A Few Necessary Words!

 (Speech delivered at the ceremony honouring the short story collection Nirbadh Ujyalaharu with the “Dr. Shova Kanti Thegim (Lepcha) Memorial Award 2002”)

Respected chairperson, chief guest, members of the organizing committee, readers of literature, lovers of literature, distinguished literary scholars, and everyone present here — my heartfelt greetings to all of you. And though they are not physically present here, I bow respectfully to my parents as well.

It is said that after receiving an award, the recipient must say a few words. When the chairperson mentioned that the Trust might later publish the speech, I even brought it written down. Beyond what I have written here, I really have little more to say. One should not expect much water from a pitcher that barely has water at its base.

The very first thing I wish to say is this: ever since the announcement that my book, the short story collection Nirbadh Ujyalaharu, would receive the Dr. Shobhakanti Thegim (Lepcha) Memorial Award, I have felt as though a small scrub plant growing on barren land without trees has mistakenly been accepted as a real tree. If one ignores the grammatical flaws in the stories of Nirbadh Ujyalaharu, they are merely ordinary stories. If one looks at the grammatical flaws, perhaps they are not even that. As I said earlier, like a lone shrub in a treeless wasteland being mistaken for a tree.

In truth, if we must speak honestly, almost all the stories written until today are ordinary stories. Since the time of Machhako Mol (“The Price of Fish”), written some fifty or fifty-five years ago, our stories have hardly stepped outside the same old circle. Therefore, I call today’s stories ordinary because they should not have remained this way; they should have advanced far beyond this by now. Perhaps our stories have merely touched the wandering weeds of the plains?

When expressing one’s views, one can only pour out one’s own thoughts; one can only know, not possess, another’s.

Every storyteller naturally wishes readers to sense novelty in their stories. But when, despite writing continuously, one’s stories begin to resemble everyone else’s, then a storyteller who values movement and dynamism either retreats altogether or enters into a deep search for another path for storytelling. We have now arrived at this very phase in our journey of writing stories.

Novelty in storytelling does not mean a web of obscure words, nor the breaking and twisting of sentences until they become incomprehensible. It does not mean forcing new literary theories upon readers through difficult language. True novelty in storytelling may instead lie in portraying the multidimensional life of contemporary people — their ideological depth, their struggle for existence, the joys they seek, their endless desires and imaginations, their dreams, and the distance between themselves and those dreams. It may lie in entering deeply into a human being and writing from within. Yet even then, language and sentence construction must possess their own magic.

Perhaps literature should be able to express the subtlest yet most meaningful truths of life before death overtakes us; perhaps it should awaken the dormant corners of the readers’ hearts and make them exclaim, “Indeed, this is how life is!” Readers should not merely become happy or sad while reading stories; their souls too should vibrate with resonance. Perhaps then novelty may emerge in stories.

Now, perhaps we should stop writing stories about crowds of people—we have written too many such stories already. Let us now write about individuals, about the solitary thoughts of individuals, about their survival, and let us write simply as human beings. Let writers stop writing as evangelists, as social reformers, or even as “writers.” Let us write simply as human beings. Perhaps then stories may discover novelty.

These thoughts and proposals are entirely personal. In one sense, they are my own problems. I am happy to be able to place my personal dilemmas before such learned people as yourselves today.

Standing before you all today, I also feel tempted to say a few words about how stories come to me. To be honest, part of me feels shy speaking about it. Perhaps you may think greed has won over modesty here. Strictly speaking, I have never sat down deliberately to “write stories.” Although admittedly, one or two stories were written under pressure from editors. Whenever restlessness stirs within me, whenever unexpected words and sentences suddenly arise in my mind, then I begin to write. The story begins with those very sentences, and I continue writing from there. The characters arrive on their own and do whatever they wish. They possess their own ideals and moralities; I cannot dictate them. Sometimes they settle themselves into truly delightful endings; at other times, they abandon everything with meaningless endings.

That is why the stories I write never truly feel as though I myself wrote them. I have expressed this idea in the “From My Side” section of my story collection. Therefore, I consider awards such as this to be rewards for cleaning up the stories, preparing manuscripts, running to printing presses, and spending my own money to publish books. Yet one thing remains true: all the characters in my stories seem to say the same thing—"If human beings were truly alone in this world, they would walk naked.”

Let me now slightly shift the course of this discussion.

Recently, some literary critics have written that the stories of Bhaupanthi and the poems of Mohan Koirala are postmodern. But where exactly was the boundary buried between modern and postmodern writing? What defines those limits? And another question: what exactly is “Leela Writing”?

About four or five years ago, in conversation with Kedar Gurung, I had casually remarked: “Leela writing seems to have obstructed not only the progress of Nepali literature but even the progress of humankind itself. In the end, the world appears to be nothing but illusion.” At that time, like Punyaprasad Kharel and Vijay Kharel, I too had thought Leela writing was merely a reactionary web spun against progressivism, an excuse for escapism and irresponsibility. But I later realized that was not so. Back then, I had only seen the sky from atop a hill—the sky as seen by a child. Leela writing is actually an intellectual exercise, a spiritual contemplation, a yogic discipline, and a profound philosophical vision toward life and the universe.

·    What we call “life” or “existence,” whatever form it takes, is merely one part of an oscillation. This oscillation appears free, similar to what Physics calls “Free Oscillation.” Yet it continuously receives some primordial thrust or vibration. That is illusion number one.

· If we could perceive the refractive index of the eye’s lens, the power of vision, and the refractive index of the medium between ourselves and the observed object, then the ladle half-submerged in water would seem like the objects around us themselves. That is illusion number two.

· We cannot remain equally close to life at every moment. The intensity with which we experience life constantly changes. Therefore, the waves of living and experiencing life come and go with their own varying intensities. Recall the principle of the Doppler Effect: why does the engine sound louder when it comes nearer to us? That is illusion number three.

·  Why do trees, houses, and hills seem to move when we travel in a vehicle?

·  Why do bridges seem to flow when we stand upon them over a flowing river?

Illusion, it seems, operates even at the scale of the universe itself. If we raise vision and philosophy slightly above superficiality, perhaps we begin to perceive Leela. Yet one truth remains: Leela never claims that the mortar carved by God will fill itself automatically.

I also feel like saying something about literary criticism. Writers often complain that in earlier times literary works received extensive criticism and analysis, whereas today they do not. But I do not feel that way. Criticism for stories like ours was already written long ago. We continue to write the same kinds of stories repeatedly. How long can poor critics continue rewriting the same criticism again and again? In our literary society, it is said that as soon as a book is published, along with a complimentary copy, a letter is sent to critics saying, “Please write something about my book.” What kind of reviews or criticism can emerge in such circumstances? Poor critics can neither deceive themselves and the future, nor refuse the author. Perhaps no one today lives under greater pressure than they do.

I shall not speak much longer now. I have shortened this speech to leave time for the reading of the short story. The title of the story is Pranav Pragat.

 — Dhan Nirdosh Subba

Community Hall, Gangtok
August 4, 2002

FROM HISTORY TO HOPE: REFLECTING ON SIKKIM'S STATEHOOD

Today, Sikkim celebrates its 51st State Day as a proud and cherished part of the great Indian Union. With this, the golden jubilee year of Sikkim’s statehood also comes to a meaningful completion. On this historic occasion, my heart is filled with reflection, gratitude, and deep respect for the remarkable journey of our beloved land.

Over the last four to five years, I have personally spent much time revisiting the history of Sikkim — trying to understand how this tiny Himalayan state nurtured its people educationally and how it travelled through numerous challenges and transitions in making modern education accessible to ordinary citizens. It has been a deeply reflective journey for me, filled with contemplation, learning, and an emotional understanding of Sikkim’s past struggles and aspirations.

As I explored this journey more closely, I increasingly felt that Sikkim’s merger with the Indian Union became a great turning point in shaping the contemporary Sikkim we see today. I often hear people nostalgically speaking about Sikkim’s past sovereignty and dreaming of Sikkim as an independent country with its own government, currency, and economy. Such emotions are understandable, as they arise from love for one’s history and identity. Yet, after reflecting upon Sikkim’s entire historical journey and witnessing its developmental progress over the decades, I personally feel that becoming a part of India was a wise and visionary decision for the welfare and advancement of its people.

What I have especially experienced over the years is that Sikkim has always received immense care, recognition, and support at the national level in many developmental initiatives. From education to infrastructure, from environmental conservation to cultural preservation, Sikkim has continued to grow while still retaining its unique identity, harmony, and dignity.

On this proud and emotional occasion of the 51st State Day, I extend my heartfelt greetings and warm wishes to all my fellow citizens. May peace, prosperity, unity, and progress always prevail in our beautiful Himalayan state. Happy State Day to all.

𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

There was a time when childhood unfolded in a quiet intimacy with nature. Children learned not through formal instruction but through living—watching grains ripen in the fields, seeing milk drawn from a cow, discovering eggs in a nest, or observing oil being pressed from seeds. These were not “lessons” in the academic sense; they were experiences woven into daily life—effortless, meaningful, and lasting.

Today, that intimate relationship is steadily fading. Many children have never seen a paddy field, cannot trace the journey of milk beyond a packet, or imagine how an egg comes into being. What was once ordinary has become distant; what was once lived experience is now fragmented knowledge. Even in regions like Sikkim, where nature was once inseparable from everyday life, this shift is becoming increasingly visible.

At first glance, this may appear to be a small loss—after all, children today are exposed to far more complex knowledge and skills. Yet, beneath this transition lies a deeper concern. As children grow up disconnected from the natural sources of life, their understanding of the world becomes abstract. Their relationship with nature weakens, and with it, their sensitivity towards sustainability, labour, and the interdependence of life. In a time when education speaks of the holistic development of the child, this growing disconnection becomes a matter of serious concern.

Encouragingly, there is also a quiet counter-movement. Many individuals and families, sensing this loss, are choosing to return to villages, to simpler rhythms, and to closer engagement with nature. Their intent is not nostalgia, but wholeness. In doing so, they offer children something invaluable: the opportunity to experience life directly, not merely learn about it indirectly.

This reflection carries an important implication for contemporary schooling. If education is meant to prepare children for life, it cannot remain confined to classrooms and textbooks. Experiences that connect children to nature are not peripheral; they are foundational. They nurture observation, patience, respect, responsibility, and a sense of belonging—qualities that no textbook alone can cultivate.

Therefore, within modern school education, this dimension must be given equal importance alongside academic learning. Particularly for children growing up in towns and cities, where life is increasingly shaped by screens and structured environments, schools must intentionally create opportunities for real-world engagement. Visiting farms, maintaining school gardens, observing seasonal cycles, and interacting with those who live and work close to the land are not merely activities—they are essential steps toward restoring balance in a child’s development.

Education, at its best, is not just about acquiring knowledge but about learning to live meaningfully. Reconnecting children with nature is, in essence, a return to this deeper purpose, one that shapes not only informed minds but also grounded and sensitive human beings.

The question before us, then, is both simple and profound:

𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵?

https://sites.google.com/view/dhanbselingsubba-author/home

𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐂𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐁𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐄𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐬

People often say, "Times have changed.” When I look back, I realise how deeply true that is—not just in the world around us, but in the small, intimate details of growing up.

Today, a child is wrapped in comfort almost from the moment they arrive—bathed, dressed neatly in soft clothes, cared for with a sense of immediacy we could never have imagined. In my childhood, such things came slowly, almost ceremonially. I remember beginning to wear proper undergarments only when I reached Grade Six; even a simple lower was something I started wearing around the age of five or six. Life unfolded in stages, not in haste.

Back then, necessities were not a click away. People walked miles—sometimes barefoot, sometimes in worn-out slippers—just to bring home salt and oil. Those journeys were not complaints; they were routines, woven into the rhythm of life. And mornings had a different meaning altogether. I never saw anyone lying in bed after dawn. The day began with the first light, and with it came a quiet sense of duty.

School, too, carried a different air. Teachers were figures of awe, respected, even feared, and marks were earned with effort, not expectation. When I scored fifty-one percent in my CBSE exams, it was a moment of pride so immense that my mother celebrated it by buying toffees and distributing them in school. That modest score carried the weight of hard work and joy.

Today, the same number might bring embarrassment to a child who has grown up in a world of higher benchmarks and louder competition. Success has been redefined, and with it, perhaps, the way we measure happiness.

Yes, time has changed, but along the way, I often wonder if we have lost something quietly precious: the simplicity of effort, the dignity of small achievements, and the joy of being content with what we had.

🤔😁😄

https://sites.google.com/view/dhanbselingsubba-author/home