नया बर्षको कामना यसरी...

आज यौटा तान्का टासेर सबैमा नया बर्षको शुभकामना दिन चाहन्छु ।

वौद्ध धर्म र जेन परम्पराको प्रभाव तान्काको आत्मा हो । चौधौं शाताव्दी लामो इतिहास बोकेको यो कविताको लोकप्रियताको कसी मानयोशु काव्य संकलनलाइ लिन सकिन्छ, यद्यपि आजपनि यसको चेतना प्रभाव, शक्ति र क्षमताप्रति उत्तिकै विश्वाश छ । नया बर्षको शुभकामना दिने केहि पृथकपनाको खोजि गर्दै म हज्जारौं बर्ष पछाडी फर्किएको छु, "साहित्यको सिमा हुदैन, यो कुनै देशको पनि हुदैन त्यसैले यतिखेर तान्का यहाँ मेरो भएको छ" । कसको/के विधा भित्र्याइस हँ भनेर औंला उठाउनेहरुलाई मेरो रेडिमेड जवाफ । यो तांका कामना हो नया बर्षको, यसको सौन्दर्य जस्तो सुकै देखिए पनि, शास्त्रीय संरचना भित्र लेखिएका यी हरफहरुको प्रभाव सबैको मन मस्तिष्कमा पुगोस र ऋचामन्त्र झैं अनुभूत र ग्रहण होस् ।

यसरी शुरु हुन्छ ....


ए प्रमिथस!
धपक्क भइ केहि
उदायो हेर
अब तिमी खोज्नेछौ
अग्नी हैन उज्यालो ।

कुहिरोले धुम्म भोट

कुहिरोले धुम्म भोट
सिरेटो र सिमसिम पानी
फुस फुस हिउँ बनेर खसिरहेछ
घरको सम्झना
आँखाको गहिरो गहिरो आकाशमा
र पग्लिरहेछ्न तप तप
यो झरी हो कि आँसु हो
बिरानो देशमा मदनहरु रुझी रहेछन ।

ल्हासाको सुन जस्तै
मुनाका उज्याला छायाहरु बोकेर
मायाका एक लहर श्वेत शिरिषहरु
छपक्कै फुलिदिन्छन
फिक्का फिक्का
लुक्याङ तलाउको रंग जस्तो
मनको आगनभरि ।

बाहिर तासिलिङ्गा उपवन
हावामा तैरी रहेछ ।

साग र सिस्नु कति खानु ?
लक्ष्मी! तिम्रो कथा आज पनि उस्तै छ
ठाउ ठाउँ फाटेका अभावका थोत्रा राडीहरु टाल्न
मदनहरु खाडी चाहार्दैछ्न
र चराउदैछ्न भेडाहरु ।

ल्हासा त एउटा कथा मात्र हो तिमीले लेखेको
लाला बालाका आङ ढाक्ने ठिहिरो रहर बुन्दै
ऊन टिप्न कहाँ कहाँ मात्र पुगेका छैनन् मदनहरु?

पखेटा लागेका पंक्षीले
चटक्कै गुंड छाडेझैं
खरको छानो उस्तै चुहिदो छ ।

एकसरो राम्रो लगाउनु
एक मुठी मिठो खानु
ऋणको पोको तिरेर फुक्की हुनु
वा सके धारो र पाटी पनि बनाउनु
कुन ठुलो इरादा छ उसको ?

न पोतालाको सुनको छानो ताक्छ उ
न इन्द्रको आसन नै आँक्छ उ

आमाका आँखाहरुमा
वा मुनाका ओठहरुमा
झिना मुस्कानहरु किन्ने
यस्तै यस्तै सपनाहरुको निष्ठुरी बर्खा
तर उसको सिरानीमा
हरेक रात पोखिईरहेको हुन्छ ।

लक्ष्मी! तिम्रो सानो नेपालमा
हरेक दिन उर्लन्छन
जुलुसका बाढीहरु र बगाउछ्न
नया नेपालको सप्पै खाका रचना

यो अराजक भिड
जहाँ शामिल हुन्छन
मुकुण्डो भिरेका आधुनिक बुद्धहरु
र नाघ्छ्न हिँसा र बर्बरताको पराकाष्टा
र ढाकिन्छ
अशान्ति र अव्यवस्थाको अँध्यारो
देशै भरि

कालो काग भएर
घरको नमिठो अखबार
आएर थपक्क बस्छ
अभागी चेतनाका हाँगाहरुमा
र ठुंग्न थाल्छ - मदनका मथिंगलहरु
जो मानेको चक्र जस्तै घुमी रहेछ ।

यो छुजिक्याङ बगैचा
युतोक स्याँपा र घाँसका सुन्दर गलैचा
अनि सुनको सुनौला सपनाहरु
सप्पै थाति राखेर
मदन, त्यो बासी घर
यतिखेर फर्कन्न भन्छ ।

जहाँ ओइलाएका छन
हासो र खुसिका फूलहरु
र ढुसी परेका छन
जीवनका संकेतहरु
उ किन यस्तो सोच्छ?
पलायनको एउटा बैरागी तगारो
उसको बाटो छेकिरहेछ ।

घरको मायापनि
के विहानको हुस्सु जस्तै हुन्छ?
घाम फैलिदै आएपछी
लुसुक्क अलप हुने
मनका पाखाहरुबाट

चुहिए पनि, फाटे पनि
अँध्यारैले ढाके पनि
घर त आफ्नै घर हो
ए कोहि भनिदेउ न उसलाई
आमा साह्रै बिरामी छिन ।

"भैसीहरु हिलो खेली रहेथे -
रात रातभरि राजनीतिका,
यस्तो सपना कसरी शुभ हुन्छ?
कतै फैलिन्छ कि महामारी
लघार्छ कि जम्मै गाउँ
चाहिएन सुन बरु बुच्चै बसुँला"।

मुनाले नजाती सपना देखिन ...
कति बस्छौ कुरेर मदन,
कुहिरोले धुम्म भोट?

यो कहाली लाग्दो बर्खा
आंधीबेहरी जस्ता दिनहरु
चुहिने छानो
भत्किएको पाखो
देउसी खेल्न यसपालिको तिहार,
के तिमी आउदैनौ मदन?

एकै शिर्षकका तीन लघु कथाहरु

शिर्षक "चौतारी"
(पहिलो कथा)

गाउँको बिचमा एउटा मनोहर चौतारी थियो ।
कतै टाढा हिडेको वटुवा थकाइ मार्न होस् वा घास दाउराको भारी बिसाएर जिन्दगीको गीत सुसेल्न आउने सबैलाई त्यो चौतारी आफ्नो छहारीमा प्रेमपूर्वक लुकाएर शितलता प्रदान गर्थ्यो ।
त्यो चौतारी जहाँ कति कचहरी बस्थ्यो, न्याय अन्यायको फैसला हुन्थ्यो । पन्डित बाजे रामायण वाचन गर्थे, लाहुरे बा लड़ाइँ र युद्धका कथा सुनाउथे । किशोर किशोरीहरु समूह बनाएर सामाजिक परिवर्तनका योजनाहरु बुन्थे । भित्ते पत्रिका निकाल्थे, सांस्कृतिक कार्यक्रम देखाउँथे । दशैं तिहार आउंथ्यो, लामो डोरी बाटिन्थ्यो र यसैको हाँगामा पिङ राखिन्थ्यो ।
एकदिन मोक्षप्रसाद सर चौतारीको त्यही हाँगामा झुन्डिएको भेटिनु भयो, पछाडी हात बाँधेर उनलाई गोली हानिएको थियो। विद्रोहीहरुले क्रान्तिको नाउँमा उनको निर्मम हत्या गरेका थिए ।
जनयुद्ध रोकियो देशमा ठूलो परिवर्तन भयो, गणतन्त्र नाम गरेको व्यवस्था आयो । तर त्यो चौतारीमा आजकल कोही पनि जान छाडेका थिए । कसैलाई कसैको मतलव हुन् छाड्यो, सामाजिक एकता र अपनत्वको भावना हराएझैँ लाग्न थालेको थियो । जजसले छाती भित्र एकता वा 'चौतारी'को अभाव महशुस गरेका थिए तर ती बोल्न नसकी भित्रभित्रै पिल्सिई रहेका थिए ।

न कसैको आगमन, न कुनै भेला । खैन किन हो, सबै जना डराउथे । चौतारी रित्तो र सुनसान हुन थालेको थियो ।
एक दिन नाति दौड्दै आयो र भन्यो हजुरबा हजुरबा ... मैले चौतारीमा मास्टरजीको भूत देखें । उनको आत्मा रोइरहेको थियो ।




शिर्षक "चौतारी"
(दोश्रो कथा)

गाउँ अहिले गाउँ थिएन , मेलापात, हाट बजार लाग्न छाडेको बर्षौं भैसकेको थियो। अधिकांश तन्नेरी तरुनीहरु गाउमा थिएनन, त्यसैले पारीसम्म सुनिने दोहोरी र लैबरीको भाका, अहँ कहीँ कतै गुन्जदैनथ्यो । गाउँको मध्ये भागमा रहेको चौतारीमा कति प्रेमी प्रेमिकाले कविता जस्ता मिठा प्रेम र अनुरागका संवादहरु गरे, मायाका स्वर्णिम पलहरु बिताए र न्यानो अंगालोमा आफुलाई हराएर जुनी जुनी संगै जिउने मर्ने कसम पनि खाए । वरपिपलको त्यो चौतारीमा लेखिएका ती सबै कथाहरु आज मेटिई सकेको थियो ।
दुखको कुरा मान्छे भौतिक हुदै गैरहेका थिए, उनीहरु मान्छे भित्र मन भन्ने नै हुदैन भन्थे र रुखलाई त अझ काठ मात्र देख्थे ।
गाउँको माझमा रहेको वर् पिपलको रुख पनि ढल्यो । त्यो ठाउँमा गाविस भवन बन्यो ।
आज गाविसमा सार्वजनिक छलफल कार्यक्रम भएकोले म पनि त्यहाँ पुगें । एउटा सानो हल भित्र थियो कार्यक्रम । आयोजक, अतिथि, पत्रकार लगायत सबै उपस्थितहरु आ-आफ्नो आसनमा बसे । छलफल शुरु भयो । अगाडी ठुलो ब्यानर टांगिएको थियो - लेखिएको थियो "छलफल चौतारी" ।
छेउमा एकजना सिकर्मी दाजु पारिश्रमिक लिन आउनु भएको थियो, उनीबाट के थाहा पाएँ भने कार्यक्रम हुने बैठकमा भएका टेबल कुर्सि दराज लगायतका सम्पूर्ण फर्निचर त्यही बर र पिपलको चौतारी अथवा रुख अथवा काठबाट बनाइएका हुन् ।
लाग्यो "छलफल चौतारी" त्यतिकै कहाँ लेखिएको रहेछ र ?




शिर्षक "चौतारी"
(तेश्रो कथा)

नयाँघरे काकाको छोरा 'समय' लामो समय विदेश बसाइ पछि घर फर्कियो । उसका आफन्त र साथी संगीहरुले उसलाई विदेशको बसाइ र रहनसहनका अनुभवहरु सुनाउन अनुरोध गरे, केटाकेटीहरु पलेटी कसेर सुन्न बसे ।
समय भन्दै गयो - रमाइला र रोचक अनुभवहरु त कति छन कति, लेख्यो भने त सिङ्गो किताबै तयार होला तर ती दिनचर्या र अनुभवहरुको थुप्रोमा एउटाचाहिँ सबैभन्दा माथि छ । त्यो हो, एउटा चौतारी, जहाँ हामी फुर्सद हुने बित्तिकै भेला हुन्थ्यौं र मिठा मिठा गफ गर्थ्यौं र अहिले पनि गर्छौं । एउटा नजानिँदो बानीजस्तै बसेको छ ।
सबै मुखामुख गर्न थाले, गाउमा त छैन अचेल चौतारी कहाँबाट भेट्यो यसले विदेशको शहराँ ? पत्याउनेको भन्दा नपत्याउनेको संख्या धेरै भयो । कोही कोहीले चाहिँ समयको चौतारी कुनै अमुर्त वस्तु वा विषयप्रति लक्षित हुनु पर्ने आशंका व्यक्त गरे ।
उनीहरुको आशंका सही निस्कियो । समयले कम्प्युटर खोल्यो, फेसबुकको झ्यालबाट एउटा गज़बको चौतारी देखियो, जहाँ गीत, गज़ल, कथा, कविता लेख्ने देखि गीत गाउने, चित्र कोर्ने वा यी सबै हेरेर रमाउने थुप्रै मान्छेहरु छपक्क भेला भै सकेका थिए ।

मान्छे

आश्रय दियो - टाउकोमा टेक्छ।
उपदेश दियो - मुन्टो बटार्छ॥
आदर गर्यो - चाकडी सम्झन्छ।
उपकार गर्न खोज्यो - वास्ता गर्दैन॥
विश्वाश गर्यो - धोका दिन्छ।
क्षमा गर्यो - कोतर सम्झन्छ॥
प्रेम गर्यो - आघात गर्छ।
दु:खको समयमा - सुख खोज्छ ॥
सुखको समयमा - इर्श्यालु हुन्छ।

Falling out

My eyes swell with stinging tears and cheeks flush with an unwelcome pain, when I have no place to hide. My heart is losing its pace in one second and is racing against time in another. It is awakening to a nightmare that has gripped over my days. Reminisces strike my bruised heart like a swarm of bees. I certainly threw a stone on a beehive while I was hoping to pluck a red red rose. I ran into him today.
Memories can be so betraying. Those times that I was the happiest person alive haunt my smarted consciousness. Time, the traitor has halted where I am stranded. Where are your wings that used to soar in ecstasy, Time? Why are you staring at me with the frozen eyes of a bird that has just been shot? The sky that used to invite me in his arms, to float in a fantasyland has left me vulnerable in his openness.
He was blocking the sun behind him. I was holding an earthquake inside me.
A name etched in my consciousness blurts out like the moaning of a violin. He does not melt and I do not freeze. We stand like the last two warriors in a lost battle. I am undrowning. He is disentangling. We try to be strangers. The silence that used to echo our unsung melodies is now broken strings of a violin.
I am confused for a moment and almost jump into his embrace. The smell is still there, the warmth is not. Falling out and calling out, I hold back the tides inside me. My hair still floats with the wind but he is not swept away. His honey kisses still remain in my lips like a cold and crawling snake. Everything else exists, him and I too but not ‘us’.
We stand where the river divides. Washing away memories with my own tears, I cannot flow altogether. Those ripples and reflections that we played with together have to part with our ways. Currents have taken him away from me already. I am not staying but I cannot move. The rhythm of his heartbeat sings an unfamiliar song. When did his sighs become foreign to my ears? Somewhere I hear a feeble echo of my name but perhaps that is an illusion like all of this.
My soul tries to tear apart from his like the bark of a tree. Spring has forgotten this path. Where is the rain of petals that came with him?
I am transforming the memories that I lived and relived a million times to fossils. Fossils of roses. I am keeping the tender and secret dreams in a chest. Someday I will live them again

Epiphanies

Father! How do babies come to the world?” I remember eagerly looking into my patient yet agile young father’s deep brown eyes with an innocent question. I used to go to my daddy with all the questions I had. Father knew everything. His answers were perfectly tailored to protect my innocence. “They come from watermelon seeds.” Somehow his gaze drifted away from mine at that moment. “Why did I come to you as your child? Why am I here, daddy?” I asked crawling to his lap that lazy Sunday morning. My father gave me comforting security in his protective embrace and silence in his answer.
Not very long after that I realized that babies have something to do with some form of pollination, fertilization, germination and some more “ions”. My sixth grade science teacher Mr. Raut brutally proved my omniscient father wrong. For the first time in my life I realized that comfortable conclusions couldn’t necessarily be true. My father does not have the answers to all of my questions. Is innocence defined by loosing it? Is it deprivation from the inevitable? Is innocence just an interval between the deprivation and the loss? I cannot unlearn where babies come from. Once lost innocence is irreversible. I wanted to ask my father again. I wanted to ask him if innocence is merely ignorance only more beautiful. Can it be chosen? Is it naivety? Is innocence childlike or childish outlook on life or more? Is it the belief in the inherent goodness of mankind?
My torment bled profusely from my anguished soul in the silence of the endless nights. It was then when He looked at me with three eyes, a placid and captivating smile, Ganges overflowing from his head and pouring to my soul. Shiva! Knowledge is in peace. Peace is in meditation. Meditation is in prayers of Shiva, the omnipotent. The surrender was so serene.
All that is is a part of God’s plans. People are inherently good. If only I were gentle and kind to human being, despite their deeds and reactions, I was certain to attain nirvana. My hollow was filled with limitless hope. The world is knowable in the scheme of God.
I rested in a blissful slumber only to wake up one day and realize that I had fallen prey to the enticing trap of a comfortable conclusion, once again. Perhaps God knows it all but do I know that there is one? My soul was disrobed again. It was just another lazy Saturday under a periwinkle sky when I met poetry. She sat by me and waved her wand. It was a sapient magic. She has since promised never to leave me in her beautiful silence. She has whispered that she will always make me hear my echo. She does not know the answers and reflects what I do not know but portrays what I feel and think. In her own little way she immortalizes my search without being a comfortable conclusion. I realized what friendship and promise means. She asks with me, like me: How do I know that what I know or what I do not know is what others know and do not know?
He came like a breeze, left like a storm and took a part of my heart with him. I met love one day. I learned to let go the hard way. Some farewells are not final, not even with the person’s leaving. I learned to be strong when I was the most vulnerable. Is it certain that I learnt my lesson? There are many more goodbyes yet to come. There are many more comfortable conclusions that I still have to free myself of. Is life a series of universal events that occur in a unique way molded by our situations and shaping our experiences?
So what is it to live life to the fullest? What is the significance of these existential questions that I find myself pondering and wondering over and over again? I ask for answers within myself.
Events after events and accidents after incidents I try to look for a pattern to comprehend life and world and my significance in it. My attempts to run away from any comfortable conclusions and the inevitable imprints they leave in the process define me. All I know is that I do not know it all. I cannot know it all. These epiphanies that come to visit me like a butterfly carve a pattern in my heart just to be washed away by the waves but refuse to leave me all alone: my father’s tender embrace, my science teacher’s confident solutions to problems, Shiva’s tranquil eyes, my poetry’s unconditional friendship, the hurts and dreams of love, and endlessly more to follow.

Shavari

She knew he was coming. One day. Some day. She waited till her hair turned from the color of a starless-moonless night to that of a full moon. And she knew it all along that one of these days his path would cross hers. This autumn she was more certain than others of his much-anticipated arrival.
Every day she cleaned the path that started from her hut and disappeared into the woods with her own hands, the fragile twigs. All the marigolds from her little garden were laid out on the all the roads in the forest to welcome him, just for him. Her little bamboo basket was always full of wild berries.
“He will like them,” she said to herself. She picked every single one of them herself and tasted them to ensure that the berries were not bitter.
Shavari, a spinster from the untouchable caste, who ran away from her blind parents because she could not let innocents goats and lambs be sacrificed for her wedding, was living by the woods now. She had told herself that the pursuit of bigger cause is more important, even when her heart trembled with the flowers she plucked, even in those lonely nights when the pearls of her teardrops outnumbered all the stars in the moonless sky. She waited for him to come.
As a woman she could not read the Vedas, she was not a literate in the first place. She knew all along that she would serve a greater purpose. She believed in it while she sought for shelter on the woods. She had faith while she cleaned out the pebbles and thrones from the path near the woods for the passers by. A subtle voice that never really died told her that she was never alone, not even in the dark forest.
Some sages who had decided to find out who cleaned the road for them everyday were hiding in the woods. One day they spotted Shavari. The untouchable was discovered. One friendly face among the sages dropped the elixir words in her waiting ears: “He will come. Just to meet you. Trust me, I know that he will.”
Today these words were echoing with her heartbeat, as vivid as that sunny day she ran to the forest decades ago. The air was all golden. Everything smelled of fresh piety. Sparrows, her friends, were coming home with songs in their beaks. Shavari was humming a melody of his name, “Ram! Ram!”
She was spreading marigolds on the narrow trail that climbed up the hill from the woods to her hut and singing to herself, “He will come”
“Can you give me directions, Mother? I am new to this place.”
The gentle voice blended to her ears like the tender notes of the flute. Lifting her stooped back from an arch to meet the gaze, she saw a young ascetic, who was smiling at her, as if he had known her all his life.