Siddhicharan Shreshtha (b. 1912)

Siddhicharan Shreshtha, who was born in Okhaldhunga in eastern Nepal in 1912, comes from a prosperous landowning Newar family. He has lived most of his life in Kathmandu but has responsibilities for an estate in the Tarai. Siddhicharan is a member of the influential first generation of modern Nepali poets who grew up under the autocratic Rana government, and his poetry reflects the turbulent period through which he has lived. At various times, he has worked as editor of the important literary journal Sharada and of Nepal's daily newspaper, the Gorkhapatra . He was granted membership of the Royal Nepal Academy in 1957 and is now a life member.

Although he has much in common with Devkota, Siddhicharan is less versatile as a writer and has been described as "the most subjective of all Nepali poets" (Khanal 1977, 264). It is true that most of his better known poems are focused inwardly, but this does not mean that he has not addressed himself with vigor on many occasions to the social and political issues of his day.

Siddhicharan's first published poem, "Earthquake" (Bhuinchalo ), was written after the great Kathmandu earthquake of 1934 and appeared in the Gorkhapatra . Most of his early compositions were rhapsodic or contemplative poems concerned primarily with the beauties of nature. He admits to having imitated Lekhnath Paudyal and to having been influenced in his early years by the great Indian poet Sumitranandan Pant (Kunwar 1966, 25). Siddhicharan became known in the literary circles of Kathmandu during the 1930s, when a respected scholar, Suryavikram Gyavali, published a laudatory essay about Devkota and Siddhicharan entitled "Two Stars in Nepal's Literary Sky" (Nepali Sahityakashka Dui Tara ). One of his most famous early poems was "My Beloved Okhaldhunga"

(Mero Pyaro Okhaldhunga ), a somewhat formulaic and over-praised poem that looks back with longing to childhood:^[1]

In the beauty of your verdant green,
in the coolness of your heart,
this poet spent his childhood,
laughing, playing, wandering the glades,
my beloved Okhaldhunga

Because this poem was widely interpreted as the expression of a desire to be free of the Rana regime, its author became the subject of much discussion.

Siddhicharan Shreshtha was clearly not from the same mould as firebrands such as Gopalprasad Rima1, but Siddhicharan's view of human affairs and the social order in Nepal did undergo a fairly radical change during the 1930s and 1940s. Some critics regard his "revolutionary" poems to be his most important works and argue that the romantic mysticism and pathos he often expresses are secondary aspects of his poetry (A. Bhatta [1968] 1977, 179). In 1940, he was imprisoned for publishing a poem that began, "There can be no peace without revolution," and he was not released until 1944. In jail, he wrote an episodic poem, Urvashi , that was based on a theme from the Mahabharata. A later foray into Hindu mythology produced The Sacrifice of Bali (Balibadha ). Yet it is upon his shorter poems that his reputation now rests. Most of these first appeared in Sharada and are now available in three collections entitled The Bud (Kopila ), My Reflection (Mero Pralibimba ), and Mist and Sunlight (Kuhiro ra Gham ).

The poems presented here in translation reflect themes that are typical of Siddhicharan's poetry. The acclaimed poem "A Suffering World" (Vishva-Vyatha ), which was published in the year of his imprisonment, is basically an expression of personal sorrow expanded to encompass the suffering of the whole world. The poem, which clearly has sociopolitical undertones, voices the speaker's wish to be conscious of the sorrow of the world:

May my heart always churn with longing,
may my tears never cease,
may I stay here above,
bringing the world storms of sorrow.

The speaker hints at the action he might take to remedy the situation— the Bhairava is a fearsome aspect of the god Shiva.

[1] T. Sharma (1982, 110) dismisses "My Beloved Okhaldhunga" as a poem of little literary merit or importance.

Run far from me all people,
or come together and kill me now,
lest 1 become the Bhairava
and dance with a garland of skulls.

"My Reflection" (Mero Pratibimba ), a poem in a similar vein, caused something of a stir when first published. In this poem Siddhicharan focuses attention on what he feels to be a general decline in human values. The language of this particular poem is extremely simple, which increases its effectiveness. "Untouchable" (Achut ) attacks a specific social evil: the speaker in the poem is evidently intended to be the deity of a temple.

Siddhicharan's revolutionary poems are exemplified here by "No Smoke from the Chimneys" (Dhuvam Niskandaina ) and "Father Has Not Come Home " (Ba Aunu Bhaeko Chaina ). The first of these expresses the poet's solidarity with and enthusiasm for the political struggle of the 1940s that eventually removed the Ranas from government. The latter poem sums up the general disillusionment of the Nepali elite with the factional and vacillatory administrations of the 1950s. "My Son" (Mero Choro ), a purely personal poem, demonstrates the beauty and profundity of the finest of Siddhicharan's mystical verse. Finally, "To the Poet Devkota" (Kavi Devkotalai ) shows signs of a revolutionary spirit, as Siddhicharan consoles his illustrious contemporary after the death of his son and exhorts him to

Go, make proclamations
to put a stop to tears and sighs...
you have sons throughout this land.

Siddhicharan Shreshtha's shorter poems are collected in Kopila (The Bud, 1964), Mero Pratibimba (My Reflection, 1964), and Kuhiro ra Gham (Mist and Sunlight, 1988). There are also two khanda-kavya: Urvashi (Urvashi [a woman's name], 1960), and Balibadha (The Sacrifice of Bali, no date).

A Suffering World (Vishva-Vyatha)

Life is a length of printed cloth,
wet with resolutions.
Birth and death stand at each end,
drying it in the sunshine of Truth,
hanging it from the tree of this world,
sheltering it from the showers of Hope.

While one man's cloth is drying,
another's is soaked even more.

My cold life was drenched by hopes,
but a parched soul and the heart's fire
dried up all my support.
The storms of a suffering world are raging
high above us today,
birth and death stand and stare, open-mouthed,
and the sentimental declare, oh poet,
lament is the essence of life.

I shed a stream of hot tears each day,
while oblivion's ghost is woken
on the topmost layer of Time;
may it never find my consciousness,
burning in this world's pain,
may my heart always churn with longing,
may my tears never cease,
may I stay here above,
bringing the world storms of sorrow.

The sun is spat out by an agonized day,
I watch it run to and fro like a dark cloud,
black warring tusks, sharp fangs of envy,
are trying to swallow me: I mock them.

It is useless to call this a world of action,
this dark burning ground of deeds,^[2] it is a blessing for those who live
to be offered up to fire.

Anxiety ripens, wells up as hot tears,
the world has wept a river
at the parting of ways, through long ages past.
Demonic valleys, wretched hills,
sad and lonely river shores,
all of them spew forth venom,
dawn and dusk fall as swords on my head.

Can I survive on this earth,
living and dying as other men do?
Run far from me all people,
or come together and kill me now,
lest I become the Bhairava^[3] and dance with a garland of skulls.
(1940; from Sajha Kavita 1967; also included in Nepali Kavita Sangraha [1973] 1988, vol. 2, and Adhunik Nepali Kavita 1971)

[2] he word translated as both "action" and "deeds" is karma, which has a wealth of connotations. Principal among these is the notion of accumulated merit, or guilt, which determines one's fate in subsequent incarnations.

[3] Bhairava is a fearsome aspect of the Hindu god Shiva, often depicted dancing upon the corpses of demons and wearing a necklace of human heads.

No Smoke From The Chimneys (Dhuvam Niskandaina)

I don't have time,
Death, do not call me,
I don't have time to mop up
the blood from a broken head.

Lady, do not detain my advancing feet,
I have no time for your blandishments.
The people of my country
have canceled their meals,
and are struggling: look!

No smoke comes from their chimneys.
(c. 1948; from S. Shreshtha [1964] 1978)

My Reflection (Mero Pratibimba)

Who is this coming down the path,
somewhat defeated, somewhat forgetful,
walking meekly like a dog,
redeeming pain with weakness,
who is this coming down the path?

Like a boulder on two sticks,
with a pumpkin placed on top,
pulled along by children
who say that it is Man;
who is this coming down the path?

Oblivious to Truth,
embracing only Falsehood,
he falls ever deeper, but thinks he ascends,
looking around him, unable to see,
polluting the very air,
who is this coming down the path?

This is a form devoid of beauty,
this is a language empty of feeling,
this is a man who has no soul,
where thought is shut out on all sides,
this, my reflection walking!
(1948; from S. Shreshtha [1964] 1978; also included in Sajha Kavita 1967 and Adhunik Nepali Kavita 1971)

Untouchable (Achut)

What is this you have brought me,
untouched by your brothers and sisters?

Take it back, I do not want such things,
you cannot worship while hating yourselves,
you may not enter my temple
if you shut its door to others.

Go away, oh sinners,
go away, fools and savages,
your offerings I reject.
Do not bow down at my feet,
my body is burning, burning.
The waters you bring are defiled,
far worse than pus or mucus.
If you truly wish to worship,
bring before me the man
whose rights you've usurped through all ages,
touch first his feet against whom you have sinned,
him you have called untouchable.

Only then may you come to my temple,
only then are you blessed as men,
only then will you cease being thorns
preventing our nation's progress,
only then will you be straight.
(1955; from S. Shreshtha [1964] 1978)

Father has Not Come Home (Ba Aunu Bhaeko Chaina)

The rain is falling, the wind is blowing,
Time has donned her garb of lateness,
the lamps are lit, a meal is cooked.
A woman is crying out,
"Father has not come home."

Times have changed,
the Ranas have sunk,
they say our chains are broken,
but freedom, progress, democracy,
none of these has come.
A woman is crying out,
"Father has not come home."

The slings of our thought,
the thunderbolts of our dream,
have smashed the skull of darkness,
but a new dawn, a new age, a new day,
none of these has dawned.
A woman is crying out,
"Father has not come home."
(1952; from S. Shreshtha [1964] 1978)

My Son (Mero Choro)

This is my son:
Infinity disappears
into the mouth of Great Time,
and only its tail protrudes;
one end of a long series,
its first part unfathomed,
which moves in great heavens;
the uppermost layer of generations uncounted:
the final edition of the Mystery emerges.

Destruction, whirlwind, thunder and threat,
the vast overturning,
baked in the kiln of Death;
these have created a soft and lovely image:
this is my son.

All over our hearts' lake
we sowed the seeds of dreams,
my wife and 1 together,
and a young plant was born
to grow from the void:
this is my son.

Into his pocket he puts
a piece of golden bangle,
and he's rich!
He bends a feather for his royal plume,
he mounts a horse of reeds,
he wins a glorious battle,
he awards us medals of flowers;
in his laughter and lightness
he flows on unhindered.

Though life's trees are often felled,
pushed out into a sea of sorrow,
though dark, despairing storms may blow,
he is shielded by a wisdom
called innocence, and he goes laughing on:
this is my son.

Young master, the world is not like that!
It is full of distrust, and grief, and strife,
full of hypocrisy, worry and loss!
He mocks my dullness, and I angrily say,
"Can you not see the world, you fool?"
But he weeps at my blindness until,
restored by the nectar of mother's arms,
he laughs in the sunshine of joy
like a rose just after the rain has ceased:
this is my son.

As he laughs he sheds flowers,
as he cries he sheds pearls,
creating beauty as he goes.
He walks on, leading true bliss,
the supreme soul, behind him:
this is my son.
(1948; from S. Shreshtha [1964] 1978; also included in Sajha Kavita 1967 and Adhunik Nepali Kavita 1971 )

To The Poet Devkota (Kavi Devkotalai)

You are a wounded bird,
what can I say as your injuries grow?
Perhaps this world still needs to snatch your very soul.
Your songs you have sung,
squeezing your heart, shedding your blood,
does this world heed only ambition?

Tell me what your singing gained you
as it sapped your life away?
Did you see this dry earth melting
to life as it still lived?
If you spread your hands and weep and wail,
this world is not your friend,
it does you no good to gather
deceit disguised as sympathy.

Turn it round, turn back that horror
which bore off your son at a tender age,^[4] which inspired that gross violation
and caused yon your fire sacrifice.
Sing songs of fire,
before a thousand more sons are lost,
sing a song to dispel the faint of aeons,
to raise the corpses of our countless sons.

Life's ship sails a vast sea of sorrow.
Your beloved son has died—shed no tears.
Consider this world's anguish:
so many pass their lives
with nothing to eat, and nothing to wear:
weep into their sea of sorrow,
sail your ship on their sea.

[4] Devkota's second son, Krishna Prasad, died of typhoid in 1946 at the age of eleven and his eldest son, Prakash, died in 1952, age eighteen. It is not clear to which bereavement Shreshtharefers.

Dance, and tread down the ashes
of burned-out dreams and rotten hopes,
bring thousands to life, create thousands more,
survive even sorrow.
Create a new world without such outrage,
endure and save others, defeat even Death,
spread freedom from sickness here.
May this world's children not all die young.

Go, make proclamations
to put a stop to tears and sighs,
nation-maker, poet,
you have sons throughout this land.
Go now, arise, for others may die,
alas, how can they live?
(1953; from S. Shreshtha [1964] 1978; also included in Sajha Kavita 1967)