracted bodies, bodies sewn into wet skin-sacks and left to die in the hot sun etc.

Manusmriti, a two thousand year old Hindu text, mentions two ways of capital punishment: Suddha Badh (execution without torture) and Chitra Badh (execution with full of torture). Electrocution and lethal injection may be termed as modern forms of Suddha Badh.

Only in the 18th century, the concept of imprisonment emerged as an alternative to the death penalty, with the logic that: No one has the right to take one’s life, as it’s God’s gift. You didn’t give life, so you can’t take it. Only God can take it as he gave it.

Scholars like Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu and mainly Cesare Beccaria brought about this type of influence. ‘An essay on Crime and Punishment’, written by Becaria in 1764 criticized the then European criminal justice system and created sensation for reforms.

In England until 1780, there were altogether 350 crimes for which the penalty was death. But in 1830, only on 17 crimes, augered death penalty. Capital punishment was abolished in England in 1967.

Before the 1990 constitution of Nepal came into force, capital punishment existed for two crimes, namely, offence against the State and Military offence. But the present constitution clearly states in Article 12(1) that no law will be enforced in which there is capital punishment.

However, the situation is quite anomalous in the USA, India, China and 83 other countries which still carryout judicial executions. It has been seen that in the big nations (in the context of population, volume of crime, area etc), the death penalty is more common, whereas small countries (in the same contexts) are more in favour of imprisonment rather than execution.

In the case of India, it has enforced laws that have both provisions for execution and imprisonment. A precedent case, Balwant Singh vs. State of Punjab, AIR (1976) states that there must be special reason to enforce the death penalty for the criminal, otherwise, imprisonment will be carried out.

It is common for USA and China to blame each other for human right’s abuses. However, they are the top-most countries in the list of execution figures. According to AFP news data, 1067 people were killed in China in 1998, at least 1,000 last year and there’s also a recent case of 28 executions in a single day of June 5. Likewise, after re-introducing capital punishment in 1976 in USA, 716 people have been executed and 3,700 prisoners, still await there fate on death row.

Whatever the scenario of execution maybe, the global majority is in favour of the abolishment of the death penalty. According to Amnesty International, out of 195 countries, 109 countries have abolished it, the latest being Chile, abolishing the death penalty on May 29.

Back to the McVeigh execution, there was more news of condemnation around the world, including from most of the European countries, which are supposed to be the allies of the US government and its foreign policy. However, Europeans, who ousted capital punishment from the European Union two decades ago, seem puzzled as to why a nation advocating for and parading itself as a model of democracy and human rights, still continues to carry out executions. Furthermore, this act puts USA ethically at odds with its European allies who have all banned it.

However, apart from this, the other side of the story seems quite contrary: Most of the American people are in favour of the death penalty!

A fresh poll by a US newspaper unveiled that more than 72 per cent Americans were in support of McVeigh’s death. The US president George W. Bush also defended the US capital punishment system during his recent European tour, saying, "Democracies represent the will of the people. The death penalty is the will of the people in the United States."

To conclude, the Oklahoma City bomber, McVeigh’s case has paved the way for a series of discussions on the death penalty row worldwide. And it seems that this is not going to be put to rest soon.

Not to hide anything, Timothy McVeigh, who killed 168 people without mercy and was killed by lethal injection, was a sinner, an unforgivable sinner, and the dictator of his own fate, as he, in his final statement, writes:

"It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;

I am the captain of my soul."

Ranabhat firing blanks

By Seema A. Adhikarising sensation

Holding my pillow tight, I was burning and raking with curiosity and with a sense of terror and fear in my eyes. And with me was the universe, also burning and raking; impatiently waiting and watching the sensitive and nerve-wracking probe reports of the Royal Massacre. I could feel every pulsating heart beat. I almost counted every single second of the clock’s movement till it was 7:30- the long wait was nearing a grand finale.

Finally, NTV started its live telecast of the report of the systematic regicide, the most tragic patricide. I looked forward, full of youthful enthusiasm, to hear who the assassin was. But the next moment, I was taken aback by the speaker’s indiscretion, at times he even held the guns in his hands and threatened the journalists of one or two straight bullets.

Not only did the speaker sound unrealistic and sullen, but he also gave the impression that the personal qualities of our leaders are among the lowest in our democracy. The Hon’able Speaker gave a most unfortunate impression that a democracy doesn’t need to draw the best-trained minds towards state service. Or the fortunate impression that our leaders aren’t just netas but also abhinetas?

Things turned worse, when an hour later he couldn’t resist the temptation of showing off his brilliant English and started to read his unofficial translation. You are a fool beyond doubt if you ask me why he didn’t ask a translator to read the English translation. He didn’t and he won’t, indeed he shouldn’t. All because he is not a Dear Mr. Silent, he is after all a Dear Mr. Speaker!

I never knew earlier that our Nepali language was so poor a language in Kriya Bishesan. Alas! The traslation of Bhattatta to Rat-a-tat.. in English. And, when he was demonstrating all the items like an auctioneer, the honourable speaker simply made himself a laughing stock, no doubt, with the world watching in disbelief. It was our speaker.

Frantically searching for the truth behind the heinous crime in the Royal Palace, my curiosity died even before the speaker began his extempore, saying Bhattatta... Rat-a-tat...

Though the Speaker didn’t show much interest to the newsmen of his own country, he nevertheless seemed helpless before the demands of the foreign media. Even before they had asked to carry the heavy guns, our dear, honourable Speaker, made himself available so casually. "Shall I show this, or that? Which one?"

Despite the addition of four days, the Speaker probably didn’t have enough time to get the report bound. For as everybody knows, Taranath Ranabhat is not a doer, he’s a speaker! Because he is the Speaker, it’s his job to speak. For god’s sake, the report was written over the blood of ten royal members.

Thanks to the speaker for being a Malvolio of the nation, for his artistic talents in presenting the century’s most important probe report in public.

Give them liberty

By Nitya Nanda Timsina

The alcoholic has a compulsion to drink, which he cannot control. His vice is more than a general habit, of course. It’s rather a psychological urge and he must drink and get drunk whether he wants to or not.

Chameli’s husband had neither of these manias or disorders but simply a compulsion to drink from abject poverty that gave rise to a life full of frailty and an austere existence.

Imagine a life without a living room, except for a mosquito infested single kitchen-cum-dining and living room, a burning roof, head pounding daily through sickness and a mind boggling series of frustrations brought about by drink.

Chameli along with her skeletal husband raises the profile of her country’s neglected but husband-dominated sufferers when she shivers with fits of typhoid fever alongside her drunk husband who has neither love nor hope.

Mother of four children, in her 40s, holding the hand of her drunk husband and scolding him in a sharp bold tongue at a TB hospital in Kalimati gives no ordinary scene to the casual visitor.

Hailing from Okhaldhunga, Chameli Mizar fought for the survival of her four children all these years. The youngest has entered boarding school; the eldest, a school dropout, has a job loading trucks but has quickly picked up the drinking habit, though not openly. Yet, she was exemplary in showing how a woman should handle a disaster of this nature. She was very bold about it, and she touched my heart.

Squatting in a dirt ridden Kalimati fruits and vegetable market in her dust-laden draped sari, practically from dawn to dusk and sweltering in the soupy heat of the month of June, loading and unloading trucks, Chameli has come to defy the limitations imposed on a woman.

When the Sun falls over her face, her loosely unkempt hair shrouded in dust and mist, produces a luminous radiance. The loaded junk that bounces atop her head would sometimes crush her but she has a firm resolution to pick it up again and put it back onto the truck. Back in her rented room, she has her aluminium pot emptied to its bowels and her cute kid with the big, shiny eyes and warm, toothy smile waiting for her early arrival, lest he starve of hunger.

A bunsen-burner like kerosene stove glows in her room which serves a multiple purpose, ranging from cooking rice to roasting meat. Her husband, spends every five rupee he pockets from loading vegetables and fruits, which he then delivers to a business man, on local wine. But Chameli loves him despite his many frailties.

The last time he developed a swelling in the stomach which has left his wife and children wondering, in stark madness, how they are going to fend for themselves in the dark and void world should he succumb to the unknown disease.

One morning, the husband picks up a drunken brawl at a TB hospital. He does not know what disease has struck his abdomen, making it swell up profusely. She thunders through the hospital room as she squats near him and cries out loud about her husband who has a strange and morbid passion for drink at so early an age. And, by now, he has grown accustomed to Chameli’s irritation and scoldings.

As the days go by, Chameli grows tired and looks undernourished and malnourished while her husband becomes gaunt and haggard. Both of them look as though they will die before celebrating their 50th birthday.

The family had their last feast on mutton some four months ago and ever since, they have been consuming a diet consisting of some coarse meals.

At a glance, he looks half-alive but arouses hope as he speaks under the spell of wine. Sprawled on a gorgeous folding seat at the hospital, he moans about his by-gone habits of drinking. But when he realized his weakness to drink was ruining his life, it was too late. "I will never drink this wretched wine again", he said trembling after he realised he drank amounts which many had not imagined possible.

The emaciated couple finally left for Teku hospital for the treatment. And before Chameli recovered from typhoid, her husband had to be treated for his sickness. Yet, Chameli had no rest. I saw her still holding his hand and strolling alongside the sidewalk as tears filled my eyes and after that I saw her no more.

The global affluence of wealth and unprecedented breakthroughs in science and technology has brought immense happiness across the world, but the economic well-being of the rural masses in Nepal still remains dismal. The life that Chameli and her husband leads now could best be described in the words of the poet, Patrick Henry’s "Give me liberty or give me death."

Glorified dogs & corridor to nirvana

By Saroj Bajracharya 

Overheard a rugged voice: a father explaining to a child- "look, a dead dog! You know why it’s being killed? Because they create trouble. They carry dirty insects, spread fatal diseases like rabies. So they’re better off dead!" Violence, pessimism and anger flows through my psyche. The kind of conscience rendered to the kid would most likely impair his perspective towards life.

Saw a column about animal rights; printed to provide freedom to all creatures. Sighted another article of an artist elaborating himself through his work- " artistic expression is just an extension of my thought, not knowledge itself. The feel of knowledge is always pleasant and blissful. And I don’t always feel it when I paint, though I do feel it sometimes, which brings me to a speculation that I’m trying to grasp knowledge through my artistic abilities, but I rarely succeed. I try to grasp truth and at a certain point I think I have it on my palms but it always escapes from my reality."

A decent cautionary sound drifts into my ears- "there’s no boundary of morality to immorality. There are just things to be done by setting ourselves in certain situations and circumstances. But that ‘to be done’ work should be implemented with a clear consciousness thus creating our own moral values." A saint explains on ethical deeds to pilgrims.

Dead poisoned dogs, dirty busy streets and rabies, ode to the glorified dogs of Tihar; hello to all the pollution that persists around us and hats off to those who are ever infected by rabies. A disease of madness- a season of insanity- running wild escaping from the water of purity, gliding in the mud of malevolence. Those weird moments of restricting oneself to gain that ultimate salvation. A someone once said- "greetings money old pal!" The final conflict of becoming universal. To grasp that perfect truth, but betrayed by falsehood. Yet another mask behind mask, a circus of contaminations, performers acting and pretending doing those inhumane acts which stretch far beyond human behavior. A satirical recitation in a radio speaks out loud- "A few ‘leaders’ privileged by gluttony and now our vicinity and realm are trembling! The system is junked with pollution and elderly grown trees like us drop their branches dead under the shadowy sky. "Prototypes of rabies are everywhere. I, the wind have seen it all- touched the insecurity of those fathers, felt the innocence of the kids, sensed the insanity of those ‘leaders’, given the barks of those dogs a windfall space. Millions of years of serenity, severity- misery and divinity.

I burst into thunder. My conscience makes a ‘Brownian motion’! Lust, greed, exaggerations, agitations, dramas, sufferings, beauty, charm, happiness; mechanical machines, scientific theories- possibilities, impossibilities- worldly bodies, here there and everywhere- ‘But stop’- siege these thoughts and make them go ‘puff’. Nothing, not even a single thing in my perception. Close my eyes- blankness is what I see, peace is what I feel. Great-enlightened ones have inhaled me to exhale knowledge- a way to Nirvana. Open my eyes- a narrow belt. Poisoned food. A puppy running towards it.

The gentleman passenger

By Anita Lama

This is not a fabrication of any kind that intends to add a pleasurable thrill for you to savour on your palate of imagination but something I have narrated ad nauseam, in person." A dramatic and lengthy introductory statement made by this fellow passenger on the train before he proceeded to narrate his extraordinary experience.

In his late 60s, this man was surprisingly friendly with no air of intimidation usually borne out of the generation gap or even on immediate front borne out of a stranger’s presence. The duration of our acquaintance had barely crossed 24 hrs. While I would keep to myself in my upper berth reading books and listening to music, he would nonchalantly appear friendly with me with subtle gestures that extended from something like borrowing my book to offering me eatables. At other times he didn’t require to play hard. He would simply appear approachable.

At the end of the day, I was fairly convinced about his intentions- a harmless homo-sapien intending to be pleasant company. I was on my journey back to college after a brief vacation and with nostalgia ruling over me, company of any kind didn’t really interest me much.

To not notice oddities would be like parting with the sense of sight. This man with not-so-chiseled face seemed to limp while he walked. I assumed one of his legs to be shorter than the other. His appearance otherwise spoke of him as a hybrid with an inclined indication of Anglo-Indian origin. His admirable height was even more elevated by the way he carried himself mirroring a noble background. I could not stop wondering with regard to his choice of upper berth. At a wilting age and with a problematic leg, people normally prefer lower berths. However he seemed to have sound reasons for his selection because I really didn’t see him befriending other people, even the ones from our compartment.

On a second night just as I closed my book with a thought of going to sleep by temporarily putting an end to my intangible journey into the pages of my novel, I heard someone say, "Excuse me".

I turned to find this gentleman passenger smiling at me from his berth.

"If you don’t mind, can we talk for sometime", he said in a very timid manner.

I nodded to show that it was okay with me.

His talk started with queries all of which were directed towards and about me. I had barely finished with the kind-of-introductory session when he started narrating his personal experience that drove away my sleep for the rest of my journey.

"When I was of your age, I would travel far and wide but I had one more friend to accompany me. We travelled less in business and more out of exploration, to places normally unheard of and each of our carefree forays was like an experience on the edge. Talisco, which was sheltered in the foothills of the Himalayas, was the place we planned to visit just as we passed out of college.

"So seated in a car we were twisting and turning through the curves of this unmetalled and deserted hilly road that was to lead us to Talisco, a place that held its charm because of its low profile. As we drove through the dense and towering vegetation of pine trees we started sensing this eeriness-eeriness that foretells doom-doom that was coming our way and yet we were mum and still as though the eeriness had cast a spell on us. The road was too narrow to allow for a sharp U-turn and the only choice that lay before us was to keep going. The thought of using the back gear didn’t strike our minds then and just as we knew it in one corner of our hearts, a huge figure loomed in front, appearing from the rising bend of the road. It was like the experience you get when you are in a planetarium, first you feel as though you are looking at the stars in the sky and then when you sink into it you can virtually feel being lifted to the sky and there reaches a moment when the stars appear to be below you and you are actually looking down at it from a far away distance in space. This person rises from a tiny figure and looms huge as the distance between us shortens. It was as though he was not just standing but moving at the speed of our car. He was in robes like the ones you get to see in science fiction movies but the difference was that his robe hid his legs, if he had any. Giving a feeling of floating, this bald headed robed person loomed large and towered in front of our car. I don’t remember my friend applying the brake. All I remember was the chilly, unexplainable feeling and a squeal that escaped to tremble in inaudible frequency, 'This is not a human... he just can’t be human'.

"I closed my eyes out of fear, terrified by the sight. It was like a small kid who assumes being hidden by simply hiding his face or by closing his eyes. The kid at that age fails to figure out that by hiding his face he is in reality not hidden- the sweetness that can come not only from innocence and lack of knowledge.

"I crouched low from the visible glass window but despite my closed eyes I knew intuitively that he was reaching out to me like the teacher taking viva in the class according to the names in the register as though saying, "I am first going to take a person whose name starts with the first letter of the alphabet". I could see him, not him exactly but his right hand stretching towards me like elastic. His hand now reaches the doorknob, pulls it and just as his hand stretches out to me, I swear loudly in the name of God and open my eyes- the devil had vanished. My trust in the power of God strengthened and we hastily drove forward again only to be interrupted by my friend who wanted to meet someone. As though the terror wasn’t enough, he wanted the car to stop in the middle of nowhere. It was definitely unpredictable behavior on his part at a crucial moment like this when saving one’s skin becomes the prime urge of the hour. To him, meeting the person concerned was very important which somehow didn’t make any sense in an unknown place. However, I never bothered to ask about the person and the purpose of meeting him. My eyes were constantly fixed on the horizon back to the spot where the ghost had terrorized us. I wanted to make sure that we weren’t being followed but the wait seemed too long and I went down to check on my friend and then I noticed this odd looking person hanging around. There was something abnormal about her, something negative and destructive and yet I kind of overlooked. What was she doing here anyway? And what was this lone house doing in a place like this in the first place? Too many questions seemed to bombard my head at an alarming pace- the questions, which seemed to have no answer".

He abruptly ended the story where the ghost came and threw him in the air so hard that he supposedly landed on his back but surprisingly broke his left leg- the reason he stumbled while he walked. He bid me goodnight and turned off to sleep. I was left with my mind still drawn in the world he succeeded in creating through the play of apt words and amazing voice modulation. I was expecting a kind of analysis, a kind of conclusion and continuity, the ones we are usually fed with. As I slowly became aware of the reality, I could see the glowing bulb glaring down at me.

'This couldn’t get better', I thought as I heard the narrator of the real-life story snoring in his berth while I was wide awake because of one damn story, which could be another tall-tale. I thought I needed some fresh air and a splash of cold water on my face. Perhaps it was both claustrophobia and nyctophobia getting gradually at me and accentuated by the "dumb" ghost story. So I quietly climbed down my berth amid multiple snores to do the needful. When I was back after a few minutes, I was shocked to see the other upper berth unoccupied. Even his handbag was missing (his sole possession). Reality got the better of me and I checked my luggage and belongings. All was intact. The train hadn’t slowed or stopped meanwhile so where could he have possibly gone? I was kept pondering this for more than an hour when I felt the train slow down which meant a station was upfront. In a flash, I stepped onto the platform and ran my trembling fingers in ascending and descending order like a student looking for his number after the board result. The passenger’s name list stuck outside the bogy read my name and in his place was some other name starting from some other letter.

I settled in my berth puzzled with a mystery unsolved, with my curious mind torturing me to dig out the facts. The thought that crossed my mind sent shivers down my spine as I stared at the empty berth rocking like a cradle with the train gathering momentum and with a shriek of a whistle that sounded equally eerie at this hour with everyone around me next to dead.

When the day broke, probably nobody would notice the unusual event that took place since he was a pretty low-profile person. Those who will notice his absence will assume him to have got down on some station at night and for those who know the unusual (like me) would narrate the story again. Probably the way Ashutosh, the gentleman passenger started it. Perhaps the only difference would be that I might not have to wait for another two decades and more to narrate the same.

MAIN