So a year-and-a-half after starting this column, I received some feedback on it, at last, confirming to me that at least one person does read it: Ajit Baral. "Why should I read your column," he wrote in a tough-minded email which I here paraphrase, "when I can read the original Nepali work? And you never say anything critical about the work you're translating: what's with all the praise for Nepali literature, all this currying of favour with writers and poets? Don't you have anything hard-hitting to say?"

I wrote back timidly at first: well, um, no, I don't have many hard-hitting comments to make about Nepali literature (all my meanest observations I compressed into one Himal Khabarpatrika article a few years ago; I have nothing much to add to that). I wrote: Basically, I read Nepali literature, find some of it good, translate a few of these pieces every other week and call that a column. Then I got defensive: "Naturally, I translate only pieces that I like," I wrote, "so I only have positive things to say about the work I'm introducing. I mean, why translate a bad poem or story just to then be able to criticise it? Life is too short. I have better things to do." I got quite scrappy at the end. "Do you mind?"

My I-see-what-you-mean-but-can't-really-be-bothered response prevented other rejoinders from my column's single, tough-minded reader, but secretly, I started wringing my hands about what a terrible column this is. I mean, who cares about Nepali literature to begin with-other than Nepali writers and poets? Do English readers really care what Nepali writers are writing? Let's be honest here. Because it's not like Nepalis need to be reading their literature in English translation. Distraught, I asked my friends what for I was writing this column, and they out-and-out admitted that not only do they not read this column, they've never read anything I've ever written.

There are moments in one's life when one realises that one's efforts are mere gnats in a storm: no one has noticed that they are there, and no one would miss them if they were to disappear. I have experienced innumerable such moments in my (short, and that is what makes it so depressing) involvement in Nepali literature. All around, there is bloodshed, and I'm doing what? Translating Nepali literature into English. You know? Yeah, culture-shulture is important at wartime too, yada yada: I know, of course, the value of translating literature, especially in dehumanising times such as these. But it all feels very marginal to be looking up the dictionary for the meaning of such artsy expressions as when hundreds are being killed with such brutality.

I never got my head around this problem (my head is not very elastic); so, two weeks later, I was back translating Nepali stories and poems, and calling that a column. For this week, I have selected two poems by Bimal Nibha, who was among the best young poets opposing the Panchayat era, and now is among the best chroniclers of the mis-governance of the past twelve years. A satirist as well as a poet, Nibha's best work adopts a na?ve voice to express bewilderment, and moral outrage, at the failed promises of the recent past. Writing with a clear ethical vision, he calls not for a return to the authoritarian forms of government that many Nepalis seem to be wishing for these days, but for greater, and truer democracy. Both the poems below come from his collection Aagonira Ubhieko Machhe.


A Shirt With ONLY One Sleeve
Bimal Nibha

For my friend I needed to purchase
a shirt with only one sleeve

At the time of the democratic movement
my friend had fallen from a police shot
near the statue of King Mahendra
One arm had to be amputated

Since then he'd required
a slightly different kind of shirt
a shirt with only one sleeve
But I couldn't locate such a shirt
in any of the shops

When I said so to my friend
he smiled and said-
A shirt with both sleeves
will do for me, Companion
Look, look at my hands
Oh! How peculiar
Both hands were there as before
A moment later in an outburst of joy
I tried to take his hands in mine
But what was this?
I was missing one hand

Noting my confusion
my friend said-Companion
don't be surprised
This is actually your hand
I just took it to make do

It seems that it's possible
to work with only one hand
My friend and I both wore shirts
with sleeves on both sides
That he was missing one arm
made no difference at all
for I had both

Then came this matter, one day-
Making an invocation to the masses
the Prime Minister was waving his hands
I too waved my hands in salutation
and in exuberance I tried
to raise both arms forcefully
But I couldn't do this
I was missing one arm
I assumed it was with my friend

Upon meeting him later
I asked-Where's my hand?
He grew serious and said-
I don't have your hand, Companion
I also grew serious
and started to fret

Who knows what's happening
They're suddenly disappearing, hands
One of my friend's went
in the dark age of absolute monarchy
and in democracy, one of my own

Both friends are missing one arm each
You tell us now
how we might wear
shirts that have sleeves on both sides

CYCLE
Bimal Nibha

It's been a few days
my bicycle has vanished
Do you know where I might find it?

It's true that my cycle is small
its tires are bald
they have too little air
the colour is faded
the stand is broken
the kinetic light is faulty
the bell trills softly
the peddles move slowly
the chain is old
the handlebars are askew
the wheel is bent
it has no carrier
and no lock

No matter what
even if it's small and defective
even if it's shabby
no matter what it's like, that cycle is mine
The weight of my body lies on its seat
The measure of my feet fills its peddles
The print of my hands marks its handlebars
My breath rests in each part of that cycle
I am there
In summary that cycle is my life

(What kind of place is this
not unknown to me, my own village
where in the bright light of midday
a whole life has vanished
Do you know where I might find it?)

It's been a few days
my bicycle has vanished
Do you know where I might find it?