Essay:
Momila
History Should Not End at Discount
Watercraft neither moves on road nor does cart sail on water. Enduring the dark chapter of history, the independence of my geography, which is undergoing present vague labor pain of future-seeking eyes on the threshold of life, extending the relationship of close friend with the about-to-rain but not rained firmament, is composing love melody. I am creating festive song for future victory. This moment, I have already started my watercraft journey from a side of the sea whereas he has begun his journey on cart from another side of the road. He will arrive this side when I reach that side. Even though watercraft doesn’t move on the road, cart doesn’t sail on water, two sides will surly combine.
Because, here, we have to make our decorum ourselves and remain within it ourselves! We have to live our vibrant life in the glow of free sensibilities of our inner heart or in the form of super human we have to create our god ourselves. In fact, human is curved journey between god and beast; he is surely fearsome, terrible; however he is surely interesting with immensity. Suppose, he is a light fallen on the earth emanated from the sun and for him, the sun is offering its light and warm lovely rays; he is a beautiful drop fallen from the clouds and the clouds are pouring down in order to quench his thirst; he is a gust of oxygen disconnected from storm and wind is blowing in order to keep him fresh and alive ; he is a cordial part of the earth and for him the earth is showering with crops and plants, he is the star of the firmament and suppose firmament is present over there resplendent infinite space for him.
Dear Sunlight! Oh Immense Star! As Zarathustra said if the world was not in existence, for whom, you would spread the light! Would you be then as delighted as you are now! From the narrative of the past till today, in order to kill darkness within human, every evening, you move away from us. Now, only for once, before my life's glass spills, please through the dark corner of human heart broadcast a morning glow on human forehead. Then after I will not have any complaint even if my life's container spills or gets emptied or shadow befalls me.
Dear Water! Dear Clouds! Although the narrative of whole life submerged in existence along with the pleasure of your rainfall is ancient, it is accepted as the newest phenomenon till date. As per my special hobby to quench thirst in the newest form, please do fall marginal satisfaction in the name of Nepalese soil; at the same point, I would like to get full stopped. Then after, I will no more caterwaul.
Dear Wind-Consciousness! Dear Air! Delighted in your touching consciousness I am earnestly seeking your visual existence. How much politely you keep visiting just to sustain a palmful of life of living creatures. You violently visit covering geography and carrying a gust of storm capable enough to break down the whole lot of unstable and unhealthy branches of this place. We don’t like to imagine the beauty of another world that is contrived on the foundation of our infirmities. We have to roam around and enjoy the confident healthy creation of this phenomenal world. Then after, no desire will remain.
Dear Earth! Dear Mother! This existence, a portion of yours, I would like to offer you wholeheartedly and respectfully. Your fragrance flows in every vein of my life and in my blood-flow I like to fill up your 'ness'. Why always fascinates me your readiness, your cordiality and your loving nature? Who could be your grateful characters suppose human beings lacked special consciousness? However, even in his relativity, human is the agent who gives you special meaning. Please do come! With your original fragrance, fill up a prestigious racial consciousness in commoners' veins in a geographical territory. May all come up with glorious magnificence in a single voice at your signal.
Dear Firmament! The space of yours which is incorporated in me, I am within it and I am the same space making your invocation. But in which decorum of which space I am standing that is my own wish and decorum. Nevertheless, I am not alone in the crowd where I am standing. I am individually different and oriented towards my own height of decorum even in crowd: that height is only mine and even the crowd which surrounds me can visualize it .However, taking shelter under the principle of same terrace in between the space of two stars, many individual stars can twinkle. So, my dear! Canopy an unregimented whole terrace to the earth so that in somebody's request we could sing love song at once in the same rhythm and tempo under the same terrace.
Irrespective of the scenes changed and left behind in my journey up to here - they are all related to Light, Water, Soil, Wind and Firmament. I am attached to these five sensibilities. The unified single poetry of my stepwise sentiments, the first proof of my existence! The first adjuration of my conscience to them.
Although proven me and my decorum in my own single poetry, my actions are different from my thought. And opinions towards actions are again different from actions. At this particular point, anomaly occurs in formulation of human civilization and, in the meantime, carrying mud-slung heart, human has killed many humans and humanity. The only thing left is the backward journey of human… towards the sepulcher of civilization. At this moment, human is selling his leg in order to manage money for his journey but me consciously want to initiate acme-journey of possibility.
While walking in a vibrant and lively manner caring other except myself gave me ecstasy and that kept vibrating but in course of time my own existence contemptuously disdained me and the same fact converted into anguish. Meanwhile, additional sufferings visit as complementary. Dear dilettante of art! As you said life is more apropos to live than to think. Again life feels, while thinking, like a museum of two subjective reconciliations but its mystery reveals afterwards and while living life gains perfection in subjective reconciliation but at the same moment it will be the moment of ecstasy. Howbeit, each and every incidents of life are amusing like the paragraphs of a beautiful book.
Now, summer season is pictured in weather silhouette but as a result of human's perverse unnatural action human is endowed with flood, soil erosion and anguish. Dear human! Here I despise your irrational protest and I wish, first of all, you get united with nature like me. And even in the interval of the fixed starting and ending, talk about anguish, talk about love, talk about tears, talk about gains, talk about life. Eventually, all of us are doomed to embrace death and reach to nature's shelter. Irrespective of the circumstances of the evening when my dreams are burning, I won't miss to sign in favor of tomorrow's light. I have fully abandoned the habit of seeking the defeat of dream in reality.
Although ideology has its own compartment and campaign, great writers with their grave affection get their art-loving fellows to submerge in its wave along with them. Hence, from human killing ideology can't be killed, from individual's killing individuality doesn’t expire. Anyway, from the expansion of an ideology another ideology might get blocked, might get dimmed but doesn’t end.
While talking about ideology by standing on its expansion, nation doesn’t narrow down within its geographical boundary. Getting limited within territorial borderline is not nationality's declaration, and only glorifying the natural beauty of the nation is not patriotism. If the territory is devoid of people, that can't be a nation. If people's blood and tear incessantly keep flowing, the nation's dignity itself is under a huge hill-like interrogation mark. Any one might be buried in the erosion of the hill that erosion might sweep away anyone's house and the territory named nation might collapse. So, knowing the fact that accepting fire on the lap is a blunder, we shouldn’t burn clothes, we shouldn’t make our existence naked.
It's time for birds to return to their nest and I would like to return to my abode as well. I want to have a sound, prolonged and satisfactory sleep but I don't want to see dream longer than the night itself.
In opposition much disastrously I live, much wounded I get due to contempt, in the vibration of those pains I realize myself secure along with the wish of getting rid of anguish. The disgraceful tree, on which my present committed suicide hanging on the noose of those agonies, these days, lives in low spirits paralyzed and dreamless. I think he is silently pondering on some endless issues. Children are swinging on the branches that are bent with the agony-weight of the past. No possibility it contains to bear anymore suicide, but at least, he is not ungrateful as human settlement from where the delights of this territory every year set off to alien land. If the land, on which I am standing, turns to be a collective uncollected museum of millions of tears of commoners, if this beloved land turns to be a record house devoid of factual history, we have to seek perfect emancipation from the ugliness like of a wooden door that loses its shape due to its damp state and doesn’t suit the house and from the worthless predicament of staying poorly beside the house. History should not end at discount. This is how, I came to know in the magical incantation of agony, existence-conscious part of life gets written.
Translation: Suresh Hachekali
