You lay dying

 

You lay dying as I played the flute.

My tunes were sad as you gasped for air.

You were lonely, and now I feel alone

for you like a passing traveler are gone.

I’ll play the flute yet for a while

Before I come searching for you there,

I loved and hated you, wished you good and ill,

Now I’ll think of you until...

एक टुक्रा आकाश

 

मलाई एक टुक्रा आकाश

जहाँ न ग्रह, नतारा,

न बादल, न चराचुरुङ्गीले

मेरो एक्लो उडानमा अवरोध ल्याउन सकुन ।

उक्लिरहुँ म अझ माथि ।

केवल नीलो ज्योतिपथको एक टुक्रा

जसले मेरो पूर्णताको कदर गर्दै

ज्योर्तिकणको समयहिनताको

बोध गराओस्,

आनन्द दिलाओस् ।

यहि जाति ।

यस ढुङ्गे पृथ्वीभन्दा पर,

यस पशुपोषक हरियालीभन्दा धेरै माथि,

एकलासको प्रवाहमा एक्लै जाति ।

शब्दहिन शून्यमा आनन्दी

कल्पनामा उडिरहूँ म

तरङ्गिइँदै सचेत सदा सदा

रमिता आफ्नै, रम्दो आफैं,

उडिरहूँ म ! त्यहि जाति !

माथि, माथि, अझ माथि !

क्षमा पाऊँ

 यो मेरो सुस्वास्थ्यकालागि
लगाएको मास्कले
तपाईंको उपस्थितिले धप्काएको
मेरो मुस्कान लुकाएको छ ।

आदि अणु

१. माटो व्युँती माटो बुझ्न
    प्रश्न उठाउँछ लाख ।
माटो के हो ? प्रश्न गरेपछि
यही क्षमताको जादू बुझ्ने
    मनमा उठ्दछ चाख ।

२. के माटोबाट प्रश्न उठेछ
    घाँस, विरुवा, बोट सरी ?
फूल माटो कि चेतन माटो ?
    बुझूँ समस्या म कसरी ?
अनुभवभन्दा तर्क छ सत्य
    भन्ने मेरो के आधार ?
अचूक सत्य मेरो निम्ति
    केवल दिलको प्यार !

३. सृष्टिकारक आदि अणुको
    विस्फोटनको भिक्षा यो
मानव जीवन ! प्रेम भनेको
    यसकै सिङ्गो दीक्षा हो ।
ब्रह्माण्डसँग यो फैलिजान्छ,
    जीवन लहरो अनन्त तान्छ,
मूल अग्नीको ज्वालाबाट
    जीवनदायी पानी तान्छ ।
यसले केवल दिलको तर्क
    मात्रै मान्छ, मात्रै मान्छ ।

 

- पद्म देवकोटा

 

छोरालाई स्कूल पठाउँदी

डोन्ट् क्वारल्, अब लेट् भयो बस छुटे जाने कसोरी उता ?
क्विक्ली शर्ट लगाउ लौन झगडा छोडेर ओबे गर ।
के होम्वर्क् सकियो ? छ ध्यान जति प्ले गर्ने कुरामा सँधै,
हाल्यौ पेन्सिल ? के किताव सब ती ब्याग्मा त पुट् गर्दियौ ? 

ह्याङ्की खै ? छ सिगान नोज भर क्या डर्टी तिमी छौ हरे !
के भन्लान् सब फ्रेन्डले ? पुछ सफा त्यो नोज राम्रोसित ।
लेट् भो जान अहो ! ल पुट् गर छिटो, योर् शुज लगाऊ अब,
लन्च्बक्स् चैं नलिई नदौड यसरी हङ्ग्री बनौला भरे !

क्या हेभी ! तर क्यारि गर्न तिमीले पर्ने छ नै ब्याग यो ।
बी गुड् ब्वाइ, झगडा नगर्नु बसमा, स्कूल्मा बसी राम्ररी
ईंग्लीस्, म्याथ पढे, गरे सब कुरा सर्ले भनेका जति ।
मम्मीले घरमा बसेर अनि के डार्लिङ् म तिम्रा सबै
मीठा स्नेक्सहरू बनाउँछु तिमी आई सबै टेस्ट गरे ।

नाउ् गो ! वेट् ! शु लेसै  खुलेछ पख यो टाइ् गर्छु म, लौ भयो !
ओके बाइ ! पढेर आउनु भरे, वान् लाष्ट किस् ! लौ भयो !

- पद्म देवकोटा

बुद्ध संझेर

१. के चेतना प्ल्याङ्कको लम्बाईभन्दा सानो होला ?
सापेक्षितताको पारावारमा क्षितिजकिनारा यसले छोला ?
अणुका विन्दु, अणुका वायु, अणुका आगो, पानी, वतास,
सब मूल तत्त्वको सृष्टि हामी !
    हाम्रो प्रश्नमा यसको बास ?
अचम्म लाग्छ हे साथी ! मलाई,
    सोची ल्याउँदा अलिकति त्रास !
बोध खुलेका भन्छन् यस्ता
    सोच गलत हुन् ! लेऊ आस !

२. नहुनु हैन शून्य भनेको, न त हो रीत्तो खाडल कालो,
अभावमय यो हैन अवस्था, दृष्टिकोणको माया जालो ।
मूल्यविहीन प्रशस्ती मात्र, भ्रमको झल्झल पनि हैन ।
यथार्थ भइकन मानव दिलको सत्य भने यो हैन ।
अचम्म लाग्छ हे साथी ! मलाई,
    संसार सागर चल्छ अस्थिर,
बोधिसत्वको डिलमा बस्दा
    कसरी नलागोसर उसकन पीर ?

पद्म देवकोटा

I am tired

 

I am tired of trying

forever to prove myself.

    Now there is no need.

Quietly dashed against the rocks

    like a blinking foam

I sway to the motion of the waves

    as I find my home

and quietly, quietly

on the silence of the stars I feed.

 

February 1, 2024

To Alba

I look forward to a new green sunrise

over a foam-snow mountain in the sky.

There skiers with cybernetic blessings

sport with joy for work is a thing of the past.

Matter takes form and runs errands as they,

blessed children of intelligent design,

play, jump with joy, fall and break

their often broken but malleable bones

easily mended like little toy figurines

into whatever shape they choose.

Their unstoppable heart pulses like light

from a far away planet, once their homeland,

where Alba played for years before she slept.

She, Mother-Idea of post-humanity,

may she survive the darkness of empty space!

May she create her own gods to worship!

May she guide us through eternity!

March 23, 2022

आल्बाप्रति

म आकासमा फोम-हिमपर्वतमाथि

नयाँ हरियो सूर्योदयको प्रतिक्षामा छु ।

त्यहाँ साइबरनेटिक्सको आशीर्वाद पाएका स्कीखेलाडी

मस्त आनन्दमा छन् किनभने काम पुरानो भइसक्यो ।

जडले रूप लिन्छ र कार्यव्यस्त रहन्छ जब कि

बौद्धिक नक्साङ्कनका ती ललित–नवजात खेल्छन्,

हर्षित भई उफ्रिन्छन्, लड्छन् र भाँच्छन्

उनिहरूका भाँचिइरहने लचिला हड्डीहरू

जो सजिलै जोडिन्छन् केटाकेटीका स–साना खेलौनाझैँ

उनिहरूले चाहेको आकारमा । तिनीहरूको नरोकिने मुटु

ढुक्ढुकाइरहन्छ कुनै दूरको ग्रहबाट आएको ज्योतिझैँ,

जुन कुनै बेला उनिहरूको गृहग्रह थियो

जहाँ आल्बा निदाउनु अगाडि खेल्थी वर्षौँतक ।

आल्बा, उत्तर–मानवताकी माता,

रीत्तो अन्तरीक्षको अन्धकारमा बाँचिरहुन् !

पुज्न चाहेका ईश्वरहरूको सृष्टि गरिरहुन् !

हामीलाई अनन्तसम्म मार्गनिर्देशन गरिरहुन् !

(आफ्नै अनुवाद)

लाज हराएको देश

हो, यो “हल्लै हल्लाको देश” हो ।

अनि यो सपना देखाउने र देख्नेको देश हो ।

अनि यो भ्रमको खेति गर्नेको देश हो ।

साथै यो लुट्ने र ठग्नेले चलाएको देश हो ।

यहाँ मानिस जिउँदै ईंटाभट्टामा पोलिन्छन्,

अनि बलात्कृत भएर मारिन्छन्,

अथवा तुहिनका तार काटेर 

पार गर्दैगरेको युवालाई भेलमा खसाल्दा पनि 

प्रत्यक्षदर्शी जति मौन बनेर बस्नुपर्छ । 

यहाँ आगो र पानीले ज्यान जाँदा 

भाग्य यस्तै रहेछ भन्नुपर्छ ।

यहाँ खान नपाएर छटपटाउँदा

ईश्वरको इच्छा यस्तै रहेछ भन्नुपर्छ ।

यहाँ काम नपाएर विदेसिँदा

लास बनेर स्वदेश फिर्नुपर्छ ।

मालिकबाट कुनै दया भएको रहेछ भने

एक भोट भएर कसैको बाकसमा खस्नुपर्छ । 

विरोध जनाउनु महापाप हो ।

विरोध नजनाउनु जघन्य अपराध हो ।

तर हे दलहिन मानिस हो !

बुझ ! सत्यको सिधा बाटो समाउनु

महाशठपनाको अक्षम्य पाप हो ।

सिक ! सिक उनिहरूसँग बलियो बन्न ।

आफ्नै कर्तुत नकार्न, होइन भन्न ।

अदालत छल्न, शत्रु गाल्न,

शक्ति ढाल्न, 

आफ्नै घरमा आगो बाल्न,

गोटी चाल्न ।

नत्र 

तिमी केवल एक शीकार !

किन कि बाँचिरहेछौ यस्तो याममा

जहाँ सिङ्गो दुनियाँ आज

देखाइरहेछ नाङ्गो नाच, 

नाङ्गो नाच !

यो “हल्लै हल्लाको देश”मा 

मैलो भूमरीमा छ समाज 

किन कि हरायो यसले, 

कसरी कुन्नि ?

सम्पूर्ण लाज !

भदौ १, २०७८ 

Harishchandra (7)

7. Epilogue

Except on days I teach, I stay at home

and read or write or grade papers alone

for everyone else has school or office

in daylight hours. In this solitude

I hate to have the carpet-monger's shout,

the vegetable peddler's ill-timed call,

or the late hermit's cymbals or his conch

disturb my profound reveries or thoughts.

Since such things happen every now and then,

though somewhat irked by a dark man's presence

at my gate, I was more surprised when he

instead of stretching out a begging bowl,

gazed at me like a visitor and sought

permission to take up a few moments

out of my busy hours. How could I

under the spell of deep, dark eyes and face

writ all over with serious intent

not comply to such a stranger's request?

I offered him a chair under the eave

beside the chrysanthemum bed and said,

"I did not catch your name." He smiled and said,

"Harishchandra." Amused, I studied him.

Wrapped in a single piece of cloth he sat

composed and calm, his sturdy wooden staff

against the arm of the chair, his long hair

cascading down upon his straight shoulders.

"Harishchandra?" I asked. "Harishchandra,"

he replied, but offered no surname yet

as if that name alone was proof enough

of his entire being here on earth.

Amused, rather than seek to understand

the purpose of his visit, I displayed

my sense of humour by telling him

that it was indeed a coincidence

that I too had written under a whim

an account of Harishchandra and his wife

in Devkotian blank verse. Here he smiled.

"I know," he said, "and that is why I came."

"None but a few intimate friends know that

I have scribbled off this ancient tale

for lack of fresher imagination

to concoct a new one. How would you know

what I have done? You, whom I hardly know?'

"You know me well," replied the sober man,

"but not well enough to put together

the real me and the me you wrote of.

I am Harishchandra, the king, whom fate

turned into a cremator at Kashi's ghat

now named after me. Though gone long ago,

I visit all who praise my truthfulness."

Astounded, I looked with disbelieving eyes

at one who claimed to be almost as ancient

as earth itself. I felt an awe suffuse

through all my limbs, up every strand of hair

that stood erect. My heart galloped away.

A lump of silence choked my throat and I

would have frozen in my seat had not the sun

and broad daylight given me confidence.

"Do not fear me," said Harishchandra.

"I come as friend, a visitor who seeks

the soul of truth in a false and corrupt world.

I seek to know if truth lives in your heart."

Comforted by these words, I dared utter

though in a subdued schoolboy tone,

"I only wrote to wipe my boredom off.

Neither a seer nor a poet, I,

having enjoyed my father's Shakuntala,

imitated his style in secrecy,

without the least intent to publicize

your perverse fate or the arrogance of gods.

But, oh! I am so fortunate to meet

an honest person like you in this age

and putrid times. Tell me, truthful king,

have you ever lied to anyone?"

Grave and silent he sat for a moment,

recalling, I guess, long lost days of yore,

and, in a voice as profound as the sea,

he measured all his words out to me:

"I am as human as a man can be.

To say that I never lied would not be true.

Yet, there were others who lived before me

and were called by the same name that I have.

This is why you have confused the liar

with me who was born ages afterwards."

"Writers lie," I said, "for fun or impact.

Since I am not a scholar of ancient texts,

I thought I'd insist on human potentials

rather than on historical precision."

"That's fine," he said, "as long as you convey

the power of truth as potent remedy

for a corrupt age. All lies are not lies:

some seek to deceive, some to enhance mind."

"True, but unversed writing speaks of laziness

which doubly deceives both reader and he

who pretends at greatness through poetry.

Yet even those who seek to know the facts

find themselves at loss for lack of record

of incidents such as when, in "Exile,"

you return to the palace wearily

to take your wife and child to Benaras.

I wrote a second version of the script

to see if by injecting conflict there—

because superior intelligence

found Harishchandra devoid of conflict

and way short of great poetry—silent,

unvoiced conflict in unrebellious heart,

I could ratify art. This is what I wrote:

'Twas late afternoon when Harishchandra

arrived at the palace and in he went

straight to the queen's cozy chamber scented

with rich perfumes. The marble floor glistened

where the bright carpet felt inadequate

to cover up its variegated design.

Below the arch of corrugated pillars

on pedestals stood statuettes of gods

and goddesses all finely carved and touched;

and against the cream-white walls in vases

bloomed flowers of finest hues. In the cage,

the maina spoke and sang her instant whims.

In through large windows poured the southern sun

in pools beside the double-bed covered

with red velvet on which the queen drooped low

like a withering stalk unable to bear

the weight of her own miserable soul.

Without her crown and queenly glittergold,

she sat with knees upraised, attired now

not in regal splendour and ornaments

as befitted her, but, alas, in plain,

meagre length of as course a cotton cloth

as can humbly guard human decency.

So like a blotch of perverse fate she stained

the sumptuous perfection all around

that only held back human tears could sound

the sorrow of a joyous nightingale

cruelly forced to grovel on the ground.

Without the strength to lift her head to look

at the crownless king she glanced but once

and closed her eyes to bar these questions in:

"So, what is love when decisions are made

without consulting spouse? What dignity

can woman claim when she has just no say

in matters that affect family life?

What does marriage mean if two lives once joined

by nuptial vows of sharing and caring

share not decisions that chart out their lives

and care not how it might affect the spouse?

And child too! A budling that required

all possible support and nourishment

to bloom into an upright, able soul,

now severed from all such possibilities

by parental folly. To give is fine.

Yet, all life requires a minimum

sustenance of material things

without which the soul simply flies away.

What next? How sustain our lives?

Poor, poor child! Sweet Rohitashwa! Alas!

What a princely pauper have you become!"

Even as she thus pondered wearily,

the king addressed his wife: "I have given

the crown, the sceptre and the kingdom too

to sage Vishwamitra who now commands

that we leave his country. So, let us go."

"Yes, I know, my lord!" she might have replied,

if answering back was the practice then

as it is today between a husband

and his wife. "Yes, I know! You have given

more than what you own: the kingdom's not yours;

it is the people's rightful property.

My life is my own too; so is our son's.

We have a right to choose the course it takes.

Yet you have chosen to give all away

including your own hard-earned happiness.

And I, your spouse, can only look but not

express the nettled soul or rebel thought."

Thinking thus, she played her womanly role;

up she rose like a vague vapour that lingers

against the cliffs for lack of distinct goal;

down she stept from queenly bed like a cloud

that, charged with liquid burden, does not pour;

and when the king moved slow towards the gate,

taking hold of her dear son she followed

him like a leaf that flies the howling storm.

Now comment, truthful king, upon the art

of such intentional lying and supply

that which you alone can supply with truth."

"Padma," he said, "you are not far from truth.

Shaibya and Rohitashwa were ready

and waiting in the inner courtyard where

I found them. My wife shed two large drops

of silent tears that drowned me for a while.

She did not speak a word but followed me

like a lamb unconscious of its destiny.

But what of it? The thoughts you put into

her heavy heart may well have sprouted there.

And, though her actions did not taint my deeds,

I cannot paint the storms that raged inside

the woman's heart if rage it did indeed."

"And I know nothing of heaven," I said.

"Yet I pretend to have been there, seen all.

Would you endorse such nonsense and permit

me to tell the public absolute lies?

I'd rather not! I'd prefer to be wise

than to be a poet, liar in disguise."

"Publish your work," said the honest king,

hoping that upholding truth and honesty

even by such pretentious upholders

as me would help inseminate some hearts

with it. "Publish it," his deep voice rang clear

even as he stood up with staff in hand

and bid me sweet adieu with smiling face.

I held his robe and begged that he withhold

a moment more to clarify my doubt;

but, when he knew what raced inside my head,

he softly replied, "I cannot speak of that."

And, before I could rephrase my question

or beseech him to make an exception,

he left. A mere hallucination now

vanished into thin air, real no more.

Only Harishchandras enter heaven

with their physical bodies. Only poets

enter heaven in their imagination.

Only men like me create their heaven

with all its imperfections. Only you,

dear reader, Trishankhu, hang in mid-sky

until you awaken with a crash to earth.

Harishchandra (6)

6. Revelation

When many-fisted fate shatters high hopes

and perplexes the mind, our views upturn.

When those we expect to love and help us

refuse to do so, feelings cauterize.

When parents, king, and god who should protect

a child from harm become his enemy,

a scared and abandoned Shunashepa

stops crying, laughs with death, becomes a saint.

When Shaibya heard an honest husband speak,

she remained the same faithful wife she was

and replied not in anger or dismay

but gently spoke, "We must cremate our son.

I do not know where we will raise the sum

to pay for funeral service for I

have nothing more than what I wear.

But God be thanked ! For half of this will do !"

So saying Shaibya pulled the cotton cloth

she wrapped around her female decency

and tearing half of it she gave it to

Harishchandra as beggar's payment poor

for service at the ghat and this he took

from his wife before he built the pyre

on which to set his son and light the fire.

And now with heavy heart he was about

to transfer fire with the kusha grass

onto the camphor stuck between blue lips

of darling Rohitashwa plucked by death

long before he had even fairly bloomed;

he was about to offer up his son

to Agni, god of fire, though he should

long ago have offered up the same

to Varuna, but did not out of love;

he was about to light the pyre when

a gentle hand upon his shoulder fell

and a voice he recognized all too well

spoke gently this: "O king, forebear a while !"

For Vishwamitra had appeared as if

through curtains of the dark and holy night,

for sages then travelled through skyie paths

invisible to average human eyes

and knew through meditation what went on

anywhere on earth, underworld or  skies.

He then related to the perplexed king

the gist of hot debate in heaven high

and Harishchandra understood the cry

of helpless female voice in sylvan depths

and hermit-haunted wilds where game he sought.

Then spoke the sage, "The trial is over,

I am delighted with your honesty

and now the kingdom's yours, Harishchandra.

Rule with justice. May peace descend thereon."

"The gods are kind to focus their debate

on a poor show like me. I am honoured

to find a place in multifarious

crossroads of divine minds that loose not track

of minutest beings and events that

are or come to pass in this wild, wide world.

And Vishwamitra, you have greatly raised

my unworthy self to significance

in the eyes of gods; but, alas ! I weep

for I am human; heavy elements

of grief and misery do weigh my heart

in accordance with my nature for here

my dear child lies cold and dead. O, I weep

when I should faint with joy on knowing all

that has kindly come to pass in heaven."

Even as he uttered these sad, slow words,

like warm, radiant rays that tear apart

the gloomy, sable clouds that overcast

and hang menacingly low upon earth

which glows in spots caressed by these and smiles,

the brahmin and his barrel-woman came

walking in heavenly glory, followed by

a multitude of many brilliant gods

who came to bless the greatest man on earth.

Sweet effulgence now lit the ghat where gods

mingled with miserable humans low

and Ganga herself so melted tonight

with quick emotions as she murmured by

that bank and river met like gods and men.

And as Indrani clasped Shaibya and smoothed

her sorrows to peaceful calm, Indra smiled

in glorious lustre and him addressed:

"Your sorrow's over, King Harishchandra !

Weep no more for your son returns to life.

Behold ! He rises like a second dawn

after a morning tempest shrouded him

for just a little while, yet glorious,

yet soft, yet bright. I give him back to you."

And, indeed, Rohitashwa stirred his limbs,

opened his eyes and wondered why he lay

on top of a pyre. The mother quick

lifting him to her arms so kissed and cried

and hugged him close that tearless eyes of gods

felt a mortal chip like we feel the dust

that irritates the eyes and makes tears flow.

The humble father dumbfounded now,

delighted, yes, and overjoyed indeed,

praised great Indra for such mercy as none

on earth could ever expect again.

And when the family were one and joy

still great,  Indra addressed the truthful king:

"For pain on pain now joy on added joy

you have earned for yourself, Harishchandra.

You now deserve heaven and I its king

invite you to come with me where you shall

remain fore'er a proud and royal guest."

The king grew serious and soft replied:

"Great Indra ! Bountiful you are indeed !

You give me child and wife and future hopes;

what more can I ask of anyone? Yet,

you offer me a place in heaven too !

How can I ever hope to find again

an opportunity like this to serve

the gods of heaven and be blessed by them?

Yet, before I answer, let me request

my master chandala for permission

to leave my job and go to grand heaven.

Allow me, kind Indra, to seek him first

and see what he advises. This I must."

Even as he spoke, with timing precise,

behind him stood his master chandala,

now more like bright Varuna than the dark

bearded lord of fearful cremation ground,

and he spoke with such divine gentleness

that Harishchandra bowed with reverence:

"King ! Accept my reverence. No more I

shall demand a test of your mettle's worth.

I know you for an honest, truthful man,

one in billions, a gem of humankind !

Unlike divine beings, humans

transcend into higher and nobler planes

of existence through sheer effort of will;

they rise through humility; they surprise

heaven itself through such achievements great

as seem beyond them in the eyes of gods.

This was what Vishwamitra propounded

in heaven before we all decided

to shower suffering upon your soul

to test its adherence to noble truth

and honesty in miserable times;

but, now we are ashamed, Harishchandra,

to have doubted your virtue where it glowed

like youth on teenage cheek, like pink on rose,

like green on cotyledons, or like gold

in the globe that glows bright at heaven's gate.

I cannot give you permission to go

to heaven for I too there play the host.

So, come in all your radiant glory

to eternal heaven for the trials

and tribulations have now come to end."

Astounded Harishchandra stood aghast

and trembled in his limbs amidst the host

of effulgent divinities gathered

by the Ganges ghat, exit from sweet earth,

and turning to the sea-god softly said,

"Kind Varuna ! If this was but a trial,

let more such follow to humble my soul

and teach it to efface itself away.

This for me is blessing; education

in being meek and humble is the best.

And today I am deeply moved indeed

by the kindness and affection that gods

have bestowed on me. Willing to heaven

I would come, great Indra, but how can I

without my people who love me dearly?

The king is husband of the state and he

may not divorce the people for his joy.

So permit me to bring them all with me

to your eternal kingdom, O kind lord!"

The gods stood perplexed now and smiling looked

at each other, for they knew that no man

had thus far been allowed transit therein

with his course physical body; but now

they owed Harishchandra a favour too.

Then Indra spoke: "O king! They do not have

sufficient virtue to enter heaven."

"Then let them share the virtue I have earned,"

replied the king of charity at once.

And this was done. And, with all citizens

of blessèd Ayodhya, king Harishchandra

ascended to bright heaven, as is told

by many worthy mouths and pens who have

sung his praise, for praised must all truthful men

be on earth which now abounds with such as

place their own selfish end above all means

without a needle prick, without a qualm,

for conscience is now a thing of the past

although man must return to truth at last.