He was a satirist who commented on the absurdities of modern Nepal, as well as a journalist and editor. The essay below, written during the years after the royal takeover of 1960, speaks well of the bungling of the Panchayat years.
THE INTERNATIONAL FROG CONFERENCE
A t two o'clock at night, I lay down on my bed with torn sheets. Like the guerillas that descended from Formosa during the Chinese revolution, bedbugs descended on me from the walls and corners. Like the fighter jets that roared above Japan in the second world war, mosquitoes whined by the light of the oil lamp. My thoughts were speeding ahead to tomorrow's routine-at six o'clock the Health Minister was going to inaugurate the cleanlinesss campaign, at ten o'clock the cornerstone of the fish pond was to be laid, and in the evening there was a reading of Nepali poems at India House, a screening of Himalayan films at the American Embassy, an official dinner of the Foreign Minister at a British function, and the celebration of Rabindranath Tagore's birthday at the statue of Bhanubhakta Acharya.
I'm just a journalist, but if I may speak honestly, I see that today's people spend all their energy on forming committees, and all their intellectual work on passing proposals. I alone have joined five committees: I'm the chairman of the construction committee for the neighbourhood toilet, the chief minister of the council for national dress, the propaganda minister for the jobseekers' club, the joint secretary of the undercooked restoration group, and the finance officer of the international elements slap-up group. This is probably why my son has also gathered together all his friends and formed a committee for playing marbles which has unanimously passed a proposal to not play marbles on the road, even though his own hand, broken when a motorcycle hit him as he played marbles on the main street, isn't yet fully healed. One of these days, the mother of my son will also gather the energetic women of the nearby houses and form a hair combers' committee.
But I am not a coarse man so narrow as to dislike committees, meetings, speeches and proposals: I'm a vigorous man of the twentieth century, a journalist who reports upon man, the helmsman of an atomic age that shrinks with rockets and expands with pockets! And so my mind began to race, once again, over worldwide gatherings, meetings, committees and conferences of the past, future and present. And as I listened to the juicy speeches of mosquito politicians, I drifted off far away, to an international frog conference, where on the main door I saw a sign written, in words that were bigger than frogs: 'International Frog Conference'.
The International Frog Conference had been organised by the Fewa lake in Pokhara. Frog representatives had gathered from most of the main rivers of the world, carrying their national flags. There was a crowd of journalists and photographers on the lake's shore. At the Baraha temple at the middle of the lake was a pedestal decked with flags from all over the world. A local frog stepped forward to make the introductions and to give the welcoming address, and photographers pressed forward, elbowing each other aside. Journalists got their pens and notebooks ready. I too was standing at the bottom of a tree.
The local frog began by pointing at a tall, fat, red-and-white frog-'This is the leader of the Mississippi delegation, Mr Old S Dollar.' Everyone started to clap and shake hands. The local frog pointed to an attractive, extremely red frog-'This is the leader of the Volga delegation, Marshall Liartov.' After that, he introduced the Thames and Seine delegations' leaders, then introduced the leaders of the Huangwho delegation and the Ganges delegations. I had to go out as the introduction of the Bagmati delegation's leader, Tartoor Singh, was going on, and when I returned, the welcome speech had finished.
I found out, from a pile of papers distributed at the meeting, what the objectives of the conference were-the conference was being held to discuss the major problems of the world. The main topics of discussion were-
1. An immediate ban on the practice of throwing nets and explosives into rivers.
2. Peace and goodwill between all rivers, based on the five precepts of Buddhism.
3. Consideration must be given to the problems of small rivers.
4. Arrangements must be made for the housing of frogs during the dry season, etc.
These are the main issues of the day; and surely a few decisions would emerge from the ensuing discussions. After all, when there are any problems in our village, all the elders get together in a panchayat meeting and make decisions. All the world's brains have gathered here, I reminded myself.
But even as I thought this, there was already a commotion going on about who to elect as the conference's chairman. One group was proposing Marshall Liartov, another group was proposing Mr. Dollar. Their arguments grew so sharp that they began to hurl accusations at each other, pouring out all the anger stored up from their ancestors' times. After a four-hour argument, those who had the loudest voices all formed a joint chair-group.
After that, there were excellent, intellectual speeches, clapping, and a variety of proposals from a variety of delegations. I was racing my stubby pencil through my notebook with all my might when another commotion broke out. Even as he spoke on the problems of small rivers, a leader from a big river struck out against small river
delegations.
His saying was-no matter whether the river was big or small, frogs must rule over them. If not, tadpoles would take over. How could there possibly be equality between large and small rivers!
As he said this, a scuffle broke out elsewhere. I got scared, and tried to flee, but an old journalist said, 'Didn't you know, in frog's language, the five precepts of Buddhism mean five punches.' And indeed, everyone was punching out each other, and nothing could be heard but the sound of punching. Marshall Liartov and Mr Dollar too started to exchange blows. What of the problem of explosives, what of world peace?
The fish that had come to the conference started to shout-'Save us, save us! Don't stamp on us simple fish! Don't pollute the clean water by letting a few fat-bellied frogs scuffle in it!' But what effect could the cries of fish have on the head frogs? Who reads the Vedas when they are angry? One of the frogs jumped up and let out a loud belch, and-suddenly, there was a huge blast in the lake. I too awoke at that sound. And I looked at my watch and saw that I was already late for the inauguration of the cleanliness campaign. My eyes were still seeing visions of the frog conference, but what could I do? I told myself-'The fox will carry off the hens if the old woman turns towards festivities'-and ran off to my next program.
