Twenty-eight years of solitude

Some reflections on life

BP Koirala starts his Atma Brittanta with a peculiar statement that yet it was not time for him to write about himself. Of course, that is his greatness and great people are always more simple, straightforward and as BP himself says, emotional. That book is at par with Nehru's autobiographical works, particularly with respect to portraying the society and political upheavals of that time. Unfortunately, BP Koirala passed away too early and we are now deprived of more illustrious books in Nepali history.

The point now is, should I shun writing about myself citing BP's explanation; given that I am one of the thousands of self-advertizing people of our era and have done little to nil for larger society? This has always been the question before me whenever I sit down to write about myself. Should I burden the readers with my boring words about a parochial past that interests very few? Am I writing something really meaningful or am just writing for writing's sake? If I have sorrow, frustration and unfulfilled yearning in my life, should I share that with others who do not necessarily share parallel realities in life? If I have a miniature happiness every now and then, is that worth sharing with others? And finally, do my writings have any meaning in the longer term; say for the generation to come?

To me, every person beyond a certain level is a secluded entity. One may elaborate and express oneself to whatever lengths and depths but, at the end, there remains something that cannot be shared or expressed. Sometimes that seclusion becomes a prison, especially when one is going through tough times, and the person suffers. Other times, that becomes like the imagined world of paradise when the virtues of success and liberty abound in one's life. But the latter is a very infrequent happening in my experience. Over all, the secluded and solitary self of a person is a place where one is pretty vulnerable to recurrent to persistent bouts of ill-being.

Some of the geniuses of our times have adapted to that omnipresent solitude in a productive way. That way the seclusion results in a productive life. But even to them, sometimes it becomes unbearable and the whole episode ends in a tragedy; the monumental example being the tragic suicide of Bhairav Nath Aryal, the legendary satirist of Nepali literature. The tragic end of Michael Jackson's life could be another example when success, fame and money cannot even scratch the melancholy that tends to boil inside a person.

Revisiting the +2 years-1

A tribute to teachers

One morning in early summer of year 2000, I woke to a new realization: I was to leave the village more or less permanently. I had just passed SLC in precious first division and was all set to start higher education in the city. The whole world that reared and nurtured me was now to be left behind and a totally new world was to be discovered. The known, accustomed, predictable and loving world was now to be abandoned in favor of unknown, unaccustomed, unpredictable and expectedly hostile world. 

Looking back, these 12 years have not been that disappointing. Not all dreams of those days and moments have come true but the journey so far has been commendable, to say the least. Of this period, the most crucial years for me have been the +2 years of transformation. Here I revisit some of the memories from those years. 

The village from where I dreamed of bright future

In the school I was a topper. In class 8, I had even topped the district itself. Teachers used to frankly present myself as a model to others. My performance in English and Mathematics was impeccable by those standards and everyone in the village watched with hope and awe how I would perform in the college. In Chitwan, however, I was suddenly among the brilliant minds from all over Chitwan, surrounding districts and of course, occasional students from remote areas like myself. Most of them had come from the prestigious private schools and had flawless English. 

On day one, I almost fainted with fear and anxiety when asked to introduce myself. While the teacher approvingly nodded and even praised those from famous private schools, the name of my school, ‘Rangkhani Ma. Vi. Rangkhani’ only drew blank stares but I was enormously relieved for having successfully uttered those words. I had passed the entrance in 52^nd position and was placed in section C. Gradually, I learned how my new friends were and how they studied. My written English was fare but spoken English was horrible. That factor was sufficient to make me nervous and feel inferior to most of my friends. 

However, I had come with enormous responsibilities. In fact, my family had gambled with expenditure of a private college that was beyond the means. Unlike the friends who were mostly from relatively wealthy families and an average performance was also alright, I had to anyway excel in studies and make way for a decent-paying career at the earliest. Also, all of my colleagues from the village had got admission in government colleges and were studying at far lower cost.