Oh! What a painful situation. All of a sudden it seemed like the flow of air from inside my throat has stopped. Never before this had I ever experienced such a strong pain. I felt like flowing down suffocated inside the intestine of python or a very small, narrow and dark cave. Or, I was finding it impossible to breathe even for a short while. It was a very difficult period of great discomfort I was passing through. But even in such a struggling situation - somewhere far away or at the end a little bright light was visible and the power of this little brightness, I felt like being attracted towards it. I was a bit comfortable with the gentle touch of the soft light after spending some time wriggling inside that cruel dark narrow hole. Only after thus being little free from the uncomfortable painful writhing, I found my tired body lying helpless in a hospital bed and could understand the situation. There on my left wrist a needle was inserted and a transparent pipe with its other end led to a bottle filled with some liquid joined by another needle and hanging upside down near the bed. Thus the liquid from inside the bottle was being passed through the vein that was activating my body and along with this process additional amount of oxygen was continuously being flown inside through my nasal holes. These scenes were enough to speak of my serious condition. It was first time ever in my life that I was admitted to a hospital unexpectedly in such a serious condition. I was quite bewildered how I was past 63 long years of my life without ever admitted to a hospital even. Thus bewildered I was trying to understand the detail description of how I reached the hospital. Oh! I was tying my shoe-laces for going to the bazar, suddenly I started coughing. I remember my family members trying to comfort me from unstoppable coughing that nearly stopped my breathing by rubbing my chest and thereafter nothing did I remember but to find myself lying in the hospital bed at night! … Oh! How sudden!
Once I gained my consciousness in the hospital, I was just faintly catching with my eyes the view in front but ears were quite clearly hearing people talking there. Someone was asking, “I always used to find Bhai (brother) quite healthy and never heard of falling sick so seriously, how it happened suddenly?”
Tired voice came in reply, “His own carelessness brought him this fate. Writing bent pressing the chest day and night resulted into this bad condition. If we try comment something, he always repeated – ‘Do not stop me while serving the literature’ and this plight is the result of his stubbornness alone.”
Then there was another remark – “Oh! One should take care of his own health! He also suddenly left such a job in so good a Bank just saying that he ‘did not get time to write literature.’ What does one get from our society by writing literature? What more should I say - it is a common practice here to forget the name of the writer even the very next day he is dead and it is only to be pitiful being a writer or an artiste in our hypocritical and ungrateful society.”
Slightly reclined with upper half of the body resting on the bed raised to make respiration comfortable enjoying additional oxygen and additional conversation as I was trying to fall asleep, all of a sudden from somewhere the thought of the topic ‘waiting for the death’ came to my mind. One after another my mind thought of Pashupatinath Temple in Nepal and thereafter that of Mahakavi Deokota lying uncomfortable waiting for the death at Aryaghat near the Temple. Sickness brought him to the last stage in the deathbed I felt hearing some voice feebly coming out of his trembling and dry lips, ‘I am burning, I am in the fire of universe…’
Only a few days ago I had read it again and remember Dom Moraes in his memoir Meeting Deokota in Deathbed had mentioned – ‘…The face which we saw was only a mask, dry and thick lock of black hair hanging on his head. Below the head was a nice forehead, he opened his eyes a little to have a glimpse of us. Face below eyes was lifeless. Cheeks were sunken, his lips were dry and flaked like that of most old people. But I found two long hands like wooden sticks, sandy brown arms slowly raised together in a Namaskar. Then his beautiful eyes were closed, remained on the side he was reclining. His hands went hanging. He took a deep painful breath and was a bit restless with each respiration. … After some time when Gupta introduced me he just opened his eyes for a while. His eyes were cloudy, lifeless like a lake; they were already dead as far as I believe. They brightened if some of our conversation moved them. Just for a little while, only for a few seconds. Those eyes gazed only. A thin hand was sunken inside the bed. I caught the hand with my both hands in a grasp. They were cold and dry. A long silence prevailed. His wrinkled mouth opened painfully. Very slowly with some effort just a word came out of his mouth:
‘Brahmand-dahan’ (‘Universe Burning’)… *
-----
Sharad Chettri (born 1947 Darjeeling) is a prolific writer better known for his short stories that earned him sobriquet, Kathako Kamdhenu (goldmine of stories) but he is also a poet, essayist, dramatist and critic. He has 30 books to his credit. He was awarded Bhanubhakta Puraskar (West Bengal 1986), Sahitya Akademi Award (New Delhi 1986) and Ratnashree Gold Medal (Kathmandu 1988). He has been felicitated ( our Karuna Smarak Samman 2005) and interviewed often. His works appear in newspapers and periodicals regularly and many have been translated into Hindi, Bangla, Assamese, Telegu, Oriya besides English.
Once I gained my consciousness in the hospital, I was just faintly catching with my eyes the view in front but ears were quite clearly hearing people talking there. Someone was asking, “I always used to find Bhai (brother) quite healthy and never heard of falling sick so seriously, how it happened suddenly?”
Tired voice came in reply, “His own carelessness brought him this fate. Writing bent pressing the chest day and night resulted into this bad condition. If we try comment something, he always repeated – ‘Do not stop me while serving the literature’ and this plight is the result of his stubbornness alone.”
Then there was another remark – “Oh! One should take care of his own health! He also suddenly left such a job in so good a Bank just saying that he ‘did not get time to write literature.’ What does one get from our society by writing literature? What more should I say - it is a common practice here to forget the name of the writer even the very next day he is dead and it is only to be pitiful being a writer or an artiste in our hypocritical and ungrateful society.”
Slightly reclined with upper half of the body resting on the bed raised to make respiration comfortable enjoying additional oxygen and additional conversation as I was trying to fall asleep, all of a sudden from somewhere the thought of the topic ‘waiting for the death’ came to my mind. One after another my mind thought of Pashupatinath Temple in Nepal and thereafter that of Mahakavi Deokota lying uncomfortable waiting for the death at Aryaghat near the Temple. Sickness brought him to the last stage in the deathbed I felt hearing some voice feebly coming out of his trembling and dry lips, ‘I am burning, I am in the fire of universe…’
Only a few days ago I had read it again and remember Dom Moraes in his memoir Meeting Deokota in Deathbed had mentioned – ‘…The face which we saw was only a mask, dry and thick lock of black hair hanging on his head. Below the head was a nice forehead, he opened his eyes a little to have a glimpse of us. Face below eyes was lifeless. Cheeks were sunken, his lips were dry and flaked like that of most old people. But I found two long hands like wooden sticks, sandy brown arms slowly raised together in a Namaskar. Then his beautiful eyes were closed, remained on the side he was reclining. His hands went hanging. He took a deep painful breath and was a bit restless with each respiration. … After some time when Gupta introduced me he just opened his eyes for a while. His eyes were cloudy, lifeless like a lake; they were already dead as far as I believe. They brightened if some of our conversation moved them. Just for a little while, only for a few seconds. Those eyes gazed only. A thin hand was sunken inside the bed. I caught the hand with my both hands in a grasp. They were cold and dry. A long silence prevailed. His wrinkled mouth opened painfully. Very slowly with some effort just a word came out of his mouth:
‘Brahmand-dahan’ (‘Universe Burning’)… *
-----
Sharad Chettri (born 1947 Darjeeling) is a prolific writer better known for his short stories that earned him sobriquet, Kathako Kamdhenu (goldmine of stories) but he is also a poet, essayist, dramatist and critic. He has 30 books to his credit. He was awarded Bhanubhakta Puraskar (West Bengal 1986), Sahitya Akademi Award (New Delhi 1986) and Ratnashree Gold Medal (Kathmandu 1988). He has been felicitated ( our Karuna Smarak Samman 2005) and interviewed often. His works appear in newspapers and periodicals regularly and many have been translated into Hindi, Bangla, Assamese, Telegu, Oriya besides English.
I was disturbed to remember the painful difficult situation of Mahakavi in his deathbed and to console myself it was necessary for me to think of something different and interesting. Therefore, I drew the sketches of interesting days gone by of my youth when I entered very enthusiastically the literary world and that gradually started dominating my mind.
I remembered our early days when my some educated young friends were quite enthusiastic and used to talk of doing something for the cause of our language and literature. All of us were unanimous with the only objective that we should do something as per one’s knowledge and capability to contribute and fill up utmost and to the extent possible the literary repository.
There was a good friendship amongst us then. There was no rivalry or not even some sort of comparison amongst us as regards ‘who is a successful writer’ or ‘whose writing is the best’. We all friends were together dedicated to contribute to the cause of literature and our objective was thus true and sincere. And, we used to meet and read each other's writings and do the necessary corrections and incorporate many suggestions with due respect and courtesy.
Thus with sincere analysis, continuous thinking and heartfelt co-operation with each other alone could result in best writings, so we believed. –and it was so pure an age when narrow-mindedness with desire to “Only I should be popular” had not crept in and corrupted our minds. Compared to the present age full of over-advertisement or cheap publicity or blowing one’s own trumpet, we had not definitely been plagued of hypocrisy. There was an interesting game popular amongst us – to select a great writer as our ideal. In that game many of us used to respect the Great Poet Mahakavi Deokota as our ideal and somewhere inside our heart we were wishing to be like Deokota out of respect to him.
Then we all friends had one common goal, to offer our creative writings without any selfishness to the best of one’s capability fill up the literary treasury of our language beyond personal selfish motives dedicated loyally and religiously to the literature alone- all those dedicated inspired creative souls!
But now due to the present pollution, environment has completely been split torn and selfish. As a result, simple writers, who wish to contribute with a sense of service and without any selfishness, are greatly hurt by the commercialized culture and find themselves badly affected by the current trend of present literary world. Perhaps due to such a commercialized culture that Deokota suffered, it made him from his death bed in his lean voice to lament, “….. I am the most unfortunate amongst the Nepali writers…”
It is also true that the writers who shun away from self-promotion in the present commercial culture fall into this category of such unfortunates. I can only be proud of the memories of the unpolluted past and when nothing beyond could come to my fate, I regret to the extent of having deceived my heart to have whiled away and to have wasted my life when no appreciation came forward to my share and nothing beyond that even during the best fertile period of mine. Because these days we find we read more words spent on one’s unnecessary praise and publicity rather than the impartial review of his work. It is often seen that according to the stature of the writer in the official hierarchy or financial soundness, the reviewer is found influenced as to such an extent that he himself could derive the benefit out of the writer’s post/stature and this is so evident and clearly understood from the praises overflowing therein. Infested heavily by such factors of people surrounded by false praise and publicity and coterie dominating our polluted environment, how one could expect the best work coming out - it would be a rare thing to see! And thus our present society is continuously accustomed to hypocrisy of judging a writer’s stature based only by such overstated praises and attractive advertised publications.
Oh! I feel it better not to find my name included in the list of writers in this dirty world full of selfishness, and even if my name is removed from that list it would not make any difference to me. It is so because I firmly believe especially in only doing the work and have no energy to entangle myself in such unnecessary mess. Now I want a rest. So far up till this day I have dedicated innumerable works to our literary world to the extent possible to the best of my time, capacity and knowledge and there is no desire and energy left in me that I was so clear about when confined to my bed in the hospital. Oh! When thus confined to that bed like a Bodhi tree this time, I could understand the ‘meaning of fulfillment’ in my life and to be inspired to be free from the ‘fallacy and reality’ and come out of the whirlpool. From some corner suddenly echoed a voice, ‘So far you were just a stupid, Buddhu - now you are an enlightened – the Buddha.’
Then suddenly truth inside my heart came out of my mouth – ‘Kindly do not frustrate me….. I am satisfied with my work. Now I do not have any wish to be a Great like Deokota nor do I have any approval to become a helpless like him!... I want to be happy in my own world only.
-----
Courtesy : Himalaya Darpan Siliguri 4 February 2011 Bhranti ra Vastaviktako Dwandma by Sharad Chettri
Translated from Nepali by Rajiva Shanker Shresta * Rendering from Nepali translated by Tek B Karki – see original for the English version.
I remembered our early days when my some educated young friends were quite enthusiastic and used to talk of doing something for the cause of our language and literature. All of us were unanimous with the only objective that we should do something as per one’s knowledge and capability to contribute and fill up utmost and to the extent possible the literary repository.
There was a good friendship amongst us then. There was no rivalry or not even some sort of comparison amongst us as regards ‘who is a successful writer’ or ‘whose writing is the best’. We all friends were together dedicated to contribute to the cause of literature and our objective was thus true and sincere. And, we used to meet and read each other's writings and do the necessary corrections and incorporate many suggestions with due respect and courtesy.
Thus with sincere analysis, continuous thinking and heartfelt co-operation with each other alone could result in best writings, so we believed. –and it was so pure an age when narrow-mindedness with desire to “Only I should be popular” had not crept in and corrupted our minds. Compared to the present age full of over-advertisement or cheap publicity or blowing one’s own trumpet, we had not definitely been plagued of hypocrisy. There was an interesting game popular amongst us – to select a great writer as our ideal. In that game many of us used to respect the Great Poet Mahakavi Deokota as our ideal and somewhere inside our heart we were wishing to be like Deokota out of respect to him.
Then we all friends had one common goal, to offer our creative writings without any selfishness to the best of one’s capability fill up the literary treasury of our language beyond personal selfish motives dedicated loyally and religiously to the literature alone- all those dedicated inspired creative souls!
But now due to the present pollution, environment has completely been split torn and selfish. As a result, simple writers, who wish to contribute with a sense of service and without any selfishness, are greatly hurt by the commercialized culture and find themselves badly affected by the current trend of present literary world. Perhaps due to such a commercialized culture that Deokota suffered, it made him from his death bed in his lean voice to lament, “….. I am the most unfortunate amongst the Nepali writers…”
It is also true that the writers who shun away from self-promotion in the present commercial culture fall into this category of such unfortunates. I can only be proud of the memories of the unpolluted past and when nothing beyond could come to my fate, I regret to the extent of having deceived my heart to have whiled away and to have wasted my life when no appreciation came forward to my share and nothing beyond that even during the best fertile period of mine. Because these days we find we read more words spent on one’s unnecessary praise and publicity rather than the impartial review of his work. It is often seen that according to the stature of the writer in the official hierarchy or financial soundness, the reviewer is found influenced as to such an extent that he himself could derive the benefit out of the writer’s post/stature and this is so evident and clearly understood from the praises overflowing therein. Infested heavily by such factors of people surrounded by false praise and publicity and coterie dominating our polluted environment, how one could expect the best work coming out - it would be a rare thing to see! And thus our present society is continuously accustomed to hypocrisy of judging a writer’s stature based only by such overstated praises and attractive advertised publications.
Oh! I feel it better not to find my name included in the list of writers in this dirty world full of selfishness, and even if my name is removed from that list it would not make any difference to me. It is so because I firmly believe especially in only doing the work and have no energy to entangle myself in such unnecessary mess. Now I want a rest. So far up till this day I have dedicated innumerable works to our literary world to the extent possible to the best of my time, capacity and knowledge and there is no desire and energy left in me that I was so clear about when confined to my bed in the hospital. Oh! When thus confined to that bed like a Bodhi tree this time, I could understand the ‘meaning of fulfillment’ in my life and to be inspired to be free from the ‘fallacy and reality’ and come out of the whirlpool. From some corner suddenly echoed a voice, ‘So far you were just a stupid, Buddhu - now you are an enlightened – the Buddha.’
Then suddenly truth inside my heart came out of my mouth – ‘Kindly do not frustrate me….. I am satisfied with my work. Now I do not have any wish to be a Great like Deokota nor do I have any approval to become a helpless like him!... I want to be happy in my own world only.
-----
Courtesy : Himalaya Darpan Siliguri 4 February 2011 Bhranti ra Vastaviktako Dwandma by Sharad Chettri
Translated from Nepali by Rajiva Shanker Shresta * Rendering from Nepali translated by Tek B Karki – see original for the English version.