अकादमी, पण्डीचेरी र गोर्खा विमर्श

अकादमी, पण्डीचेरी र गोर्खा विमर्श

-समशेर अली

कालेबुङ

छुदेन काविमोको कथासङ्ग्रह ‘१९८६’-को विमोचनसँगसँगै, प्रेम प्रधान सरको फोन आयो, दार्जीलिङबाट झट्टै साहित्य अकादमी नया दिल्ली सम्पर्क गर्नु भनेर। सम्पर्क भयो सचीव महोदयसित।

केहीदिन पच्छ्यात निमन्त्रना पत्र सहित सुन्दर कार्ड प्राप्त भयो अकादमीबाट। मेरो नाम कार्डमा अङ्कित रहेछ ‘वाई डु आई राइट?’ (‘म किन लेख्छु?’) विषयमाथि पन्द्रह मिनटको वार्ता प्रस्तुत गर्नुपर्ने रहेछ।

वार्ता तयार गर्न हतारिएँ। हप्तादिन भित्र लिपिवद्ध लामो वार्ता तयार भयो। सरसर्ती पढ्दा ४५ मिनट भएछ। छोट्याएँ २५ मिनटको भयो। फेरि छोट्याएँ १६ मिनट ४० सेकेन्ड भएछ, छिटो छिटो पढ्दा। सजाएर फाईलभित्र हालेँ। विमोचनबाट लिएर आएको हस्ताक्षर सहितको छुदेनको १९८६ जस्ताको त्यस्तै टेबलमा पल्टी रहेको थियो।

बेलुकीपख कालेबुङको लोकल च्यानल खोलेर टी.भी. हेर्न बसेँ- डा हर्कबहादुर छेत्री बोल्दै हुनुहुन्थ्यो- ‘हामी शिक्षित मानिस हौँ कुनै सर-सल्लाहबिना नै यसरी राजिनामा दे भन्न कहाँ सकिन्छ र?, म मेरो निर्णय १८ सेप्टेम्बरकै दिन दिनेछु। कुरो १५ सेप्टेम्बर साँझको थियो। भोलिपल्ट पण्डीचेरी सम्मको हवाई टिकट लिन बजार लागेँ। बजारमा पुगेर घाँइ-घुँई सुनियो ‘अहो! हर्क सरले रिजाईन गर्दैन पार्टीबाट कुरो मिल्यो। म टिकट सङ्ग्रह गरेर घरतर्फ लागेँ। बेलुकी निउज् च्यानल खोलें।

नेपालको सम्विधान तयार भएर जनतामाझ आउन लागेको रहेछ। झट्ट सम्झिएँ मेरो कथा संग्रहमा उल्लेखित ‘काँडे तार’ र १९५० साले भारत-नेपाल मैत्री सन्धि। नेपालमा सम्विधान बनिने भयो मलाई ढुक्क लाग्यो। यो कुनै डायस्पोरा थिएन, उत्सुक थिएँ कतै अब पचासको सन्धी खारेज हुन्छ कि भन्ने। छुदेनको १९८६ दुई-चार घण्टाको हवाई यात्रामा पढ्न पऱ्यो टेबलमा राखेर मनमनै सोंचे। अबेर रात बिनोद रसाईलीको खर्साङबाट फोन आयो, दार्जीलिङ जिल्लाबाट हामी दुवैजनालाई अकादमीबाट निम्तो थियो। केही विशेष काम विषयले एउटा विलम्ब हुने भयो र मलाई भोलिपल्ट बंगलोर हवाई अड्डामा भेट्ने कुरा गर्नुभयो। श्रीमतीले सबै लुगाफाटा एउटा सानो सुटकेशमा हालीदिनु भो- जतनले मेरो लेखको फाइल माथिबाट राखेँ। नेपाली टोपी र टाई पनि हालें।

१७ सेप्टेम्बर बिहानै बागडोगरा विमान स्थलतिर लैजाने इनोभा गाडी पनि आई पुग्यो घर आँगनमै। समय भन्दा धेरै अघि पुगिएछ बागडोगरा। ‘चेक इन’ गरेर बोर्डिंग पास लिएँ। मेरो ब्याग-प्याक आफुसित हातमा लिएँ। सुटकेश लगेजमा बुक गरिदिएँ। भित्र विश्राम गृहमा गएर बेग खोतलें, लाहै! छुदेनको १९८६ लगाउनै बिर्सिएछु। मेरो पुरानो दुईवटा कथा संग्रह सोल्दाती गोर्खा मोल्त्यो ब्योनी र बिउ भाले चाँही रहेछ। आफुले लेखेको बिउ भाले कथा सङ्ग्रहका कथाभित्रका नायक ‘सेर जंग थापा’ मेरो आफ्नै बुबाको दोस्रो विश्व युद्धको कथा। बुबालाई सम्झिएँ, हिउँदोमा मकलमा आगो फुकेर वरिपरी बसेर बुबाले भनेका लडाईका कथाहरू। १९८६-को आन्दोलन शुरू भएकै २७ जुलाईको केही दिन पछी बुबा बित्नु भयो। छुदेनले १९८६ मा के लेखेको छ थाहा छैन। बुबाले तत्कालिन प्रधान मन्त्री राजिब गान्धी समक्ष दार्जीलिङलाई केन्द्रिय शासित प्रदेश अर्थात् युनियन टेरिटोरी बनाईनुपर्छ भन्ने प्रस्ताव राख्नु भएको थियो दिल्लीमै प्रधान-मन्त्री भेटेर। अझ ‘मिस’ गरें बुबालाई किनभने म केन्द्रिय शासित प्रदेश पण्डीचेरीतर्फ लागिरहेको थिएँ अकादमीको निमन्त्रणामा। हेरौँ केन्द्रले शाषण गरेको दिल्ली शहर हेरिसकेको थिएँ पण्डीचेरी हेर्ने मेरो निम्ति पहिलो मौका थियो।

इन्डिगो हवाई जहाज समय मै उड्यो बाघडोगरा विमान स्थलबाट। हवाई जहाजभित्र सुन्दरी परिचायिकाहरू देखेर एक क्षण घर भुलें। कोलकाता सुभास चन्द्र हवाई अड्डामा केही क्षण उत्रिएर उडान भऱ्यो फेरि बंगलोर तर्फ। बंगलोर पुग्दा साँझ परिसकेको थियो, होटल तर्फ लागें। भोलिपल्ट मात्र थियो पण्डीचेरीको निम्ति विमान, खर्साङबाट बिनोद भाइ पनि आउने दिन। राती ओच्छ्यानमा पल्टेर फेसबुक खोलेँ ‘अहँ नेट चलेन’। घरमा फोन गरें, खर्साङका बिनोद भाइलाई पनि उनी पनि हवाईजहाज चढेर कोलकाता आईपुगी सकेछ। छुदेनको ‘१९८६ कथा सङ्ग्रह’ मिस गर्दै सुतेँ। भोलिपल्ट १४ सेप्टेम्बरको दिन बिहान नौ बजेतिर बिनोदको फोन आयो, बंगलोरमा ल्याण्ड गरिसकेछ। ‘एयरपोर्टमै भेट्नेछु’-फोनबाट भनिदिएँ।, ३ बजीतिर एकै हवाईजहाजमा दुईजनाको टिकट थियो पण्डीचेरीको निम्ति। १२ बजीतिर होटलबाट ‘चक आउट’ गरें। बिनोदलाई बंगलोर हवाई अड्डामै भेटें। उ सँगै सिट मिलाएर मैले आफ्नो बोर्डिंग पास लिएँ। मलाई देखेर प्रसन्न भए बिनोद भाइ अनि म पनि।

उडानको समय भयो- हवाई जहाज देखेर हरेस खाएँ। पुरानो नक्सामा मात्र देखेको जस्तो हवाई जहाज। पुऱ्याउछ के? –जस्तो लाग्ने। बरू मद्रास भएर गाडीको बाटो गएको भए पनि हुने थियो जस्तो लाग्यो। हामीसित अनुहार मिल्दो अन्य तिन यात्रुहरू पनि थिए त्यो हवाई जहाजभित्र।मन-मनै सोचेँ सुइटर बेच्न हिँडेका तिब्बती व्यापारीहरू होलान् भन्ने।

समयमै हवाईजहाज उडयो परिचारिकाहरु देखेर घर सम्झे अघिको हवाईजहाजको भन्दा केही बयस्क सुन्दरी मेरी श्रीमती जस्तै । सानु हवाईजहाज १५, २० जना यात्रुहरु थिए । उत्रियो पण्डेचरीमा  त्यो एउटै मात्र हवाईजहाज आउँदो जाँदो रहेछ पन्डेचरीमा त्यही १५, २० यात्रुहरुलाई पर्खेर बसेका गाडीहरु रहेछन् हवाईअडडामा सबै यात्रुहरु गाडीमा चडेर गए । म र बिनोद भाइ मात्र रहयौ हवाईअडडामा । गएर त्यहाँका सेक्युरीटि र्गाडहरुलाई सोध्यौ गाडी पाइन्छ भनेर उनीहरुले फोन गरेर मगाउनु पर्छ भन्यो । यतिकैमा परबाट टेम्पो आयो फि टि टि गर्दै हामीले रोक्यौ चडेर हाम्रो गन्तव्य होटल अन्नमलाई इन्टरन्याशनल तर्फ हानियौ । टेम्पो गएर आलिशन होटल समक्ष रोकियो गेटमा छ फूटे दर्बानले मुगल भेषमा अदब साथ स्वागत गरयो । लक्जरी कारहरुको लाइन थियो होटल अघि । हामी मात्र टेम्पोमा फ्रन्ट डेक्समा पुगेर हाम्रो रुम बुकिङको कुरो सोध्दै थियौँ एउटा भद्र मानिस आएर सोध्नुभो - “तपाईहरु कहाँ बाट आउनु भो ?” अकादमीको कार्यक्रमको निम्ति दार्जीलिङबाट । फेरि सोध्नुभयो-‘बाई एयर आउनुभो ?’

“हजुर”

म अहिले अन्य अतिथीहरुलाई एयरपोर्टबाट लिएर आएको तपाईँहरुलाई देखिन त ? म यस कार्यक्रमको संयोजक हुँ । हामीलाई नदेख्नुमा उहाँको कुनै भूल थिएन । हाम्रा अनुहारहरुलाई अन्य भारतियहरुले कहाँ पो देखेका छन् र ? हाम्रो अनुहार नै यस्तो त्यो एयरपोर्टमा हामी दुवैजना मात्र रहदाँ पनि कसैले नदेख्ने । भिडभित्रमा अन्तै कुरो । मन मनै सोचेँ यस देशले धेरै लाग्ने रहेछ हामीलाई देख्नमा । सायद हामीले देख्ने काम नै पो गरेका छैनौ कि ? ?

अघि हवाइजहाज भित्र देखेको तीन जना तिब्बती व्यापारीहरु पनि त्यही होटलमा रहेछन्  होटल अन्नमलाई इन्टनेशनलभित्र प्रवेश गरिए पछि कुनै कुनै कुराको कमि हुन  दिएनन् । तारे होटल हुनाको कारणले सम्पूर्ण कुराहरुको व्यवस्था, उच्चकोटिको शयन कक्ष । रुफ टपमा सुईमिङ पूल ऐनाका लिफ्टहरु होटेलको  लाउन्ज र बडे बडे ब्याङक्वेट हलहरु शाही सत्कारमा रहयौँ दुईदिनसम्म ।

पहिलो दिनको र्कायक्रम १९ सितम्बरको बिहान दश बजे हामीलाई वातानुकूल सेमिनार हलमा लिएर गए जहाँ उत्तर पूर्विय भारत अनि दक्षिण भारतका १० वटा बिभिन्न राष्ट्रिय भाषाका विभिन्न अर्वाडहरुद्वारा सम्मानित सर्जकहरुका जमघट थियो । जसमा असमिया, नेपाली, मणिपुरी, चकमा, कन्नडा, तमिल, तेलगु , मलयालम आदिका सर्जकहरुका उपस्थिती थियो ।

पहिलो दिनको सम्भाषणमा अकादमीका सचिव के० श्रीनिवासा रावले भन्नुभयो “दिर्घ दिनदेखि हामी उत्तर पूविर्य भाषीहरुका साहित्य एवं सास्कृतिलाई “प्रमोट” गर्ने कोशिषमा लागि परेका फलस्वरुप भारतमा अन्य भुभागका लेखक, कवि, नाटककार, समालोचकहरुलाई उत्तर पूविर्य प्रान्तका सर्जकहरुसँग जोड्न सक्षम भएका छौँ ।

प्रख्यात उडिया लेखक मनोज दासज्यू भन्नु हुँदै थियो— भारतको सबै भन्दा पुरानो साहित्य तामिलसँग आज सबै भन्दा कान्छो कोको बोरोक साहित्यिक र सर्जकहरुको जमघटमा म अति नै प्रसन्न छु ।

चन्द्रशेखर काम्बर साहित्य अकादमीका उप-सभापतिले आफ्नो सम्भाषणमा जोड दिँदै भन्नुभयो —भारतवर्षका एकतामा विभिन्नतामा रहेका हाम्रा भाषा साहित्यको रुपमा विश्वको सामु हामी प्रस्तुत गर्न सक्छौँ । हामीले आजसम्म अनुवाद साहित्यमा भने जस्तो काम गर्नु सकेका छैनौ गर्नु पर्छ । बृतानी हुकुमतमा अङ्ग्रेजहरुले संस्कृत भाषाको बदली अङ्ग्रेजी भाषा जन मानसमा फैलाए जसले गर्दा हाम्रा साहित्यहरु पनि राष्ट्रीय अनि अन्तराष्ट्रिय स्तरमा देखा पर्न थाल्यो । भाषा साहित्यका आञ्चलिक घेराबन्दीहरु भत्कँदै गए अनि अङ्ग्रेजी भाषाको माध्यमद्वारा हाम्रा भावहरु एकाअर्कामा प्रकट गर्न समक्ष बन्यौँ । अङ्ग्रेजहरुको यो हेजीमोनिक शक्तिले नै हाम्रो विभिन्न आञ्चलिक साहित्यहरु परस्परमा सम्पर्क बडाउन सहायता गरयो । आजपनि कतिपय साहित्यहरु आफ्नो अञङचलभित्र मात्र सिमित छन् जसको अनुवादहरु विभिन्न भाषामा हुन अनिवार्य छ । एकपल्ट अङ्ग्रेजी भाषामा अनुवादित साहित्यलाई त्यसबाट टिपेर अन्यान्न भाषाहरुमा अनुवाद गर्न सकिन्छ ।

अनुवाद गर्नु भने जस्तो सजिलो हुँदैन । अनुवादकलाई दुईवटै भाषाको पूर्ण ज्ञान हुनपर्छ विशेष हाम्रो देशमा हिन्दी र अङ्ग्रेजीमा अनुवाद गरिन्छ अनि अकादमीले सो कार्य गरिरहेछ तरै पनि यो खुटयाउन गाह्रो छ कुन अनुवादक कति सक्षम छन् र सठिक अनुवाद गरिरहेछन् तमिल साहित्यका सल्लाहकार के० नाँचीमुयु यसरी बोल्दै हुनुहुन्थ्यो साहित्य अकादमी नयाँ दिल्लीलाई यो सुझाऊ राख्न चाहन्छु हामीले विभिन्न भाषाका अनुवाद साहित्यका विद्धानहरुलाई अनुवाद कार्यशाला किंवा प्रशिक्षण दिएर असल अनुवाद साहित्यको निर्माण गर्नु सक्छौ । उहाँले आफ्नो सम्भाषणमा अझ थपे अङ्ग्रेजी साहित्यका लेखक एवं समालोचक के० सी० बराल मेघालयबाट आफ्नो सारगर्भित सम्भाषण प्रस्तुत गरे ।

अनुवाद संस्कृति माथि एउटा रोचक पेनल डिस्कसन पनि राखियो उक्त दिन । मणिपुरका डा० रन्जीत थोकयोम खुबै असल ढङ्गमा आफ्ना प्रस्तुती दिए भन्दै हुनुहुन्थ्यो ।

-‘हामी मान्छौ हाम्रो साहित्य अन्य भाषीहरुका तुलना कान्छो हो तर हाम्रा लोक साहित्य र लोकगीतहरु सायदै अन्य भाषीहरु भन्दा धेरै धनी छन् । अमेजोनको जङ्गलमा यस्ता प्रजातिहरु पनि पाइएका छन् जसको भाषामा एउटै मात्र शब्द छ  “इन्जे” यदि शब्दलाई विभिन्न प्रकारले उनिहरु प्रयोगमा ल्याउँछन् र एकाअर्कामा आफ्नो भाव प्रकट गर्छन् । उनिहरुका एउटै शब्द “इन्जे”मा पनि आफ्नो लोक-साहित्य बचाएर राखेका छन् यी इन्जे आदिवासीहरुले । डा० रन्जीत बोल्छन् ।

अपरान्ह भोजन पछि आसामबाट गएका अन्तराष्ट्रिय बाद्य — बादक र नर्तकीहरुले बिहु नृत्य प्रस्तुत गरेर सबैलाई मन मोहक तुल्याए ।

पहिलो दिनको र्कायक्रम पछि हामी होटल फर्कियौँ र साँझपख पन्डेचरीको समुद्री किनारातर्फ लाग्यौँ धेरै पर्यटकहरुको भिडमा म स्वंय र बिनोद भाई पनि अल्पियौँ । होटलमा फर्किएर आयौँ अनि फ्रन्ट अफिसमा गएर वाई फाईको पास वर्ड माग्यौँ । अहिलेसम्म बन्द भएको सेलफोनको नेट खोलेर फेसबुक खोलेर हेरेँ । डा० हर्कबहादुर छेत्रीले पार्टीबाट इस्तिफा दिएछ त विधायकको  पद यथावत राखेछ । सम्झे छुदेन काविमोको १९८६  इतिहास दोरिन्छ भन्थ्यो दोहोरिएछ । सुबास घिसिङको पालोमा पनि यहि कुरो भएको थियो । तत्कालिन कालेबुङका बिधायक एन० टी० मोक्तानले बिधायकको पदबाट राजिनामा दिन अस्विकार गरेका थिए ।

भोलिपल्ट २० सेप्टेम्बरको दश बजेदेखि पन्डेचरी सहकारी संस्थानको वातानुकूल हलभित्र अकादमीको कार्यक्रम पुनः शुरु भयो । गौवाहटीका बुज्रुक प्राध्यपक जी० पी० शर्मा अध्यक्षको चौकीमा आसिन हुनुहुन्थ्यो । पाँचजना क्रमैले कन्नड, मलयालम, मणिपुरी, तामिल अनि तेलगुका कथाकारहरुले आ—आफ्ना छोटो कथाका अङ्ग्रेजीमा अनुवाद सुनाए । जसमध्ये सुश्री सुरमा निगोमबाम मणिपुरकी कथा खुबै मन छुने थियो । कथाको अङ्ग्रेजी शिर्षक ‘अलोंग द अर्थस् इटर्नल पासाज’ नारीवादी उक्त कथाले मणिपुरका नारीहरुका मार्मिकता बोकेको थियो । त्यो कथा सुनेर कुनै दिन देश भरका अखबरहरुको हेड लाइन बनेको बलात्कृत मणिपुरकी अबला नारीको सम्झना भो । जसमा घर घरबाट आमाहरु निक्लेर नग्न बिक्षोभ प्रर्दशन गर्न सडकमा ओर्लेका थिए ।

कथाको बयान पश्चात अब मेरो पालो आयो Why do I write माथि आफ्नो प्रस्तुति पेश गर्ने । अध्यक्षतामा प्रोफेसर जी० पी० शर्मा हुनुहुन्थ्यो । आसामबाट देवब्रत दास, तामिलभाषी के० पन्चगाम चेन्नईबाट थिए , जे० एस० मुन्नी तेलगु लेखक अनि म स्वंय दार्जीलिङबाट ।

मैले आफ्नो निर्णयलाई बदलिएँ म मेरो प्रस्तुति पढेर सुनाउदिन भन्ने। सम्पूर्ण लगेको मेरो लेखलाई एकापट्टि थन्काएर बोल्न थालेँ । ‘मेरो हार्दिक अभिवादन यस हलमा उपस्थित रहनुभएका सभापति एवं सम्पूर्ण  दर्शकदिर्धाका महानुभावहरुलाई । म आफैलाई साहित्यिक दैत्यहरुको सामु बाउन्ने सम्झिरहेछु । तपाईहरु जस्ता ठूला ठूला कृतिहरु मसित छैनन् । तरैपनि यस्तो गरिमामय स्थान दिएर बोल्न दिनुभएकोमा म अकादमीप्रति आभार व्यक्त गर्न चाहन्छु ।’- मेरो पुरानो छोटो नेपाली कविता बुख्याँचाबाट मेरो संभाषण शुरु गरेँ ।

Scare crow (बुख्याँचा)

out of my grand father’s lahurey hat

my father’s army over coat

my mother’s roasted corn pot

and my own tattered trousers

I constructed fright for the birds

In paddy seedlings

When wind blew life in it,

Scare crow dare turns

To frighten me instead

(Translated D.T. Lepcha.)

सुनेर दर्शकदिर्घाबाट धेरैले ताली मारे मेरो आफ्नै युद्ध कथाहरुका बिमर्शमा धेरै बोलेछु । पहिलो विश्वयुद्धबाट २०,००० हाम्रा पूर्खाहरु पूविर्य युरोपबाट घर फर्केका कुराहरु । दोस्रो महायुद्धमा मारिएका २२,००० गोर्खाहरु जसको दुःखलाग्दो लिखित कथाहरु बिरलै पाइन्छ इतिहासमा । गायत्री स्पिवाकले भने मुताबिक हामी आवाज हराएका निमुखा “सबाल्टर्न”-हरु हौँ । हाम्रा इतिहास र कथाहरु अरुले नै लेखिरहे बीर र बहादुर लडाकुको संज्ञा दिएर अरुकै युद्धहरु लडन प्रेरित गरिरहयो सँधै हामीलाई । पहिलो विश्वयुद्धमा हिउँका आँधीहरुमा भोक भोकै कक्रिएर मर्न पऱ्यो , दोस्रो महायुद्धमा औले ज्वरो र हैजाले भोक भोकै मरे धेरै मरे हाम्रा पुर्खाहरु बर्माको जङ्गल, खाडीदेशका मरुभुमि र पूर्वीय युरोपतिर । घरमा वृद्ध माता पिता स्वास्नी छोराछोरीहरु कुनै दिन युद्धबिर फर्किन्छ कि भन्ने आशा आसैमा मरेर गए । यदाकदा दुईचार व्यक्तिहरुलाई भी० सी०-का तक्मा र अन्य तक्माहरु छात्तिमा सिउराएर उनिहरुले आफ्नै  बिरताका कथाहरु लेखे जस्तै —“Untill lion write their own history the tale of the hunt will always glorify by the hunter”हामी ति जङ्गलका सिंहहरु जस्तै शिकार हौँ । शिकारीहरुले आफै प्रशंसा गरिरहे सिधा शिकारीले भोग्नु परेका व्यथाहरु हामीसित प्रशस्तै प्रमाण छ । म खोजी खोजी लेख्दैछु मेरो युद्ध कथाहरुमा । हो युद्धभूमिमा पिठ्यु फर्काउनु नसक्नु नै हाम्रो बिडम्बना हो ।

म किन लेख्छु ? भन्ने कुरोलाई अघि बडाउँदै मेरो बिर्मशमा भने कारण म जुन स्थानबाट हजुरहरु समक्ष आएको छु जहाँ हरिया पहाडहरु छन् सेता हिमाल पारी भित्तामा देखिन्छ । मेरो घर आँगनको गोरेटो भएर उकाली ओराली जीवन चलायमान छ । माटो र पसिनाको गन्ध छ उनिहरुकै कथा लेख्छु । म अझ लेख्छु मेरो मनमा बिझेका कुराहरु मेरो पुर्व सिमाना चीनसंग जोडिएको छ बिचमा काँडेतार लगाएर आउन जान प्रतिबन्ध लगाइएको छ । पासपोर्ट र भिसा बाहेक आउन पाइन्दैन , नेपाल मैत्री सन्धी मुताबिक बिना रोकटोक  आउन जान सक्छन् नेपाल एवं भारतका बासिन्दाहरु । हाम्रो अस्तित्वको चिन्हारीको दोष यहि सन्धिले गर्दा तपाईँहरु दिग भ्रमित रहनु हुन्छ सँधै । आज पनि दर्शक दिर्घामा सुनिरहनु भएका स्रोताहरुलाई म नेपालबाट आएको हुँ भनेर । वास्तवमा म खाँटी भारतिय हुँ । १९५० को भारत नेपाल मैत्रीय सन्धी जबसम्म खारिज गरिन्दैन तपाईहरुको सोचमा म सायदै परिवर्तन ल्याउन सक्षम बनौला । यो १९५० को सन्धि चाँडो खारिज हुन पर्छ र दुवै देश बिच काँडे तार लगाइनु पर्छ । मैले मेरा एउटा कथा “काँडे तार” मा यो कुरा उल्लेख गरेको छु । नेपाल सरकार पनि यो सन्धीको विरोधमा छन् । म अखबारमा पढछु । यसो गरेमा दुवै देशको मित्रता अझ घनिष्ट भएर जानेछ । अब नेपालले आफ्नो सार्वभौम राष्ट्रको संविधान पनि कोरिइसकेको छ । चीन र भारतको हस्तक्षेपदेखि अलग बस्न चाहन्छ नेपाल । म भारतिय हुँ भन्दा तपाईँहरुलाई पत्यार नलाग्नुको मुख्य कारण पनि यहि १९५० सालको नेपाल भारत मैत्री सन्धी नै हुन् ।

हम्रो वार्ताको लगत्तै पछि उत्तर पूर्विय भारत अनि दक्षिणका प्रख्यात कविहरुका संगोष्टी थिए । बोडोल्याण्डबाट नविन मल्ल बोरो , त्रिपुराबाट केकबरक कवि थिए बोराई देव बर्मा, मलायलम कवि हरिदास, रवाटिरिकपम सुनिता देवी मणिपुरबाट तामिल कवि एस० बिजय लक्ष्मी, तेलगु कवि डमेरा रामुलु अनि खरसाङबाट बिनोद रसाईली नेपालीमा सबै कविहरु अब्बल दर्जाका थिए। आ-आफ्नो कविताहरु अङग्रेजी अनि हिन्दीमा अनुवाद गरेर सुनाए । बिनोद रसाईलीको अनुदित कवितांश यस्तो थियो

आन्दोलन

ऐले झरी थामिएको छ

भरखरै थामिएको छ ।

अविरल वर्षातपछि

रातभरिको मुसलधारे पानीले

वर्ष भरिको बाली सखाप पारेछ

तल्लो घरको काँइला छैन

सुन्दैछु आफ्नै घरको भित्ताले चेप्टिएछ ।

सुर्यका उज्याला हातहरु

कैले गाउँ पस्ने हो ?

प्रश्नका रेलगाडीहरु

मनको त्यो पुरानो लिकमा

फेरि गुडन थालेको छ ।

र्कायक्रमको समाप्ति पछि परिचयको आदान प्रदान भो फोटोहरु खिच्यौँ अन्नमलाई इन्टरन्यासनल होटल आई फर्कने तम्तयारीमा लाग्यौँ । दुईदिनको त्यो र्कायक्रम भिठो सपना जस्तै बितेर गयो सैकडौँ अनुहारहरु देख्यौँ, धेरैले निमंत्रणा दिए उनिहरुको ठाउँ दर्शन गर्नलाई । आफूले पनि निम्तो टारी राख्यौँ दुइचारलाई । तर म निदिष्ट छु त्यहाँ उपस्थित दुई-चार अनुहारहरु बाहेक अरूलाई जीवनमा दोस्रोपल्ट देख्ने छुइन, उनिहरु बस एउटा मिठो सम्झनामा बाँचीरहने छ, पन्डेचरी र ती अनुहारहरु आफू बाँचुन्जेल सम्म ।

घर पुगेर छुदेनको कथासंग्रह १९८६ पढन बाँकी नै थियो ।  कालेबुङ जिल्लाको माग विषय कुरा चुलिसकेको रहेछ।

    

1960s, Come See. (PART I)

1960s, Come See.

PART I

The hills on the other side were burning. J and Kafley had arrived during the season of wildfire in Kalimpong. Now that it was dark they could see the number of wild fire set ablaze in the distant hills. Both Kafley and J took a moment to witness the wildfire gradually catching wind; it was some sight to see the hills burning. 'What if those villages nearby catch fire?' Asked J. 'It will not' answered Kafley. They shared a moment of silence and looked at the wildfires set on several hills that stretched into the horizon. J spoke again and asked 'how?’  Kafley pointing at one of the burnings answered, 'The wildfire is always lit in a circle, it burns with such fierce urgency that it destroys everything that exist inside the circle but not outside."  J nodded. Kafley could see that he was taking time to process what he had just said. The burning hills reminded J of the decade they lived in. From the stadium of Wembley where he had seen Cooper knock down Clay, to his stay in London his first hand witness of the ruin of the empire. West wards civil right activists marched the long road to freedom. In Europe students were shaking up the power structure. In Africa nations were getting independent. In the Far East Mao’s revolution had just picked up speed. In Latin America the onslaught of capitalism had just begun. Closer at home J had been intricately working with the hunger artist, a group of avant garde armatures trying their tryst with western modernism. In Darjeeling from a small rural village called Naxalbari a group of peasants had just electrified the nation with their struggle, the tabloids termed it as the spring thunder. This movement had for the first time been able to pierce through the metropolitan crowd, this was now no more just a peasant struggle but a working class struggle. In the hills a significant undercurrent of Basha Andolan encompassed the district, the hill people demanding the recognition of their indigenous language from the state. Writers of the hills had sparked a movement called the third dimension. What was happening to the times they lived in J could not understand. The world seemed to be in turmoil. And here was J with all his aristocratic degree and education wondering from one hill top to another hiding and wandering from village to village, hundreds of kilometres away from home, like a convict. J had joined the struggle for the grassroots but these hill simpletons were not his people, he could not relate with them or their language or culture or their worldview. He had nothing but sympathy for them. The past month had been the toughest for J. He hated every second of his stay in the hills. He secretly vowed never to even look back at this place once he returned to his state capital, Calcutta.

J sat opposite at the edge of the cliff the highest point in town. Some two thousand feet below was a small village called ComeSee.  The cliff where they sat was barren; the narrow pathway beside it led to the forest down slope towards the river. J and Kafley if they listened carefully could hear the sound of the river Relli flowing. The river took its course in between the hills down stream and joined the Teesta.

 J not too fond of heights faced Kafley, his back towards ComeSee. He sat quietly, looking at the small settlement, a cluster of about 20 houses down below. Small mud houses with tin roofs on the terraces of the slope. ComeSee was surrounded by trees on all sides. On the upper periphery just as the forest ended a small ground marked the beginning of the village. The ground almost circular in shape had only a single goal post. Three children played on the ground; they looked like insect from top running after something that looked like a football. One giant step of civilization which and it was bye bye children bye bye good old ground. Beside the ground was a long house made of cement, its melting point, the community hall. This was where panchayat was conducted and problems of the village folks solved. The paddy fields surrounding the lower end of the village was barren except a few patches of vegetation near the southern end of the slope. Trees that surrounded the village all looked the same expect one. That tree stood isolated in the Far East away from the cluster of trees near the grave yard. It was a cherry tree- ‘Paiyu’ the locals called it, one of Kafley’s favourite.   Twenty two years into civilization the village was to be connected first with electricity and road or at least that was what they said would happen.  ComeSee was to take its first step towards civilization. The village abuzz with the news of modernization, all the folks seemed to talk about was how life would be once road and electricity hit the village life.

 J looked over at Kafley; he seemed to be at ease. He rolled a reefer, his shades up in his forehead now. The day was rapidly losing its light, pretty soon it would get pitch dark. Kafley, J’s handler, had been waiting for the darkness to set in before they resumed their trek again. J sitting on that cliff was thankful that he had reached safe though they had not even completed half of their journey. They had walked through the narrow ridge almost half a circle around to reach the cliff. This had been quite a feat for J just to walk; he did not dare turn behind to look at the path he had just passed. He could now breathe a sigh of relief now that he was on the cliff, safe without any fall. J had been on the run since the past couple of months. In Calcutta the communist party of India had been blacklisted by the government, its members were to be arrested and trailed. J a leading figure in the party was forced to go underground for the time being to avoid arrest. Kalimpong a small hamlet in the Eastern Himalayas had been selected by the think tank as J’s refuge during this time of turmoil. 

ComeSee slowly disappeared with the darkness of the night, only the flickering lights of the lamps remained. Kafley and J got to their feet and slowly started to make their way through the rocky ridges of the cliff into the forest. J had never thought that he would be back in Kalimpong and now that he was back he could not wait to leave this god forsaken land. On their walk down slope J had a peculiar sight that of a wood cutter. He was resting in one of the clearings on a rock, his cut laid carefully just beside the path. His was an old man his head covered with a piece of cloth. His lips protruded a faint smile as they crossed him. J could sense a faint trace of fear in his eyes perhaps he thought that they were from the forest department. J and the wood cutter passed each other in a moment of silence; he was holding a small piece of paper in his hand it seemed he was trying to read it. Though there were a lot of things that J wanted to know and ask to the old man he could not gather any words to ask him. In the end J thought best not to disturb him in his moment of peace. Kafley had seen the old man numerous times he always returned in the evening from his entire day’s cut. Through the years nothing much in the cliff had changed, it was all the same except the grasses that changed its colour from one season to another. The path J trekked was treacherous; in parts they were surrounded by grasses that were taller than even the both of them, in others burnt landings from the previous wildfire. J treaded each step with caution; the path had barely enough space for a foot to fit in. He walked trying to put his weight on the right cautious of the height towards his left. He did not dare look anywhere else other than the path he walked in. He walked exceptionally slow, did not stop to admire the wildfire on the hills beyond, did not speak, he just followed Kafley who seemed to walk with ease. From a certain point the path bent down slope towards the forest. J took a sigh of relief now that the treacherous sight of height was behind him. But just as he took that sigh of relief he could sense wild animals, insects and what not crawling all over in the darkness, he hated each second even more. Trekking down slope J had to be even more cautious, he had to control his pace and the leaves that carpeted the path proved slippery. J had never trekked on such a route before, this was as close to nature as he had ever been, walking somewhere in the the Himalayas. None of it had any kind of aesthetic feel about it however. He could give a flying fuck about the trees and the wildfire and ComeSee and the wind and the cliff and the mountains. J walked holding his life in his mouth and all he could think about was the moment he would reach the god forsaken village of ComeSee, his refuge for the next couple of week. The place seemed to be the perfect place to lie low. Kafley scanned through the place carefully as they passed through; he constantly tried to keep a tab on all the entry points. He was certain that they were not being followed. He had after much contemplation chosen to trek in the darkness just to avoid surveillance. J had never walked so much in his life as he did in the past month since entering Kalimpong. He was suffering, his aristocratic legs wobbled like a drunken monk on the rough terrain of Durpin. His limbs hurt, his balance was timid and he perspired profusely. J constantly enquired about the distance he had to walk and every time Kafley had the same answer “almost reached”. He could not wait to reach ComeSee.  

****   ****

Jyoti Basu during the early 1960s had to go underground to evade arrest from the police in the state capital. He took refuge in a small village called Kamshi in Kalimpong. ComeSee is situated right below one of the cliffs in Durpin. In 2015 this village took its first step towards civilisation when electricity and roads touched the lives of the village folks. '1960s ComeSee' is part fiction part non fiction documenting the events that unfolded during J's visit.
Hope you like it.

****   ***

SOME QUESTIONS FROM THE ANNUAL EXAMINATIONS

SOME QUESTIONS FROM THE ANNUAL EXAMINATIONS

What could be more explosive

the city’s lonely man

or

the bomber’s lonely briefcase abandoned at some junction?

Memory’s tree, lush branches

laden with fruits

Where are the roots?

Here the breath’s polluted Ganga

flows thus

Where is the sea?

Where its Gangotri?

The body bears the mind’s burden

Or has the history of the body burdened the mind?

To build which palace of faces

must this face become a wall?

And to save which face

must this face become a martyr

Which face? What face?

How many faces

can fit inside one face?

1998, Rajendra Bhandari

From: Kshar/Akshar

Publisher: Janapaksha Prakashan, Gangtok, 1998

© Translation: 2003, Anmole Prasad

From: Chandrabhaga Vol. 8

Publisher: Jayanta Mahapatra, Cuttack, 2003

Do Not Fall in Love

Do not fall in love

With people like me.

people like me

will love you so hard

that you turn into stone

into a statue where people

come to marvel at how long

it must have taken to carve

that faraway look into your eyes. 

Do not fall in love 

with people like me

we will take you to

museums and parks

and monuments

and kiss you in every beautiful

place so that you can

never go back to them

without tasting us

like blood in your mouth

Do not come any closer.

people like me

are bombs

when our time is up

we will splatter loss

all over your walls

in angry colours

that make you wish

your doorway never

learned our name.

do not fall in love

with people like me.

with the lonely ones

we will forget our own names

if it means learning yours

we will make you think

hurricanes are gentle

that pain is a gift

you will get lost

in the desperation

in the longing for something

that is always reaching

but never able to hold. 

do not fall in love

with people like me.

we will destroy your

apartment

we will throw apologies at you

that shatter on the floor

and cut your feet

we will never learn

how to be soft

 we will leave.

 we always do.

Poet:  Unknown. 

                      **** 

We read this in one the cliff in Durpin sometime in 2013. It's from I think the American poetry foundations. I hope you like it. 

ةA

ComeSee

4.

The rain solves every damn thing

Begin with the ascent of the fog

Wrap the world in a forgetting

From which a blindness emerges

For us to finally wish we`d never seen

Such bright light before.

When it all becomes too much

Wait for the fluid descent

Climb to the top, and watch the river carry all our sins

Our brazen-faced rapture

On the craggy arms of a rock

Placed on the edge of thought

Distantly growing more distinct, this admission,

This bare appearance of the light

Piercing the cloud, enfolding us

Our world wearing jewels slowly and surely.

(ComeSee)

3

My papers burning with a Kafkesque predilection

To self-annihilation, by which negation unfurls

In every form. No moorings, passing through chance and chaos.

We never had the burden of influence, the memory is not long,

Our forefathers decided to be forgotten. Imagine, they said,

Let them. Let them also learn what it was like for us then,

Running in battles without the call from any race. We are the

Nomads loyal just to the moment.

.D

A discourse on ComeSee

Bootleg Recordings (Sarangi Blues)

I am in Dello hill again. It had been a while, probably months. It’s morning. Sunday, the day is fog lit. It will probably rain later during the day. I woke up to the sound of Sarangi from the outer room. For the past couple of days two Gandharvas are staying with us. It’s peaceful hearing the sound of Saranghi. It is said that this instrument is the closest that can sound to a human voice. Bhopal and Dhurmusay, the two Gandharvas staying with us are probably related Mama Bhanij or something like that.  They have come up to record an ethnic track for the event. Bhopal is in the outer room practicing with Deoashis.

From my room I head towards the lawn for some air. Dhurmusay is in the kitchen, that’s the most I can go. He starts speaking, my mind still on the outer room. The Gandharvas are in charge of cleaning the kitchen for the day. He seems to be the only one working right now, washing dishes. I ask how his week went. It was okay, he tells me, so many people in town a shot at least to earn something. He has to work, he tells, for his family. He has taken a loan. He must earn to pay off his debt. If not travelling with his Sarangi he is usually in the fields working. I ask him what he grows in those fields, Dhurmusay answers ‘Dhan’.

Dhurmusay remarks that with time their music too has radically changed. Their playing has had to be confined to the Bollywood garbage or the local popular songs. He says this with a hint of dismay, on how it has been mandatory for them to sync their music with the popular culture just to make a living. In contemporary times their original folk songs that has been passed from one generation to another in oral tradition has been rendered obsolete; their lively wood is on the brink of extinction with modern times. That is perhaps why Deoashisis is having quite a tough time just to sync his music with theirs. Dhurmusay grumbles that in Darjeeling and Sikkim people have been so much consumed by this anxiety of influence that people don’t want to hear anything other than what they hear in the T.V. For them they got to make a living be it with their folk songs or popular music.

It’s been a while since they have been playing in the outer room. Hearing the sound of the Sarangi, two people from the neighbouring house have come to see what’s going on. One person is from Himachal the other a local. They looked dazed and seem to be enthralled by the bowed instrument. They have quietly taken a seat beside the bed and are anxiously looking at the Bhopal play his instrument. I don’t recall their names both work as paragliders hired by people up in Dello for the season. H has given the Gandharvas his key of the house. After their day’s work they climb up from town for shelter at Darjeeling Collective.

I have not met a single Gandharva from Darjeeling or any part of India. Dhurmusay and Bhopal are too from Nepal. From a small village called Jhapa about a day’s journey from Kalimpong. Dhurmusay informs that they had about forty houses in their village. All the male members of the house were Gandharvas. A Gandharva is a caste who made their living playing sarangi notoriously famous for their folk songs. At present they have had to either travel onwards towards their own country, to tourist centric places like Thamel, Katmandhu or Pokhara to make a living or migrate towards India in places like Darjeeling, Kalimpong or Sikkim domiciled by Indian Gorkhas. These men with Sarangi are a rare sight in the hills today. The two Gaineys just their Sarangi and their backpack never stayed in one place for too long. They constantly moved from Kalimpong, Sikkim and Darjeeling and back to their own country Nepal. In Kalimpong we usually see them on the footpaths either in Main Road or C.K.Chowk. Nightfall they usually took shelter at the Dharamsala below Mela ground.

In Nepal during the olden days the Gandharvas were the King’s messengers. They travelled across the country on foot from one village to another carrying news, information and messages of the kingdom. The Gandharvas were the only source of information and entrainment for the folks in Nepal. People from villages gathered to hear them sing, to hear what had happened in the Kingdom. With development and education slowly piercing all parts of Nepal their next generation Bhopal tells us would rather be educated than to sing on the streets for alms. H and I have not eaten anything since morning, we decide to go up to Saroj Da’s uphill to grab some food. Deoashis and the Gandharvas decide to take a break and join us.

                        

                           ***   ***

We are at Saroj Da’s place, a small tin tuck shop outside Dello guest house. It is almost 12 and we have come up here for breakfast. Dello is packed with tourists, the parking lot filled with vehicles. The water reservoir is being reconstructed it looks like a huge skating alley. H and I have ordered momos. It’s a Gandharvas delight to see so many people at one place. Bhopal and Dhurmusay don’t want anything to eat, they leave us and go sit outside the gate of the guest house with their stretched piece of handkerchief and start playing their Sarangi. We sit at Saroj Da’s talking, our momos finally ready. Both the brothers are really happy seeing us, it‘s been months since we came up here last. They ask us many things, of our where about, of the water connection, as we have our momos. Saroj Da was saying something about the village; it was then that I suddenly remembered Doeashis telling me something about him performing for the children a programme organized by the Bal Suraksha Abhiyan Trust. It was more than 12 and he had not spoken a word about it. I asked him regarding this event and it was then it all came back to him. This happens often with us, forgetting things. He immediately started making calls, we half way through our momos and the Gandharvas half way through the music had to rush for the event. They are quite a lively bunch. They speak in their typical dhakray accent; both Dhurmusay and Bhopal reroute from Dello to 8^th Mile just spoke and spoke through the journey. Bhopal at one point said that he would sing Santaram for the children in the event. He was nearly thrown out of the car.

                           

                            *** ***

At St. Joseph’s Convent. The hall is packed with children. On stage children are performing a play, it’s is based on child abuse and sexual harassment. Sister S. Subbha is the organizational head of Bal Suraksha Abhiyan. She has been tirelessly working for children rights for the past several years in the hills of Darjeeling. There is not a village in the district that she has not been spreading child right’s awareness. BSA has been carrying forth tremendous work. They have saved hundreds of children from illiteracy, physical abuse, labor and human trafficking. It has given the children a chance for rehabilitation and a shot at education, their only way out of this dungeon. It is truly breath taking to see children addressing burning contemporary issues not only of this place but of the nation. Though I was quite reluctant to be here but now that I have it is really moving to see children from remote villages of the district come together and participate. It is a heart warming experience to be a part of this event. I had only heard about B.S.A. and now that I am here I can see the kind of hope and inspiration and change that this organization has brought in the lives of these children.

Deoashis and the Gandharvas are on stage now. Deoashis has started playing his marchungha. The children seem to be enjoying it, it’s an unusual instrument. Most of them have never seen or heard of the instrument before. Marchungha is the oldest musical instrument in the world. On this part of the world it was mostly played by the women but now it’s almost vanished. It is a small instrument emitting some very peculiar sound. The Gaines have disappeared back stage. Deoashis is on stage alone. He has now switched on to guitar. He is performing a song he wrote called Handy Boy. The song speaks about the struggle of a boy in the highway, his suffering and the boy’s tryst with life on the road.  There is loud cheer from the crowd as he sings. The children seem to connect with the song. His songs are unlike most that have been emerging from the hills. IT speaks on burning contemporary issues that surround our everyday lives, issues that needs to be addressed. He has just invited the two Gandharvas on stage. He has now switched on to Ghaila, an instrument used for percussion. The Gandharva on stage have started performing. The sound of their bowed instrument has pierced through the crowd. It’s quite a sight for me to see them on stage. I have always seen them sing on the streets in Main Road or C.K. Chowk but I had never seen them on stage. And they are here today this Sunday afternoon singing for these children. I don’t know what it means to them but from the pin drop silence as children witness them perform I can certainly say that their music has touched most of us present here. And for a change they are singing their originals, songs that have been written by their forefathers and them.

“My Sarangi cries yonder,

From the forgotten corners of the village”

They are received thunderously as they take a bow and exit the stage. H and I leave the hall as soon as they finish performing. We head down to cafe refuel, Deoashis and the Gandharvas join the audience the event almost over. I have not been home in like three days, will probably go home after a while. For now we are just sipping our coffee waiting for them to join us in the cafe.

A.

 Bootleg Recordings.

                     *****************************