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 grow

ing 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