Mission accomplished JAGDISH GHIMIRE NOV 23, THE KATHMANDU POST Kumari checked my pulse and temperature and said, “You stay here, rest. I will go to the nursing home and finish my assignments, and come back as soon as I can. We cannot remain in Janakapur anymore. We are moving to Kathmandu early tomorrow. We shall dispatch our resignations by post when we get there.” She went to work, leaving our daughter Shanti at her school. I, meanwhile, wrote on a piece of paper what I had decided to many days ago.: Beloved Kumari, I’ve thought very long and deep, and have ultimately decided to free myself from all attachments of life. I have no one besides you and Shanti. I love you so much that I can no longer think of being a burden upon you both. Kumari, all I gave you in life was hardship. Pardon me, if you can. My life has become a burden now…I am going to seek liberation from the entanglement of all hammers pounding upon me from one, two or three directions. Do not search for me. Let God keep you in happiness and peace for ever. Kumari, you are a capable person. I know you will show Shanti the best of ways. One day, this country will become worth living. Yours, Sharad In my notebook, I have written things I haven’t revealed even to Kumari. But now, their remaining secret or going public will make no difference. It will not affect me whether she or anyone else reads it, keeps it safe, or burns it down. My back still has an irking sensation. I am seeking freedom from that too. I am now on the way to renouncing every desire, doubt, fear and craving. I met Kali Baba and took his leave. To Kumari, I had written the letter. I was free now. I left home. I went on the rooftop and invoked Jiba, my dead godfather. He appeared in the sky. He was flying. He stretched out both his hands and said, “Come this way.” I took off, and started flying with him. After hovering in the sky for a few days, we went to Kathmandu and flew above Singha Durbar. He bent my head and said, “Look there.” From a window in Singha Durbar, five huge feet—like those of Agnivarna—were dangling out. On one of those feet were four stars, while four others bore huge sickle-and-hammer marks. The feet were moving in response to the reverence people were paying them from the streets. Each foot ordered in succession, “Release all the great murderers of my party, whom the Supreme Court has sent behind bars.” The criminals walked out of the jails, flanked by party men fluttering party flags and showing their rifles. Again the feet roared one by one, “Confer the title of martyr and pay a million rupees each to all those great murderers of my party who were themselves killed while attempting a murder.” Miraculously, murderers of every party changed into martyrs, and came forward to shake hands with the martyrs of 1940. Jiba asked, “What’s wrong with you, my child?” I said, “Jiba, I feel I am asphyxiated.” “What happened?” “Extreme agony. Are the Nepali people never destined for peace and prosperity? They didn’t get it from the Shahs, nor from the Ranas. The coming of democracy or republic didn’t change their fate even by an inch.” First of all, the feet marked with four stars disappeared. It was followed by two others, with the sickle-and-hammer marks. The last two, however, remained there for a long time. Nepal had been engulfed by a thick smog. Jiba and I started flying through it. Down there, the entire nation was burning. Many birds and animals were flying with us—brown monkeys, black crows, and yellow owls. Down on earth, wolves and jackals were mauling the flesh of living men. We flew all over the country. We saw that in every district headquarter, market and village, local Singha Durbars of their own sizes had come up. From the windows of each, legs of local Agnivarnas were dangling. People were divided along the lines of region, caste and community. They came onto the streets with whatever weapon they had at their disposal—club, log, khukri, khurpa, sling, gun or pistol. Homes looked like haunted places, devoid of people. Far away in space, an old man clad in daura-suruwal was saying with his right forefinger raised, “This country is a garden of four castes and 36 communities. Let everyone know that.” From all Singha Durbars in every part of the country, only two feet, marked with sickle-and-hammer, were seen dangling now. They were displaying loathsome smiles. Aggressive countrymen, filling every inch of space in the roads and streets, were raising slogans in a fit of frenzy, as if under a tantric’s spell: “One Madhes, one province: We’ll take it at every cost!” “One community, one province: We’ll take it at every cost!” “Special rights to ethnic groups: We’ll take it at every cost!” “Right to self-determination: We’ll take it at every cost!” “Nepal in fragments: We’ll own it at every cost!” “A united Nepal: Our ultimate call.” “Down with federalism: Nepal remains one.” “Kill Bahuns and Chhetris now: Drink their blood and soak your throats.” Thunder roared in the mountains: “Mission Accomplished” My face turned dark. Jiba said, “Have patience, my child. However dark and thick it is, the cloud never lasts long. With time, it gets blown away. Light will dawn; it surely will. I can see peace, writhing in a pool of blood, right now. But I know for sure, that however painful the suffocation at present is, the future belongs to the reign of peace.” I was assured. I said, “Jiba, allow me to write my last message.” “Do it.” And then I wrote, “Adieu, forever.” The above is an excerpt from Thunder in the Mountains, the soon-to-be-released English version of the late Jagdish Ghimire’s acclaimed Sakas, translated by Mahesh Paudyal. Ghimire passed away on October 31, 2013 Posted on: 2013-11-23
Posted on: Sun, 24 Nov 2013 01:43:36 +0000
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