Writing in the tradition of committed Marxist poetry, Ahuti captures the sorrows and struggles of Nepal's most vulnerable subaltern classes: those who are systematically excluded from the sphere of political representation. Women-the invisible majority today-are given centre stage in some of his best works, which in their militancy are prescient, and quite chilling. The poem below, which is in the original language two separate poems of the same title, is found in his collection Tapaswika Geetharu, which translates as Songs of the Devotee.

The Nine-Hued Pheasant and the Daughter-in-Law of the Poor

1

As the pheasant, the nine-hued pheasant
leaps from branch to branch, jumping and shaking its comb
spreading its wings like a vagrant himalayan breeze
scattering a nine-hued rainbow while dancing the open sky-
she covers over the colours of her life
having lost her dreams as a pearl lost in a refuse pile
she sits by the dirty dishes next to the rubbish
and looks at the pheasant with spread wings
carrying in her eyes tears like the ocean
she strokes the cracked wounds on her soles
she scoops up dung and scrubs the dishes, a pitiable being:
the daughter of the poor, the daughter-in-law of the poor.

She stepped across the threshold as the bride of the house
just as in darkness the full moon comes bearing light.
Her seven-hued realities and nine-hued dreams
were tucked into the corners of her lace-up blouse.
She came with the mind of one who buys on credit
with uneasiness in her chest, her face, her hands and legs
with uneasiness all over, from head to feet.
She came like a daughter taking on her father's debts.
Her mother-in-law cloaked her with the black shawl of convention.
She trembled before her husband as a mouse before a cat
and she gathered the leftovers from his dirty plate
always feeling afraid that he may take another wife.
Without so much as soaking in hot water the bruises he gives her
she stays up half the night mixing her tears into oil
and massages those feet that batter her chest
and his thighs, his wrists, his arms. She stamps out her desire.
She scoops up dung and scrubs the dishes, a pitiable being:
the daughter of the poor, the daughter-in-law of the poor.

The earth cries all night seeking light
as the sky roams in the brightness of countless stars.
How often her husband changes his attire
as the lace-up blouse of her wedding day tears.
As her pleasures tear apart like her favorite blouse
she bears so many stains on so many parts of her face. She bears
rope burns and calluses on her forehead, a stone's cut in her heel
the weight of anxieties all day and night. She bears
the underfed pockets of blue all over her body
the flesh shrunken on the bone, the tears that brim in her eyes.
She is like watercress become bland for lack of salt.
She cannot tell what is lacking in her life. Becoming teary eyed
and coming to a boil when she washes the dishes
she opens her heart at the well and at the stone taps
and speaks of her suffering. She murmurs, too, in the loneliness.
When her mother-in-law cannot stand to see her
she sees in blocks of tears the love of her parents' home
and she walks down to her dear parents' home
carrying a pack of clothes on one side, another pack on the other
without so much as noticing that her fariya has come undone
and when in her parents' home her heart is stung by the harsh words
of some villagers, of some brothers and sisters-in-law
she picks up the same packs and walks back up to her unfeeling house
like a traveler who through all her life mistakes the road
like a thirsty person. She makes the rounds of her own people
seeking shade, walking this way and that, wandering.
Unable to bear anything anymore she beats her chest
as a washerwoman beats cloth on the rocks
She sits by the dirty dishes next to the rubbish
and she looks at the pheasant with spread wings.
She tries to fly as the pheasant does, spreading her wings.
She strokes the cracked wounds on her soles.
She scoops up dung and scrubs the dishes, a pitiable being:
the daughter of the poor, the daughter-in-law of the poor

2

I never noticed-
When did she start washing her face with moonlight?
When did Sanikanchhi start sloughing off
the calluses from her hands and feet?
Everything is as it is. The barbet moans in the woods, as always.
Our daughters bathe their eyelashes with tears, as always.
But like the firefly who disdains the cricket for emptying its life crying
and so stays apart, flying alight,
Sanikanchhi has stopped the flow of her tears.
She has started to speak about her dissatisfactions.
She has started to sing songs of justice in folk tunes.
She has started to cut to size those who say "Oh, women".
I now believe
Sanikanchhi, who used to look at the pheasant with spread wings
will bloom as a moon that clears up clouds in the sky.
Like the sky's offering of dew to the leaves,
she will fall upon the darkness, becoming the light of the moon
becoming the pearl of life, spreading brightness.

She doesn't flinch at her husband's berating.
Neither does she massage his feet.
Taking cover as she used to when playing hide-and-seek as a child
and feeling slightly abashed, she tries now to read books.
She reddens her face and asks questions of those who understand.
She tries to grasp everything:
Why isn't the measure of the grain pot full?
Why don't the children have proper clothes on their backs?
Why isn't there a warm roof to take shelter beneath?
She memorizes everything as though they were alphabets.
At this year's May Day she straightened her fariya
though it was inferior and patched together.
She washed her blouse and came to the program
and said "Long live" and also "Death to"
and when her friend who had been talking with head held high
was taken by the police and pushed around
she held her friend, raised her finger
and like a lioness roared, "Don't touch her!"
I then came to believe
Sanikanchhi, who used to watch the pheasant with spread wings
-and other suffering girls like her-
will one day come to the battlefield carrying guns
At the very least the girls who are most fearful
will look after their brothers who are in battle
and when their houses are searched will hide their husbands' guns

Now Sanikanchhi, like gold that is also touched with fragrance
sometimes remembers her friends who are still asleep
and sometimes talks to her friends who have just awakened.
When her childhood habit of thinking "I can't do anything"
tries to obstruct her path
she disciplines her soul with stinging nettles.
I truly believe
the person who flees from obstacles does not live,
but dies in each step. But like Sanikanchhi,
who disciplines her soul with stinging nettles
he too can change the face of the world one day.