Articles
Inspiration from the Congregation
Its difficult to explain the exact point in attending literary festivals in Kathmandu. In the case of the Kathmandu Literary Jatra that concluded on Sunday, September 18th, it gets even more difficult. First off, it was only the second of its kind to be held in the country. So for those of us who had never attended anything of this sort before, it is safe to assume that we had clean slates. In some ways, it is an abstract concept, this conglomeration of writers, journalists and intellectuals from many fields being put into their scheduled spots, up on the stage, while for an average of fifty minutes the audience braces the sun, the silence and the slight discomfort everybody eventually has with their seating arrangements, to listen in on, what is basically supposed to be intellectual guff.
So what does one get out of listening to this? The answer is, unfortunately, not much. It is very difficult to learn something substantial (or at least worth the effort of organizing such a grand three day affair) from someone talking for fifty odd minutes on topics ranging from literature to writing to philosophy, war, language and of course, politics. It can be amusing, it can be the charmingly ambiguous “interesting”, but it is, in most cases, hardly substantial enough to learn something new.
I don’t think the panel discussions, which ran throughout the three days of the jatra, with just a few breaks from this courtyard to that hall, represent the true value of the festival. The point of it, and of many such festivals held every year around the world, is perhaps little related to learning, but much more attached to “inspiring”.
Poems, I.B. Rai and the Yellow Light
Indra Bahadur Rai is an old man of great intellect. When he talks, he switches from the man who was a
founding member of the “Tesro Aayam” movement in Nepali literature to old man Rai, rooted in his ethnic accent, so that when you hear him talk about poetry, prose, modernism, magic realism, it feels like hearing the bajey from the next house over in Illam talk over morning tea. The length and style of his talk is reminiscent of his days in the classroom when he was mastar to his many students. I bring him here, with poetry, because a quote he delivered when asked over the difference of rhyming and prose poetry, from the early to present days in our literature, is the most apt description of a poem I have ever heard. He looks at the audience and tells us with characteristic languor:
“Bhai…asks me what differences there are in poetry from the past days to the present days. The poetry of the old days was a lot of gaddhyas (rhyme) but today it is all paddhyas (prose). The first line is prose, the second line is prose, the third line is also prose, but when you come all the way down, at the end, it turns into a poem. How is that?
Poetry of today is a lot like air. Take a fistful in your hand and it has no color. Take two fistfuls a little up, and still, no color. But look way up into the sky and it turns blue. How is that?
That is poetry.”
At the end of each day, in the inner courtyard of the Patan Musuem, a yellow light is switched on as poets from different regions and languages prepare themselves to recite their pieces to a rapidly diminishing audience (A young Tamang poet remarked at this once and said, “it seems like those who are here are not all staying and who would understand the poem? So I have brought an audience for myself”, as his friend looked on with a smile). For those who stay on, in corners, abandoned chairs, stairs and the enthusiastic front, this light becomes pivotal. Because at the onset of night, at the end of dusk, the yellow light spreads in proportions and shades, in the audience as well as the stage, creating shadows out of leaves to set the mood for the abstract, the incidental, the idea that is poetry. I will not lie here and say there were not moments of dullness, that the poems and the congregation was always at the point of inspiring. But when you look up at the poets coming in from the various regions, backgrounds, pamphlet papers, and makeshift poetry sessions organized around the towns, cities and school halls of the country, it is difficult not to think what it is all about. You imagine where does the vigor and satisfaction with which each piece is recited, disappear, (or does it?) when we all return to our lives beyond that stage. Poetry is a difficult art to sustain around the world, more so for us, and maybe even more so for the poets from beyond the capital.
Sustenance doesn’t always deter passion though. To hear these poets talk about the love for their language (revolutions), their twenty/thirty years of poetry and happiness for this small audience was immensely inspiring.
The Gathering
I think it is more useful for aspiring writers to just be in the circle of other writers and their conversations, than to be the audience of panel discussions. The informal gatherings of poets, intellectuals, editors, writers and journalists was a very important aspect of the festival. The writer Buddhisagar had said to me once in an interview that he got to writing his successful “Karnali Blues” after being inspired by the crowd of writers at the Jaipur Literature Festival. Festivals can indeed have that effect. When the table of the sharp Khagendra Sangraula, the demure Narayan Wagle, the energetic Gagan Thapa and other daari and kurta wallahs roared with laughter, a friend and I sitting over at a corner speculated on the possibilities of their shared humor (this activity is particularly fun). To see and be around men and women of letters who are more or less making a life out of their passions, to hear snatches of their conversations in and around select tables and standing circles, can indeed produce the effect of wanting to be there one day yourself, to be a legitimate member of those discussions—for someone impressionable, it can give a feeling that you belong, a feeling worth more than any workshop or lecture on a vocation.
Pipal tree and Abhi Subedi
Coming out of the session “Immersed in Literature” with Abhi Subedi a friend says to me, “I don’t know why but now this feels like a literary festival”. I think that was true, even though we were quite some way into the event. For some time the fest was hardly literary, at least in terms of writing. There was a lot of content to draw on: war, politics, journalism, history, colonialism, poverty, languages (lots of passionate discussions on this one, co-incidentally on that very day a huge congregation organised by the Jyapu Samaj had gathered to demand protection for their language and culture from the government). But for me it felt quite bland and far from the real process of writing and literature. Abhi Subedi in some ways brought life to things. Having taught at Tribhuvan University for a long time, he has garnered quite a following and is very popular among students, which was evident enough from a very young and seemingly religious attendance (someone was filming the whole discussion on his cell phone).. He was honest and playful in his talk (“the modernist…I found out is the man on the pedestal. Look at me, he says, I am miserable, but there up on his pedestal he is, apart from everybody and still wanting attention for his misery”, “then I knew where writers come from, T.S. Eliot was a writer because he was a balding, unattractive man and could not touch the bare shoulders of a woman”) and his oratory, rooted in his Eastern origins, brought great color to his anecdotes. His journey as a student, and then as a writer, in Taplejung, Biratnagar and finally the New Road circle of Kathmandu, was not only enlightening but so much fun. Somebody had asked him at the end, why is it that the gathering of writers was concentrated in the Pipal tree of New Road and not under any other place or any other tree?
“Yes..I also pondered that sometimes, why Pipal tree? Were they trying to find enlightenment under it? These “writers” with frail smiles on their faces sitting all day, talking and drinking tea and sometimes just like that sitting silent. What were they doing? No, it was also because Indira restaurant was at New Road where one was treated to free coffee every time this young man fell in love. Which happened quite a lot. New Road was everything and everywhere to those writers, Paris and London was right there, but I still don’t know why exactly the Pipal tree”.
I think the ambiguity of this question and those frail smiles is a perfect conclusion to everything that inspiration can be for literature.
Aayush Niroula
Aayush Niroula stays on the brink of getting kicked out from V.E.N.T! but always saves himself with a few quirky (and humorous) comments about (un)important things. He writes stories and poems, likes films and the essence of soil. Nobody knows what he does at V.E.N.T! but legend has it that he "edits" stories. P.S. He is boring most of the time. Contact him at aayush AT ventzine DOT com.
( Oct 3rd 2011, 10:36 AM ) says:
and i wish we could get a closer look at the photograph the woman is looking at ?im assuming its a photo of writers/poets from the yesteryears :)
( Oct 3rd 2011, 11:41 AM ) says:
kura thik ho. tara sakidaina bhannu nairasyabaad hola. koshish jaari cha. ra tyo bhaab ko sab bhanda najik pugna saknu nai lakchya ho, kati sakey, kati sakina bhanna sakdina.
( Oct 12th 2011, 08:33 PM ) says:
Very well written. Will be looking out for more of your work.
( Nov 12th 2011, 10:52 PM ) says:
very nice review, i think just about the most honest one i've read about that jatra.
slight error though, i think you got पद्य (verse) and गद्य (prose) mixed up because IB Rai surely did not!
i was waiting for the anecdote about the poet who got drunk and fell asleep on the street behind a statue :)
interesting read, aayush.i wasnt there but i somehow feel like the english language cant do justice to what it is that you're trying to describe here. nepali bhasa ko jaadu nepali bhasa le matra bayaan garna sakcha jasto lagcha. hoina ra?