Advisors
Mohan Bdr. Kayastha
Bishnu Bdr. Singh
Dr. Arun Sayami
Yograj Gautam
BishwoBimohan Shrestha
Radheshyam Lekali
Dr. Hari Prasad
Dr. Badri Pokhrel
ESSAY
Just in Eight Hundred and Fifty Three Words
Dr. Govinda Raj Bhattarai
Last month a media person posed a question before me. She spoke "Dr. Bhattrai, since you have been contributing regularly to the dailies and weeklies, doesn't this shadow your creative works?" Till that day I was under the belief that whatever I wrote was created –was a creative work. I had never drawn a distinction between these two forms of writing creatively and writing for media. For whatever purpose it was, I wrote attentively, waited for its publication impatiently. I used to inform of this to many through telephone calls "Such an article of mine is being published on Saturday, don't forget to read it". And the day that article appeared, a different sun would rise for me. People are busy, everyday about a quarter tons of white –sheets of paper are imprinted with Nepali fonts; however a certain hunger would strike my mind- let all read this very article of mine. Then I wished I could hear words of compliments and congratulations combined with my praise. And then, very impatiently, I used to wait for this until late hours.
In this way the column of a newspaper would keep my excitement going for one week or two. Then gradually that would turn hazy, and again I wrote another. I never became free from worries. A sense of duty would keep on chasing after me. What happens if the title of my write up reads unattractive, if the contents in the article sounds stale and not worth reading, if because of the style this article reads uninteresting –may be because of this all the popularity I earned so far as a columnist may be reduce to ashes at a time. I used to get gripped by fear and anxiety of this all continually – I was ever open to utter ruin. The chief editor might edit or remove the main points I wanted to there, may be he changes the title, may be its printing is erronous, who knows if the readers attack my points of view. Before me stood the mountain of anxiety –who knows Gopi's column becomes more popular than mine and as a result I might get kicked out as a columnist for ever.
In fact, whenever I was haunted by such worries, I used to stay awake till late night, get up very early before the dawn, would brood over my computer hours and hours while sorting out every word, carving some thoughts, pasting others; having finished writing I used to dust the words and brush them out, I used to sort them out, weigh them, fill them, would pluck out those that are out of order as if we are pulling gray hairs with a tweezer, and replace them with more brilliant ones. And then I would read the words – correcting them, repeating them many times. When finalized, I would read them aloud moving my lips while feeling the sounds thus produced with my heart. I felt –a rhythm should emerge at this point. My writing is not just a display of words so, from this heap, a deep meaning should emerge, this should be worth reading and should exert, positive values. This should be bold and clear as well. I used to sit and contemplate writing columns bearing these facts in mind for sometimes for the fear of inadequate number of words, I used to count them haltingly, sometimes when these thoughts slipped through my heart, I looked far away at the edge of my heart. But I was under the compulsion to produce an article –a write up which is unchipped, unshrunk, not folded, not patched up –a whole write up in Eight Hundred and Fifty Three Words! And wherever there were words more than required, I used to cut them, carve them, at the interest of slimming down the article; that used to be a much painful job for me because I guessed I must have rendered the article handicap. In such moments only I used to grind my teeth secretly for the paper that had snatched my freedom. Sometimes when I had to add three hundred fifty words, the article looked as if I were walking in a trouser on with a patch on its knees. That looks very awkward!
In this way, gripped by different anxieties, I used to tow away loads of time and place, editor and reader, subject –matter and word count in my mind, I used to brood over the computer, and I took that to be my creation. When the media person asked me a question, I came to realize that –in fact the newspaper article was not as free a creation as I would feel while creating a novel, or an essay without any binding.
I cannot stretch here on my own to the extent that my capacity allows me to, neither can I postpone the deadlines, nor can I deceive the modern readers just by plagiarising the ideas, nor can I irritate my readers just by repeating what I have already written. Won't I be left behind in this Marathon race, won't I be like a jockey fallen flat on the parade ground while running a race? It is a great risk if you are running. Wearing such dread in your mind, it is a danger, though also an adventure. Look, how much of worries anxieties you have to tame to write a column!
In the Jail Journal, the writer BP Koirala has mentioned three or four times –papers (dailies and weeklies) will be supplied today, but I am not interested in them. In fact, a statesman and tinker now in the darkest corner of the prison, should have felt an urgent need for and attraction towards the publication –dailies is weeklies, he could have waited impatiently for and experienced an exciting pleasure in them. But he does not feel so. When not even a simple event took place that would cause a small ripple of excitement, he would not be pleased at the sight of those papers that carried the evanescent daily news and loads of information –because they replaced thought with worries, they showed speed instead of elaboration, a novel is reduced to the size of a bonsai tree plant. Therefore he waited for messengers of Eastern and Western thoughts and philosophies like CM Joad, Nehru, Victor Hugo, Beckon, Freud, JP, Descartes, the Geeta, the Upanishad, Camus, Kalidas, Tennyson, Toynbee, Tarashankar Bandopadhyaya, Hemingway, Gurudutta, Pasternak etc. BP, who waited impatiently for such names showed a detached attitude or disinterested desire towards newspapers.
Then I came to know –I happened to choose papers as I lacked patience for a long meditation. I could have produced a work by investing long time, and could have earned great fame. But since I am quiet impatient, I am selling time in small slices right at the moment and I am drinking at the moment out of a small spoon the fame and name that I could have earned by producing such a great and ambitious work and I am receiving the small amount of money in installments at present that I could have earned in prizes and awards because this action has become an entertainment for me, it has developed like a habit for me, a dream that chases me week after week. I am always thinking about and contemplating a column for the following week –at home, in the office, along the road, at Ratnapark wherever it is – how can I adjust a whole undivided piece of thought or plot or event in merely Eight Hundred and Fifty Three Words? Thinking of the moments of selling my capacity to produce an ambitious work in small fragments in this way, I am ever weakening myself with a sense of great loss. Without crushing your great dreams, without enforcing your heart in the cage of slavery, you cannot be a columnist at all but once you become a columnist, you cannot come out of this addiction throughout your life; once you fall prey to the addiction of this game of creating temporary excitement, you cannot be a better creator. At last I gave this reply to my interviewer. I don't know if I could really satisfy her query.
Translated by: Dr. Govinda Raj Bhattarai
Wow, Himal
Yubaraj Nayaghare
The himals came out of this mind.
From which point should I start to watch the himal? Which is the point of reference to understand the himal? How can I understand the completeness of the himal? Thus emerge one after another the snowy peaks of desire. Himal, my dear himals, himals, my lovely himals.
The old royal palace seated crowdedly on the northen mound of Gorkha. Washed thoroughly in sweat, we stepped on the top of that mound. The sweating we had experienced before was now exchanged with coolness. Glancing at different things our eyes moved towards the north. And the heart also shifted towards the mountain range of the north.
This heart craves for the snow-pilgrimage.
Green innocent looking mountains just below the snowy mountains The mountain rivers that flow spontaneously giving the feeling of solitude. Tall and tapering shapes of trees. The sky dwarfed in the ambition of touching the horizon. These landscapes and layers move on and on in the globe of the heart
It is dusk
I find beauty swinging in my consciousness. I find the great pleasure whistling in the throb of my heart. I feel the waves of throb rippling in my palpitation. Within the oven of the feeling, the burning snowy peaks are boiling like khichadi.
The water impregnates water. That is why the snowy dust sprinkles and the snow flowers and fruits are laden on the snowy peaks. A different brightness is smeared, a different glow is poured. The empty mind drips gilded with beauty.
There is a different science of colour. There is a different world of shapes. And there is different experience of looking at the mountains with my eyes, of seeing them with proper coordination.
The same mountain has both the colour and shape
How much of himal did my roaming mind understand? How much of himal did these eyes read? I have a mind to ask these questions. It's true that sometimes even that miraculous and brilliant mind may fail to understand, fail to know and fail to read this. This logic may be forwarded before us.
Is the name of himal hanging on the lips of every Nepali?
Cool breeze is blowing. And often it passes washing me. I get fully washed clean in the cold breeze, fully drenched, I am dried up again by the light of himal completely. The brightness of water compels me the light of himal completely. The brightness water compels me to reflect. The effulgence of water isolates me from the darkness. The energy of water awakens me.
From my mind the himals are emerging one of after another.
Water, forest and life –the glory of my nation.
To these three elements are tied the political, social, economic and cultural activities. I assert strongly that this is where dynamism is. Many walls of racism, regionalism and solidarity rise up, and again get demolished –in this trinity of water, forest and life.
The sun, the moon and the stars scrub and clean the dark cliffs of the himals. The himal gives a youthful titter in smiles – I am perusing the Himalayan beauty with these vast vision under these sort eyelashes.
The himals are there in the devoted faces. Every dawn the crowing of the roost might be heard here too, every dusk the whistling of night nestlers might echo here too. But how stable it is! It is getting established with greater promise.
The himals has stepped many zones of the country. The himal has touched many districts of the zones. The himal has crossed many Municipalities or Village Development Committes. The himal has strode along the settlements of innumerable Nepales, like me. The himal stretches from the east to the west. The himal has continuously melted, flowing from the north to the south.
When the water gets angry, it turns into snowy peaks. This is the meaning of harshness. When the water smiles, it turns into a river .This is an indication of liquidity. When water dies, it turns into vapour. This is the meaning of air.
For not reading the mysterious knowledge of the himal, I am feeling defeated, and continuously defeated, and I am sinking deeper into ignorance.
My mind scatters in the sheaths of thought.
There are powerful waves in the eyes. The encircle the white peaks of the north and sing the raga of discontentment. How canI control my conscience? I have come here knitted in its ambition. Now there is no rhyme or reason of protest. And I have let my eyes loose to freely participate in the birth and death of himal.
Raising the himal
At the centre of the earth
Let us leave
The additional Colours of life
To the artists.
These are the songs of my heart. I dedicate these to himal. Let me be able to sing them. Why not hum these very words in chorus? What is the use of throwing achheta to the image of deity from far away? Let us go closeby and worship if we are theists, if we are atheists let us study the image from cultural point of view. The himals too are like these.
Across and beyond the himals, the green mountains spread like the army. These snowy peaks are charming in form, shape, quality, and nature. The climate plays here in a canvas of different colours.
There is the magic of Nature in the himal.
There are young trees. There are old trees with ancient branches. Snow is falling slowly in the mountain about Gorkha in such a way that the trees can hold the snow. For an elephant the trunk might be heavy, for a gnat, the eyelashes. But my eyes that were reading the colour and shape, fall and season underlying the snow did not experience any burden at all. The heart was not tired, the consciousness was not exhausted, the legs f my eyes did not stop at all. That might be the absolute weight to be within the object, perhaps.
The himals came out of the mind.
I have to call the snowy peaks. Shall I start from the lowest or from the highest one? The question arose. The answer stood-from the highest, but why? This is still the question. Because we are known by this highest one only. But the heart protested against this –from every low, the high is formed. That's true. Then only way my pacified.
Whether it's Langtang or Kanchanjungha, Amadablam or Jugal, Manasalu or Gaurishankar? Before we dive in, the strangers' feet have already left their footprints there. In our case, only our minds have hardly touched them, let alone our feet.
It might seem that the name of Sagarmatha(Mount Everest) is being forgotten. How could I forget that crown? But sometimes, a grandson is more popular that his grandfather. Let us say this for today. But falling in greed when Tenzing Norgay became narkey (hellish), since then, when I pronounce the name of Sagarmatha, it feels like stone against the teeth.
My himals happy in the pleasant raga of splendours suppressing the helplessness!!!
The colours chased me regularly. I had seen the snow peaks in the morning and in the evening too. But when the silvery mountain changed into a red coloured maiden –I felt astounded. What a hide and seek!
Is there any mysterious fromula of colour change inside the water?
What shall I see –from or beauty? Let us see the from itself. Why are some himals pointed, others flat, some rounded, some dwarfed, others stretched? Why? I am being chased by suspicion. I am being chased by the ripples of mind that wants to measure the height.
The rivalry of water
The infinite wrestling of the waves
Somewhere the tallness of a male
Somewhere the depth of a female
Himal, pyramid!
I am writing looking at the snowy peak. I am not able to encompass all. The snowy particles that settle on the peak shine in my eyes. On the other hand the snow drops in the deep caves grow in my eyes. What shall I do? I saw the water pyramids scattered throughout Nepal whether to the left or to the right. People look at the skeletons of the himals, they have never looked at it in its totality.
There are human settlements on the peaks of the himals. Likewise many wish to establish more of similar settlements. There are yak, chauri, snow leopard roaming around since time imemorial. On the other hand, the shrubs or angular pine trees of Tundra have also descended since the time immemorial every morning and evening.
The soft tune of tungna echoes all around dashing against the snowy peaks.
All white snow and lush green greenery. Deep love between each other. fragrance and flourish –honour for the sake of honour. I find the trees standing erect on the himal elated in deep joy. An intense pleasure like the whistles of the yak herd in the highlands.
A corrupt mind makes a business of everything. The settlement of those scorpions that curse the himal with the desperate heart, though hunt for the musk deer, and those who even grab and snatch even the roots of jatamasi, the herb, is increasing in the vicinity of the himal. All the more, the himal is getting suffocated in the nightmare of the mercenaries of the rare herb yarchagumba But the loving hearts disappears, only the greedy ones crowd over. These days only crowd and rush penetrate towards the snowy peaks.
The breeze that bathed in the snow left me soaked.
I am getting drenched thoroughly. The eyes are soaked, the heart is soaked and the experience is soaked completely. Towards the north at the rangeless snowy peak, the colour is being enlarged inch by inch, it is being added, increased and transformed. Hasn't this life of snow been mourning some death, in this frequent change of colour? These questions belt forth round and round. And as if someone has been running constantly in a shade, like the unmoved sky that surfaces in the hazy dusk.
On seeing the himal one's anger dies and kindness emerges. On looking at the himal wrath sheds and ruth flourishes.
Civilization was towed along with us. In this long stride the Himalayan climate became close to us. Earning, religion, culture, war, friendship everything came with us. The Himal became the invincible fort for us. Friendly, always very friendly. The snowy peaks stood like a shield in the wars our forefathers fought. When our dignity is engraved in words, why not the ambience also be engraved!
Let us forget about tenderness for some time. Let us embrace the rocky harshness. People have tried climbing the mountain for a long time. Our physical activity was always in the forefront and in this we experienced satisfaction, happiness, and comfort. In other words, excellence did not yield; instead our strong feet kept guiding.
" Twenty four hours on the top of Everest without oxygen!'
The coloured photos of adventurous, brave and struggling climbers thus covered the pages. But one day, when the snow leopard stretched in a dark lane of Buddha for seven days starving –it is well known to everybody what king of comment was made by the reporters!
Where was the commotion? Questions may arise.
I always felt ... always, which of these mountains is named after the name of so many famed climbers? Now ideal is the work of man, not a name of any imaginary god. When can I read Ang Rita mountain, Babu Chhiri mountain or Pashan Lhamu mountain instead of Ganesh himal, Gaurishankar or Annapurna? Let the heart of the century blow with the air of love, let it not be eaten by the worms of narrowness secretly.
An enticing lifestyle has come up in the himal. Shall I see, steal, plunder, or love? If not, shall I impregnate? One who looked at a Sherpini told me so and my heart told me this! When we were munching on chnurpi, the hard cheese under Dhaulagiri.
Along the rows of stone, the houses are pointed. The blushing cheeks of the young maidens who drink fresh waters on its courtyard are charming us fashionable youths.
The himals emerged out of the mind.
Ever the same –be it winter or summer. Cloud or shower same himal. Spring or fall same himal. I also feel like being snow. Why should I be so angry? This heart wants to be polite and peaceful. This heart tries to be pure.
Another name for the austere meditation –in –water is the snow. It looks angry –when I see the himal hardish. When I see the soft snow –falling, it looks smiling. Desires sprout up seeing the spring, summer and winter of the himal. It was an old desire to see the himals of autumn and cleanse this heart. When does the snow bloom and when does it wither? It seems same eternally and forever.
Snow is the meditation of water
and
while in pranayam
it drizzles
and then rains
the snow balls
Everybody wants to beautified. Everybody wants to dazzle with beauty and youth. Every movement depends on the weight or ornaments. The steps are moving slowly and gracefully with the weight of the load of ornaments. The steps are moving slowly and desire for carrying the heavy load of garments, their steps gracefully with the weight of the load for ornaments. People are quite greedy in getting beautified more and more, be it fake or real.
But where is the himal decorated? Didn't it accept the value of decoration? So beautiful even without any beautification. Were it decorated, how attractive would it have been?
The himal has a problem of procreation. The himal has conceived, let us not stop it. Let the cries of snow-babies be heard under the footprints of snow flakes.
The corpses of money have not stopped attacking our himals. These peaceful water pyramids are being mutilated by the usual hammer! Why are these cold –mountains being made colder? Why?
Do not step on my himal with your sinned feet, do not touch my snowy peaks with your wretched steps, do not cross my mountains with your ghoulish footsteps.
Do not look at the himal with dirty mind, it may get dirtied too.
Translation: Dr. Govindaraj Bhattarai
A Song Of Thousand Griefs
Momila
A love of thousand dreams revisits me And a joy of living once creates me
Ishwor Ballav
A love of thousand dreams revisits me, he said. A love of my thousand griefs reflects me, said I. One who learnt to love the dreams foresaw the future, and one who learnt to love grief saw the past. The formers walked hand –in –hand with life to meet his dreams and therefore, reached the destiny where full blossomed present welcomed him and I, caressing the majestic beauty of hynotic grief too, reached the present.
Thus a dreamer who loved the dream and the one who loved the grief both met and intermingled with each other in the present. This dreams and the griefs of mine met, dissolved and melted in the ocean of time. Yes, the dream and the grief.
I exist in my void emptiness. Void and emptiness. My existence exists here. This abysmal void, emptiness –say, is the journey of the beginning and the end. This life has now turned into such Veewa where its tune and rhythm are composed within us but helpless to create any beautiful sound of melodies. They say, one cannot create a sound without beating a bell, but I say unto you my love, satisfaction is only the metaphor of Death. Thus, I am celebrating this unauthorized life among the bloody crowd of death sometime falling down from the dreams of mountains tops only to realize my entire existence, and sometimes surrendering all the colours of dream to the rainbow only to find myself a colourless portrait that speaks the black and white mood of some alien artist. Still, you'll find me singing and whispering: A love of my thousand griefs revisits me.
I cannot speak with certainty about the bygone days, about those moments where I lived and cherished my life with its full beauty and promise. These days, I am always enchanted with those sweet and fairy like memories when my tiny, childish fingers would creep into the bar to harmonium. Without sensing perhaps I might have dispersed into the ocean like a tear –drop, but the mere recollection of such a small reflection still hypnotizes me. In a curious moment you find the gravity of pain. And a pain perhaps drenched in rain.
I used to think in a different tone. I would dance to death, celebrating life in different seasons. There were unversed passion for living, untitled joys and unwritten poetry of compassion. When the colours descended into different expression and the emotion of dance, when they were expressed with the mysteries of words and metaphor, I would get the feeling that the joys of my being the 'otherness' have no bound.
When the path of existence was drawn into the surface of time in its own accordance, I would feel that the life had sketched its majestic portrait into the different strokes of colours, into collage –words and into the tunes. The time comes but when you will be shattered into pieces when there's a realization that everything we assume as our possessions, belongings is a mere illusion.
Realization. Illusion. When your personal belongings as your happiness, joys, memories and all the nostalgia are shattered you are left isolated. And uninvited sorrows govern you, rule you.
My conscience is dwarfed by these questions unanswered. My being 'otherness' is invented with my relationship between the grief and human sentiment. Curvature of existence translation itself into the counter question is stopping my way. And I am still recalling my thousand counter –questions this moment.
Thinking of the existence of colour in the absence of light, it is not necessary that everyone's dream should be colourful. Indeed, man cannot live like an immobile lake without any exit. He's bound to seek for the way out. Thus, unknowingly he finds himself flowing in his own course of journey. But dear me, I am composed with my own nostalgic obsession along with my bleak pictures of those voyages where I dropped down my little 'being' somewhere. Fresh memories of once upon a timed journey are recalling their glory making me believe that I should walk towards the destiny of my life creating my own music, colour, melodies and seasons. Yes, I'll create my own art, nature and beauty to sketch into the final portrait of time. Yes, I'll produce a debonair art sans light, let alone there be a song of my thousand griefs and glamorous darkness.
Nowadays, my fragile sentimentalities are often attack by merciless thoughts. Inorder to free myself from these confused pollution of thought I close my eyes and there I see the world beautiful. When I open my eyes the same ugliness creeps out of nowhere. In this way, I choose darkness to see this ugly world beautiful. Doing this I recall my thousand griefs, listen to its love –call which always fascinate me, bewitch me. Of course, my friend! This is the pious moment when my love –affair with life blossoms. This is the life I cherish and this is the life I love most.
Today, being ostracized from my own existential question I've come to this exiled time. In this moment I'm touched by the sentences of the admirer, a lover of my former poetry. These sentences: -Some poems are created in such a way which can be presented as a gift like a flower. like Blue Mimosa. Like a Rose...
How heartlily the poem of mine: the wounded heart of my poetry, might've been read by these eyes! which reached abroad as a gift. The nearness of this establishment, a relationship between a poet and the reader germinates in such association. All the literary enterprises, creative association can have the strong foundation only if there's a common understanding and co –existence between the author and reader. This understanding may varies with the taste and mood of the two individuals. Another truth: after creating a certain text, the text itself associates its own existence and identity. Let the author vanish somewhere in the illusive allegory of words and letters. But, can't we discover the poet's existence in the poem itself? Can't we find the poem's existence in the reader? But alas! The reader's existence neither has the deepest form of sentimentality nor has the highest degree of conscience.
Conscientious feelings, its essence refers to the relativity of the age. And the age itself refers to the relativity of time. Age and time, here seems irrelative –isn't it? But how can we one disclose an isolated meaning of time? The objectivity of time is just like colourless, odourless, formless water which being sublimated into the earthly colour appears colourful. But alone this truth cannot be said of time because all the truth revolve round the other truth creating their own centre and they are reflected differently during the longitude of time where they interact with different colour and light. That's why we cannot think of finding that earthly wholesomeness anywhere. This realization of grief resembles or thorny existence is the rose. And I'm engrossed with this pain of contradictory reality or say an illusion.
The sense we observe here everyday, everywhere are illusive. Beauty of flower itself metamorphosizes into the stone and attacks the flower's youthfulness. A disguised smile shatters our love –stories. Hearts are busy cheating each other. I feel the God is just a human being utopian formula in this world of people. In the world of sinners, religion is just a utopian mask. In the abode of sufferings, love is just a soft pretext. Thus, I'm waiting for self –realization in the bank of life's river. When the waves of my conscience touched by the lotus floats towards the distant horizon and turns into incomplete axiom, I feel as if all the straight lines of the earth is nothing more than a utopian illusion. If they say the earth is round and oval then all the lines of earth are curved and definitely encircle themselves round and round. Therefore, there is nothing such a thing like conclusion of thought so far. That's why Ishwor Dai, forgive me. In the pretext of living, putting aside all the beautiful illusion of life I'm singing" -I love my thousand interrogated griefs
The way how the path of life is intermingled into the framework of religion, meaning, lust, enlightenment, the existence of life is also framed into the framework of different seasons and colours. Suppose, existence itself is a journey, it breeds flowers and spreads fragrance, it is perhaps the height of unscaled mountain and the depth of bottomless ocean. Existence itself is the self –recorded beginning and the vast end. History is a witness: Jesus was crucified on the ground of so –called man's bloody ideologies and hence these so –called men with their re –incarnated ideologies worship him. Statue of Lenin was established and destroyed. Alas! colours of existence are transformed changed into anonymity but this is also true that the labour of people being mixed with the colour of earthly process, phenomenon interacts with the time –space and is reflected since the ages. In such a brightness, the lost civilization once again claming its existence accepts men's heroism and is turn, a man celebrates life even in the shadows of pain and sorrow.
One cannot always find the meaning of life, rhythm in life. Absurdity and worthlessness of the materialistic world fill your mental seasons. Our feet tremble in the darkness leading us now here. You exist in between somewhere and nowhere. Even putting the whole paradise into the gamble, there arises not a willingness of victory. The sound of bell does not awake the heart of stone. The prayers are unheard and the blessings never bestow upon us. How many days would the ruined faith and belief stand along? Perhaps the hungered faith of surrender might have become wretched and desolate in the name of so –called infactuated love? The evergreen youthfulness of fairies only to become a motherless ghost might have screamed spending everlasting dark nights. I feel, there should be immortal pains in heaven.
My unfavoured memories give me a sign of relief in the extencial struggle against the episode of my life's absurdities. I've still a vague memory of the death of my father dear. That mysterious night of multiple fear and personal anguish which has translated into deep frightening experience still occupies my mind and freezes my nerves.
However long the seemingly endless height of sorrows may be or the day of short –termed joys be, the day should be destined to the night. That's why, I started to live in the habit manufacturing a feeling that every departure, every loss is a revision of life. Now, all the memories of my suffering are tuned into the rhythmic beauty of chorus –song which I cannot forget assuming them as an illusion like a dream. The realization of grief is such an omniscience when, where a man should enjoy the concrete torture after the breakdown of his celebrated illusions. I think, the endless happiness of such agonies has perhaps inspired me to live this absurd life in a beautiful way.
I'm insearch of a proper title for my life. And the life carrying the grandeur of sorrows is seated infront of me proclaiming all the commitment of bless and prosperity. But see, I'm still lodging inside the dungeon of holy darkness making walls with the light I stole from life. Here, I live a life with my multiple inaugurated accidents. Here, I cultivate the feeling of living because in the world of mine there are people who love me, hate me. There are formal relatives, kith and kins and informal outsiders. There are nonsensical formalities and well –wishings. There are mistakes and excuses. A lot of possession do I possess: pain, vain, sun, warmth, dewdrops, blades of grass and the natural dance of stars, all mine.
But someone from my inner being always whispers: You're nowhere.
This sublime whispering has given me the strong faith on my being- the selfhood. These and in such beautiful picturesque of burning griefs am I sketched here, there and everywhere running, waiting and walking with seasonal life.
Still, I'm looking for a grand metaphor, image of the self. Love and hatred, life and death, all the combination and fusion seem like an abstract painting of some old anou artist. Insearch of freedom form the whole mechanism of boredom and montony not only Nietzcsche and Albert camus I too, am totally dictated into the bottomless pit of life. That's how I've started to love my melancholy dreams. Take this for granted, now is the time when the ship of my existence is chartered into the ocean for a long voyage and whatever, whoever I'm now, I would always like to remain the same, once for all. I would like to remain my self.
In reality, now I do not have any particular materialistic possession to lese only to gain the wonderful gift of being a loser. My autumnal tears never caught the song of flowers that creates the waves of revolt, neither my personal sighs and meanings caught in the melodious harmony of any desperate flute –player. Instead, my dreams keep on vanishing upon the midnight creamation –fire, and putting on the ashes of my fossilized dreams on my forehead in the morning, I start my lonesome journey towards the crowd of nameless void and emptiness which you'd better call life: untitled or say life: re –visited.
Today, I'm showered with the rays of self –realization. Rays of both hatred and love are dismantled on its own accord. Neither love nor hatred is my being. Like sphinx I awoke from my own ashes and I'm heading towards the ephemeral void of existence.
I came from my past. The road I took led me here where my sufferings and sorrows outnumbered my short –termed joys and happiness. The evaporating afternoon ends up bragging its leg at the gloomy night. The night sleeps quietly while I lay awoke counting the distant stars. There is neither bottom nor surface of my celebrated griefs. On drenched monsoon days I peep into our world of illusion from the eyes of some outsiders. This is such an absurd touch! Life seems a beautiful absurdity full of chaos and pathos. That's why I love my thousand griefs.
Whenever I try to exchange life into a plain white canvas and sit to portray the handsome picture of yet –to –born Buddha, I'm always bewitched by the aura and aroma of the ancient Buddha. Even, trying hard to erase my entire past life with eraser of my fate and destiny, I could not write hitherto, a fresh introduction of mine. A past –less identity. In this way, so –called established religion, politics, thoughts and logics have always created a barrier to the archaeological findings of existence. I feel, I'm also hidden into the same distant past with you portraying a hallucination picture on the canvas of universal mysticism.
Someday I was secured like a tongue among teeth. I would take permission form teeth even to laugh but again and again the same teeth tore my apart, left me bleeding. But the day when a beloved friend of mine died, I didn't take permission from my huge admivers. only after his death did I realize that it was love, who translated my entire existence into the sorrowful celebration.
I'm remembering him not in the coloured background being fascinated by the flower of agony. Memory, a continuous mental exercise is an excused luxury. This beautiful and living memory and its existential commitment never lets me down. My past, pains, tears and memories have become enthralling attraction of life. My nostalgia has created his present where love, compassion outlive me.
Like a pang of laughter, this attraction of mine has become ideal because I was also touched by the human helplessness that was showcased in the picture of a dead mother where here child was still sucking the stale breast. If this is my jealousy to my joys, I'm convinced Ballav Dai, you'll forgive me taking this as a human weakness.
When I meet sorrows, I forget flowers. I forget stars. When I meet death, I forget life. This is perhaps the harsh reality of human instinct where the inner –observation rules. This reality, this truth that emerges, shoots out form the inner world is a true love.
I'm living in my uncountable agonies which noneother than me alone, can experience. In these exotic agonies of mine and mine alone :I'm living, existing here, here is this corner of life which I call heart. I'm a temple abolished and ruined by thousands pains, a temple prayed and accursed by thousand love and hatred. I'm not touched by the visible attraction. You've said my soul is like an archaeological idol which I'm worshipping in the name of pain. Yes, love is such an indegenous and aboriginal idol!
This is a smoky dusk, time when the birds return to their nest. You can smell the evening air in the atmosphere and you can see the footprints left by the daylight. Innumerable leaves are falling down from the hocturual trees dedicating the wounded history to the blue sky. Leaves are flowing with the water. Standing by the river bank I'm watching the flow of river with you. Certainly I would fall into this water one day and flow like life. The corpses would ablaze into dancing fire. Slowly the sky would be overcasted with the smoke. Such an imagery word parting is sketched inside me in this moment. I would present this painting to my grief –inventor, my lover from whose lover I denounced myself. But there's a least chance of snatching him from his love because I'm trying to implant the soul of Buddha in the statue of Hitler. Perhaps, the lover of Hitler, Eva would have desired such dream too. Dear me, I too, am going to commit the same mistake.
Now, I'll descend into the memory of these thousand haunted griefs. Now, I'll forget the dream of life. In total, my present is void, a great emptiness. This is me, myself and the existence. The great void crawls within me like a baby inside the mother's womb. This is the moment of great energy flickering inside me. This is my resurrection and an awakening dream space and time melt with each other within my being.
But we're all committed to draw a line of our universe creating fraction and division of human existence. And this is not uncommon to imagine our own celestial sky in the crowd of this worldly devilish miser. Infact, the very moment when we realize the sky as one common space we all unite. Perhaps, enlightenment is the name of this divisionless absolute truth, where neither his dream exists, nor my grief anymore. Neither future nor past. My quest is to disappear into the present full of terrestial emptiness with love alone.
Thanks to my thousand griefs which inspired my to realize this absolute truth...
A love of thousand dream revisits me, he said. A love of thousand griefs reflects me, said I. The difference is caressing his dreams. He loves a dream –heroine, I love the grief –inventor of my reality. Love is an aborigiual feeling, indeed!
