By Hemant Biwas
Jadau, Gosain!
Didn’t you recognize me?
I am Hali, your plowman,
and you, my ancestral glory.
I cannot tell for sure
whether your fingers—soft and gay
running on keyboards of laptops and cells
did ever have the smear of soil.
Year after year, however
with the moisture on the same soil
with the warmth of the same earth
I made your farm in lush grains abound
I had been a porter
of salt for your pantry
or of lime for yourporch!
Gosain,
I am the same plowman
who seared tissues off his calves and shoulders
along with lumps of soil on the hoe’s tip
bending over the plow
with a girdle-cloth
tightly worn about the waist.
Oh, how I walked over the hills those days
and brought home bundles of sabai-grass
that grew licentiously on the slopes
like the tresses of a maiden
who nonchalantlyspreads her locks
as she flickers along, to watch a fair!
Only then
your front-yard used to be wiped so clean!
The steep trail on the hill
climbed with me to a formidable height
every morning;
only then would something sumptuous
cook in your fireplace!
Till late in the evening
with nothing but the moon’s tranquil light
to cover my chilling body with
I used to stay awaken,
with the chopper board ready in your front yard;
only then would fire lit up your hearth!
But Gosain, ever since you left for Madhes
you stopped recognizingyour old, abandoned workman!
But then, I have nothing to grudge about!
I had plowed the field wherefrom,
wares from Ripu Malla’s days were unearthed;
they are showcased in Naipal today
as I am told by someone here,
and to no dismay
the wares too do not know who I am!
Tomorrow I shall spot
the stone of Arjun Shahi my father had carried
on his bare soldiers along a long, long way;
its length, breadth and height
can possibly fit into your camera’s lens
but then, the device can never accommodate
the weal over my bruised back
for, who am I but a mere plowman?
Just a plowman, and nothing more!
Achakmak, turf and the white river-stones
are more valuable to me
than your gadgets: cell, camera or laptop;
my stuffs are strewn with specks of dust
and I have life soiled all through!
I see soil attached to songs
Deuda, Dhamari and Chait
sung when the festive season
comes around every time!
And yet,
I am the same luckless plowman
who plowed Sita out of the earth
but was denied entry right from the gate
when a shrine was built in her honor.
The lifeI spent plowing your farm
is crumbling today like the ruins of Doti Fort
and yet, I plow on and on
along the same narrow ridge.
Though my days crouch
on a darkening, western hilltop
like the receding sun
I know not why the specks of soil
still love to cling onto my life!
I know, my good lord
from the top of your mansion, up above
you won’t be able to see me clearly
as I stand on the floor
fathoms down, here on the road!
And yet, I know too well
your skyscraping boudoir
stands nowhere
but on the soil
where I stand
right now!
(Translated from original Nepali by Mahesh Paudyal)
[Hemant Biwas (b. 1976) is a poet from Doti, a district in the Western part of Nepal. Popular as a lyricist, Biwas is the author of songs collected in Bibashka Samrai, Asoujko Joon, and Katha Eutai Timro Mero. Afnai Mansanga and Saipalko Angan are his anthologies of poems. He was awarded the best lyricist award by Radio Nepal in 2011.]