Bishweshwar Prasad Koirala (1915-1982)

Better known in Nepal as "B. P.," the leader of the Nepali Congress Party that ousted the Ranas, Koirala became Nepal's first elected prime minister in 1959. Before this, however, he had already become quite well known for his writing, which he began while studying law in Darjeeling during the 1930s.

Koirala's first story, "Chandrabadan" (A Face Like the Moon), appeared in Sharada in 1935, and three further stories were included in the seminal Katha-Kusum anthology in 1938. The most common theme of his stories and novels (of which Koirala published four) was the relationship between men and women, but a significant number of stories also dealt with social issues. The subject of politics, which dominated Koirala's life, is conspicuous by its absence in his writings. Most of his stories are brief but exceptionally effective. Koirala's stories are available in Doshi Chashma (Faulty Glasses, 1949).

The Soldier (Sipahi)

It is hard to travel alone in the hills. I had to walk for two or three days, but I met up with a soldier on the way who made the journey pass easily.

First he asked me, "Hey, young man, where are you headed?" shouting rudely at me from behind in a familiar tone. I turned to look back and saw a soldier in uniform coming up quickly with short, fast strides. I remembered the many things I had heard about the rough, cruel nature of military men and so I simply replied, "Ilam,"^[1] in the hope that

[1] Ilam is a district in the extreme east of Nepal, next to the Indian border.

this would shake him off'. But by then he had already caught up with me.

"Aha!" he said casually, and as he grinned a gold tooth glittered, "I'm on my way there too. Now we shall keep each other company all day, shall we not, my brother?"

He wore a black coat, an army cap, and khaki trousers. In his coat pocket there glittered the clip of a cheap fountain pen. A Queen Anne watch was strapped to his wrist and was visible whenever he lifted his arm—he had a habit of raising his hands as he spoke. Around his throat he had tied a large red kerchief.

"I'm a soldier, but you, if the Lord does not deceive me, must be a student. Am I right?"

I smiled and confirmed that this was true.

"I can always tell who a person is, and what he does, from the clothes he wears and the way he speaks. I swear I've never been mistaken, at least in this. I can't really read or write. Well, I can sign my name each month and get through the Ramayana:^[2] that much I've learned in the barracks. But if I'd studied any harder I'd have turned out thin and pale, like you!"

I began to enjoy his talk. He spoke with familiarity to everyone we met on the path, saying, "Where are you off to then?"

People were nervous of his military appearance and gave him no reply. On encountering an older woman, he would address her as "mother-in-law" and enquire after the well-being of her daughters: "How is your little girl? Tell me won't you, oh mother-in-law of whom I'm so fond?"

He had no wish to know about me. He didn't have enough time to tell me everything about himself, so how could he even inquire?

"I'm stationed at Quetta.^[3] I've been there a long time. I do have a wife, but she's back here in the hills, and she's sickly and good for nothing. But we've had two children, all the same. I haven't been home for ages, and I don't even want to go either. She'll have gone off with someone else by now, and my sons will have turned into rogues. Well, the little one seemed bright enough and I really hoped to educate him. But who could be bothered? My father didn't educate me, and I'm quite content. I found myself a wife in Quetta, too. Wherever you go you should have what you want."

I was really enjoying listening to the soldier because he spoke openly and concealed nothing from me. What was there for him to hide, any-

[2] This reference is probably to the ever-popular Nepali Ramayana, written in the nineteenth century by Bhanubhakta Acharya; "get through the Ramayana" is a translation of "ramayanasamma banchchu —"I survive as far the Ramayana." It is not clear whether the soldier is claiming to be able to read the text or just recite from it.

[3] Quetta is a large town, now in the southwestern Pakistani province of Baluchistan.

way? Like the serious student I was, I asked, "But what is life in the army like for you people?"

"What's that you say? I swear to you, you know, we don't have the problems you have. Even our officer tells us to enjoy ourselves; he was the one who gave me leave to come here. Recently, there's been talk of war, and so I've come to train new recruits. I've already caught six, and that's the truth. If you become a soldier, you get to rinse out your mouth with milk. You get to keep the goat's horns as your trophy. I'm hardly trapping them; I'm doing them a favor. Our country's in need of soldiers." He puffed out cigarette smoke. "If you die in battle, you go straight to Heaven." His face was as grave as that of a man reciting from the scriptures.

The journey was passing by easily because of his interesting talk. Some girls were on their way home from cutting fodder, and they were coming toward us. The soldier winked and said, "Wait now, I'll tease them." He went ahead and greeted them and then said something to them that I couldn't hear. They all clucked their tongues in disgust and hurried away, but one threw her load of grass down onto the ground right there. With her hands on her hips and her whole body shaking, she cursed him roundly and showed him her teeth. My soldier friend laughed, clutching his stomach, and turned to me and declared, "What a fearsome woman! I'm sure she curses her husband like this. I'd swear to it, you know!"

So we walked on together. "It's very hard to understand these girls. Once, one of them got me in her clutches. Yes .... "he sighed. Then he looked as stern as a stone statue, and his legs moved like automatic machines. Straight up ahead, the yellow sun was sinking behind a hill. With great curiosity, I asked, "Well, what happened?"

"Yes, as I was saying. 1, too, loved a girl once; I don't know how it happened. I had spent a lot of time laughing and playing with her and then one day, a Sunday, I found myself beginning to love her. That day was my day off, and as soon as it got dark I hurried to her house." He began to pant. "That day, she was wearing a blue gown, the wretch. She looked very pretty that day."

Just then we began to climb steeply. "Wait, I'll go and buy a couple of sugarcanes. Going uphill is easier if you've a stick to lean on, and when you get to the top you can suck it and it refreshes you. Isn't that a good idea?" He went off and returned with two sugarcanes. Giving one to me, he went on talking, "But that girl really deceived me. She went off with a captain. Her pretty clothes attracted him, but I assure you she won't stick with that old captain. She enjoys flitting around, that pretty girl." A light breeze swept his last sentence away.

I was pondering over this and I made no comment. Seeing me quiet,

he laughed, "I bet you a bottle of raksi you're thinking about your' wife.^[4] Aren't you now? Tell me the truth!..."

I didn't answer him. Then after a while, I said, "Tell me, brother soldier, how do you go into battle? All the bombs, bullets, death—I can't even imagine such a dreadful thing."

He laughed scornfully and slapped me on the shoulder, "It's no place for a soft man like you. But I swear to you, I enjoy myself in battle."

Talking like this, we came to a place where we could spend the night. There were still two hours of daylight left, but the hills to the west had already covered the sun, and darkness was falling quickly to the, sound of cascading waters.

"Now I can't go on," I said. "It's time to look for somewhere to stay."

"Don't worry about that. I know every stone here; it's where my forefathers came from. Come, I'll take you to a shop; I know the old woman who owns it. There was a time when men sat all around her, my father among them. Her shop did very well then. But nowadays no one even casts her a glance from a blind eye. I swear to you, if it wasn't for her daughter, I wouldn't go there now either."

As he spoke we came to the shop. It was old and built of timber that had rotted in the rains. The front of the building had subsided, and so people had to stoop down before they could enter.

We went inside. The smoke that filled the room made the pale light of a solitary oil lamp even dimmer. And because my eyes were heavy with fatigue, the scene inside seemed almost unreal. Two hillsmen were drinking tea and eating pieces of stale old bread. They talked loudly and slapped the table from time to time. I saw a fire burning in one corner, with a teakettle placed above it: this was the cause of the smoke. To one side, there was an odd, shelved cupboard with a broken glass front. Inside it I could see an old Lily biscuit tin, an empty box that had contained orange pekoe tea, and a few glasses. A fat old woman sat with her elbows on the table, listening intently to the men's conversation. Occasionally, she would say a few words, and from time to time she laughed out loud.

The soldier entered the room ahead of me, and as soon as she saw him the woman stood up. Looking him up and down, she said, "Hey, what are you doing here? Have you lost your way?"

"No, I'm not lost! Where's that daughter of yours?" Waving his hands, he began to pace up and down as if he owned the place.

"She's out, but she's due home soon. I thought you had forgotten us."

At that moment, a plumpish young woman came into the room and

[4] Raksi is the ubiquitous liquor of the Nepalese hills. It is distilled from barley, millet, rice, and almost anything else.

said carelessly, "Let him forget! Why should anyone spare a thought for us?" She wore a dirty print skirt and the black smudge of her cheeks was visible, even through the gloom. Above her skirt, a piece of dirty cloth was tied around her waist. She was not especially pretty, but no doubt she had the natural attractiveness of youth.

When he saw her, the soldier skipped over to her. "Oh, you won't believe me, but it's you that draws me back here again. Who could possibly forget you? As soon as ! arrived, I asked your mother about you. And then you turned up in person. Tell me, what oath should I swear?"

"Enough, enough! Don't say anything more. You say a lot of things when you're in my sight, but afterward..." She went into another small room and the soldier hurried after her. Inside that room, she lit a lamp and lay down on a mat. The soldier sat down in the doorway and began to talk.

"Tell me then," she said, "what have you brought for me?"

I was feeling drowsy, so I paid little attention to their conversation. But they were still talking much later on, even when everyone else had eaten and gone to bed. The woman told him to bring her a framed Indian mirror when he returned next time. The soldier replied that he wouldn't just bring her a mirror but a dress as well, made from twenty hands of printed cotton. I was tired and I quickly fell fast asleep.

Early the next morning, the soldier shook me awake. There were still two hours to go before sunrise, and it was very cold outside. A chilly wind blew down between the ranges, and the sound of the river nearby was loud. No one else was up, and the cocks had just begun to crow. The hills all around were dark and silent and treeless because it became very cold in that place. I got up, rubbing my eyes.

"Little master," said the soldier, "I bid you farewell. We go different ways from here." He shook me by the shoulders until they hurt. I felt quite sorry; I had begun to grow fond of him, but he cared for no one. He strode off down his path, I stood there watching him go.

Many times I have seen stone memorials to soldiers killed in battle. But this was the only chance I ever had to meet a soldier in the flesh.

(from B. Koirala [1949] 1968; also included in Katha Kusum [1938] 1981)

To the Lowlands (Madhestira)

Morning came to the confluence of the Sunkosi and Tamakosi rivers.^[5] The Sunkosi came down from the north in a rushing torrent and mixed

[5] These two rivers in eastern Nepal meet in the Janakpur zone near the southern margin of the hill country.

into the Tamakosi, which flowed from the east. There could be few men capable of fording the Sunkosi, but anyone with a strong pair of legs could cross the Tamakosi. No greenery grew on either bank of these two rivers; the trees and shrubs seemed to stand back in awe.

The earth's crust seemed to burst open at the touch of the sun's first rays. Four or five people rose from where they had been sleeping, curled up on the ground. Each asked the same question as he awoke: what were they going to eat? They turned to one another as if reading each other's minds. The widow was looking at Goré, but she addressed them all, "Well, what food did you bring when you set out? Did you think about what you would eat?"

Her words surprised them all. "I don't even have a house to live in!" said Bhote.^[6]

"I did once," said Budho. "Now I have nothing. But child, if you do have somewhere to live, what are you doing here?"

I might call these four homeless people beggars or coolies. When they found work, they were coolies; when they did not, they were beggars. But the widow in their midst, a woman who had her own home, was a swan among a flock of crows. Like the goddess Annapurna, she pulled out some chiura from her bundle.^[7] She shared it out between them and gave them each a lump of sugar, too. Their eyes all brightened and they felt great respect for her. She added to Gore's share from her own.

"You're young; you must be hungrier than the others," she said. "I'm on my way to the lowlands. I have no husband. My in-laws are not blind. My brother-in-law was disrespectful. I couldn't stay in that house with no husband."

This statement had a profound effect on the others. It was no mean thing for a woman to abandon a place where food was freely available just because she had lost her husband. Their respect for the widow increased.

"Where are you all going?" she inquired. "I didn't see you eat anything last night. You all went to sleep just like that. I had no companion, so I slept nearby. All night long I felt fond of you."

Bhote was greatly surprised. "Why should you feel fond of us? We're not your husband, your sons, your father."

"But you are people, nonetheless," said the widow.

The rice had gone into stomachs that had been empty all the previous day. Enlivened, they began to talk loudly and excitedly.

[6] The characters of this story are named Goré, "the fair one"; Bhote, "the Tibetan"; Budho, "the old man"; and Dhané, "the rich one."

[7] Annapurna is a goddess of plenty who brings good harvests. Chiura is parched rice, a common staple among the poorer people of Nepal.

"Young lady, we four are not related to each other," said Budho. "But we are all homeless. There's no work here anymore. We're off to look for work somewhere. From what you say, it seems we should head for the lowlands. What do you say, my friends? Shall we go there? In the lowlands you can eat your fill. I once carried a load down there."

They all decided to go to the plains. Four men and a woman took the road for the south. Budho told them about his past. Once, he earned a lot of money, farming 17 ropani .^[8] Then everything had just gone wrong. He had been young then, and so he had been able to take the browband onto his head and make a living as a porter. But now there wasn't even that to resort to. Or else why would an old man like him be wandering around feeling hungry? It was time for him to die now. But the pangs of hunger forced him to move from place to place.

"I want to set up a lovely home in the lowlands," said the widow. "I'11 take up farming. They say it's easy there. They say you can get land just like that. I couldn't stand any more of my in-laws' complaints. And the place where my husband died filled me with dread."

Bhote and Dhané listened with interest but said nothing themselves. Goré seemed weary; he trailed behind, dragging his feet. The widow stopped to wait for him. When she stopped, everyone else stopped, too.

"Are you feeling tired, Goré?" she asked as he approached. "The sun is hot. Here, put this on your head." She took off the white cloth she wore on her head and put it onto Gore's. Then they all went on. Budho was old in name only; he strode out ahead of everyone else. Bhote and Dhané walked beside him, listening to his tales. Noting their interest, Budho became bolder and began to mix fact with fiction. Bhote and Dhané listened in awe.

Goré and the widow came slowly up behind. Gore was about twenty-five, the widow about thirty. Goré was shy and taciturn. His eyes were dull and his cheeks sunken from many long days of arduous labor.

"What will you do in the lowlands?" the widow asked him.

"Who knows?" replied Goré.

"Won't you settle down? Don't you fancy farming?"

"What about money?" said Goré.

"It's easy to farm in the lowlands. You get the fields for nothing there. How old are you, after all? Settle down in a home of your own! Look after a wife; bring up children! How much longer can you go on like this?"

Abruptly, she suddenly asked him, "Don't you like women, then?"

He looked up sharply, "Why shouldn't I like women?"

[8] A ropani is an extremely small area of land: about 5,000 square feet.

"In the lowlands, I shall set up home and grow some crops," she began. "But a home's not a home without a man. So I just thought—why don't you and I set up house together?"

Goré looked at the widow in astonishment, and she was rather taken aback.

"Am I not good enough for you? So what if I'm old? My longing is like a flame in my heart.. Won't I ever have children? Won't I ever have sons and daughters, a home of my own, a man of my own?"

The widow was on the verge of tears. She blushed, hung her head, and walked on in silence. For a long time they walked without saying anything. But as the evening drew in she broke the silence.

"Goré, I have a little jewelry. Some money, too. We could buy, some land. I could make a home. If you were mine, it would all be yours."

A little further on, the three others were sitting on a large boulder, waiting for them. Budho saw them in the distance and he called out, "Shall we stop here? What is there to eat?"

All eyes were on the widow. "There's a little chiura left," she said. "Not enough to fill us up, but it will keep us going."

They sat down to eat; then they slept right there, curled up by the wayside with the sky as their roof. After walking all day, they were asleep as soon as they lay down.

Budho got up with the first morning sunbeams and began to hack and cough. They all got up, but there was no sign of Goré. The widow was anxious. "Where's Goré?" she asked.

"Oh, he must have wandered off somewhere," said Budho calmly. "Now we must get going. There's nothing to eat. We must get there by dusk. There may be some way of getting food there."

The widow's heart was heavy. She was surprised by her companions' lack of concern. Were they not even the slightest bit saddened by the disappearance of someone who had been their comrade through such hard times? She began to collect her belongings, and then her heart came into her mouth—the bag of jewels was gone!

They were all ready to set off, but the widow just sat there going through her bags and bundles.

"What are you doing?" asked Budho. "Let's be off! We must be there before nightfall, or we'll have to sleep hungry again."

"My jewels have gone!" sobbed the widow.

They stared at her in amazement. "Where were you off to, carrying jewels?" Budho exclaimed. "Goré must have taken them. So they're stolen now, and I'm not surprised. No point crying about it!"

The widow was angry. "Shut up, Budho," she shouted. "I'd thought it all out, what I'd do with those jewels. I was going to buy some land,

get married again, set up home, have a son Now my hopes are all destroyed." She wept and wailed loudly.

Budho patted her on the shoulder. "Why are you weeping, child? What's stolen is stolen. Something will turn up in the lowlands. You'll find a husband. A home as well—don't fret. Come on, let's be on our way."

The widow stood up, staring blankly, and fell in behind Budho.

Up on the top of a distant hill, Budho was full of excitement. He pointed down to the wide green plain in the south that stretched as far as the eye could see. "There it is," he said. "The lowlands] There's our salvation! There we will eat our fill!"

Dhané's and Bhote's eyes flickered with joy. Even into their cheeks, withered by hunger, there came a flush of happiness. They grinned and grinned all over their faces. But the widow was indifferent. She was in the twilight of her youth now. She had hoped that her jewels and her money would attract a young man to her, a man she could make her own. She had longed to fulfill the dream of her youth: her own little home, sons and daughters. It had all collapsed like a house of cards. She imitated her companions and gazed with joyless eyes down to the plains in the south.

(first published in Khoji , a Darjeeling magazine, sometime after 1938; from B. Koirala [1949] 1968; also included in Sajha Katha [1968] 1979)