Sanjeev Uprety
I woke up suddenly during the night.
I discovered with surprise that the numbness of my head had disappeared. In its place was the burning sensation that used to assail me earlier, during my fretful wanderings. My mind was burning again, a new fire was spreading through my brain, and lines of pain were searing across my body once more. Instead of feeling terrified, however, I experienced a sense of reinvigoration and renewal.
Much better this feeling of pain, this fire of torturous flame, than the soothing calmness of dry tissues within, I thought with a sudden emotion, this is the time for me to break free, time to fight my last war against the black hole growing within, my last opportunity to cut the head of the dreadful hydra growing inside me.
I was charged by some fiery energy issuing from the roots of life. Powerful intimations and visions were arising once again. Standing upon the flaming surface of my present, I was gazing far and wide to read the events of both the past and the future.
My eyes were suddenly transformed into powerful instruments of perception, like the eyes of Buddha carved upon stupas at both Baudhanath and Swayambhu. Penetrating the walls that imprisoned me inside the hospital, they were gazing at the entire valley and peering even beyond. What was happening to the cities of the Kathmandu valley?
I saw that a great flood was about to overcome the cities, and massive waves of water were sweeping through the valley, transforming it into the lake that it once was.
The waves were crashing through the houses and parks and stadiums; they were sweeping through the streets and alleys of the city to flood its shops, schools, and garages.
I remembered the story about Manjushree that Barun had told at Rimjhim. Also, the conversation I had with my friend Sansar at Taudaha.
Yes, this is exactly what Manjushree had predicted from the hilltop of Swayambhu: “An age of utter cruelty, conspiracies, and greed will descend into the valley one day; an age when brothers will kill each other, and friends will not hesitate to stab friends at their backs … with the arrival of such dark age my magic will be reversed, and the valley would once more turn into an immense lake … Just as the human beings inside it would be transformed into fish, water snakes and tortoises once more.”
The last doors of the labyrinth were beginning to open. The final pieces of the puzzles were beginning to connect to complete the roadmap that had eluded me so far. I turned my divine vision towards the city center.
I saw that the prophecy of Manjushree was becoming a reality.
That thousands of people, swept by the waves, were being transformed into strange creatures of water: some into birds with yellow and red feathers diving down to grab little fish upon their thin, sharp beaks, others into fish, ducks or tortoises. They were regaining the forms that were lost thousands of years ago, after Manjushree’s magic had transformed the creatures of the great lake into human beings.
This too was predicted, I thought in excitement, this apocalyptic flood was already predicted. Perhaps tonight is that last, incredible night, when all of the prophecies will be fulfilled!
Making use of my suddenly acquired panoramic vision I continued to gaze around the valley.
And then I saw the Muscular midget, the leader of United Leftist Front. The Midget was transformed into an immense fish with sharp fins and red eyes as he was running towards Ratna Park. He was making brave pronouncements about the conspiracies of the capitalists, about ongoing class struggle, and about the classless society of the future, when the waves found him out in front of the Wall of Democracy. The thunder of his booming voice dissolved into their overwhelming rumble as the flood transformed him into a fish.
I gazed towards Ratna Park and saw: the brave leader of the people was floating upon thundering waves, opening his mouth and spreading his fins with obvious discomfort.
Running frantically towards Basantpur Square, the Tall Thin Leader of the Democratic Front reached Sundhara as waves were sweeping through Ratna Park. His followers were making tearful pleas, asking him to save himself by climbing the boats that had appeared near Bagmati. He was, however, refusing their requests to escape.
I have decided to drown and perish with this Valley, he was telling his followers in his soft, hissing voice, Cross the ring of hills and escape to other nations and cities of the world. Let me be drowned with the city, with its courts and parliaments, with the fallen towers of my ideals.
He rushed boldly towards the oncoming waves till a massive current brought him down, transforming him into a long, thin water snake with small, pale eyes smoldering with fiery passion.
Maharaj, the terrible jogi with red eyes, was transformed into an enormous duck as he was sitting upon a lotus position in front of the Royal Palace.
Utterly disdainful of the thundering waves, he was concentrating upon the movement of air through his Right and Left nostrils. From which nostril will the air move as the waves rush into the Palace? From which nostril will it circulate as the he is drowned by the flooding waves?
The waves swept him away as he was breathing from both of his nostrils; they turned the jogi into a duck with large red eyes and sprawling wings. The jogi was swimming with calm balanced movements; he was squeezing his wings tightly as he floated upon the foaming flood.
I saw other people I knew, some transformed into frogs, some into…, some into…, and some into baby octopus and other strange creatures of water. I saw my two friends, Barun and Bimba, running towards the money hills of Swayambhu to save their lives. Even as they were trying to scamper up the stony steps that lead to the Buddha’s divine eyes, however, the dark spary found them and pulled them back into undulating water. Bimba was immediately transformed into a tortoise, while Barun, after floating in upon the foam for an excruciating minute, seemingly undecided as to which creature should be turned into, finally was transformed into a crab fish. y were touched by the dark waters. Bimba
The waves were crashing north. Drowning banks, hotels, clubs and casinos, they finally arrived at the gates of the Mental Hospital where I was imprisoned. Then the walls of the building crashed, and the waves rushed inside, sweeping away psychiatrists, nurses and sweepers alike without any distinction.
The roof of my cabin collapsed as water began to pour inside.
I was still gazing far and wide at the endless surface of undulating waves shining brilliantly like some enormous mirror. A boat, floating up and down upon the foaming current, was approaching the hospital. Some people, standing upon the boat, were shouting impassioned slogans to speak of justice and human dignity. I peered at it closely and realized with a start: the boat was made of paper!
Men and women were falling from the paper boat to turn into blue, pink and yellow fish. Fiery red and green water snakes had gathered around the boat. They were opening and closing their large jaws as the boat came to a standstill against jutting crags.
Though I was about to be drowned, my vision–like the panoramic sight of some enlightened sage–remained as powerful as before. I saw that the city was becoming rapidly, totally, submerged, and only the tower of Dharahara and the clock tower of Ghantaghar could be seen above the swirling waves. Then I heard a chaotic rumble from towards the city, as if thousands of people were shouting together in anguish–cries mixed with the roar of waves, crashing into waves.
A few more boats were floating aimlessly upon water … the boats seemed a bit puffed up, bobbing on foaming white waves, they appeared like women’s breasts.
And they kept on swirling in, those thundering waves, foaming, swirling waves, drowning me along with boats and the buildings, gas stations and supermarkets, and palaces and parliaments.
Even as I sank underwater, however, I did not die immediately. I reached the green, moss covered bed of the great lake, and, slowly came to rest upon a large black tree. Blue and yellow fish with bright eyes were swimming around me, and a large creature, looking like an octopus, was floating nearby.
Like a lamp flickering brightly before dimming into oblivion, however, my vision had become more powerful than ever. And now, using the same panoramic vision, I began to gaze at the fortunes of those who had managed to survive the assault of thundering waves.
Who survived the apocalyptic flood? Who survived the wrath of the marauding waves, and escaped from the Valley to tell its tale?
The most famous among the survivors were the followers of the Tall, Thin Leader and the Muscular Midget. In addition, many members of the civil society and a number of rebels, too, escaped the Valley, along with numerous common men and women fighting for the resurrection of democracy.
As the waves rumbled into the city center drowning banks, theaters, temples and markets, the followers ran north and reached the foothills of the valley. After stopping for a moment to pray at the temple of sleeping Vishnu at the foothills, they kept on climbing across ravines and gorges and hills and mountains till they reached the peak of Kailash; the same mount that is famous as the abode of Lord Shiva. It is only after reaching the top of Kailash that they paused their frantic rush and turned back to look at the Valley.
As they gazed their hearts became heavy with pain, and their eyes were saturated with tears. Some of them began to sob and cry. Where was that beautiful Valley surrounded by magnificent green hills? The Valley was already drowned in the waves; there was no city, neither towers nor palaces. Only a flux of rumbling waves tossing and crashing upon hilltops.
Sitting atop the peak of Kailash they wept for the city, for their friends and family who had perished in the apocalypse, and for their famous leaders; one of whom was transformed into a fish with red eyes by the accursed water, and another into a thin, slithering watery snake.
It was then that they saw some divine form sprouting from under a snowy crag, extending into the horizons of both the east and west. What was the nature and shape of that divine appendage?
Following the eyes of followers, I peered closely at that extensive shape…it was only then that I understood. It was nothing else but the cosmic penis, the linga of Lord Shiva! The same divine penis glorified in the verses of Shiva Purana. and about which terrible eyed Maharaj had told Mohandas and me at the pati.
Hadn’t Maharaj spoken clearly about the conflict between Brahma and Vishnu? And about the divine linga of Shiva pervading through the entire universe without any beginning or end! And now the same linga, emerging from under a crag at Kailash, was extending far and wide to disappear into the horizons.
All prophecies, myths and histories, had finally connected with each other…prophecy of Manjushree told by Sansar and Bimba, the myth of Shiva Linga described by Maharaj, and now the snow peak and the divine bridge prophesized by Dilbar Nath!
Yes, this is what Dilbar Nath had uttered before the midnight fire: A snow peak, a divine bridge. Now I realized in a flash: the snow peak of Dilbar Nath’s prophecies was this very peak of Kailash! And the divine bridge about which he has spoken was none other than that extensive linga of Shiva.
“We have nothing to lose,” sitting atop the peak of Kailash the followers conversed among themselves, “Our city is drowned, our houses are destroyed, our families have drowned, and our leaders have been transformed into snakes, fish, ducks or tortoises. Let’s take our chance with the linga of Lord Shiva. Let’s slide through this divine bridge to seek our liberation.”
And then they walked with extreme care to the edge of the snowy crag, climbed atop the divine phallus, and began to walk upon its celestial surface.
Some of them walked west, while others followed the penis towards the east. In whichever direction they traveled, that divine linga was all pervasive, without any beginning or end. The followers used that celestial overpass as a bridge of their liberation, and crossed mountains, forests, deserts, oceans, and continents of the borderless global world without any need for visas or passports.
They arrived among strange lands, nations, customs and people, and had to speak new languages and learn new models of civil conduct and proper accent.
The followers reached the great cities of the world, thus fulfilling the dream of Gyan Yogi who had sought similar global travel via the underground passages of the valley in the nineteenth century, just as Samaya Bhakta, following the example of Shivapuri Baba, had cross the national borders to walk towards Europe in the next one.
They witnessed strange revolutions, alliances, compromises, elections, and power struggles in those cities. They saw how some people had become taller than trees and buildings while others were reduced to the size of frogs and ants.
They saw how poor people in those cities were being transformed into donkeys and horses, just as men and women inside the valley were transformed into fish, snakes and tortoises. They understood how people had forgotten the message of kindness and love.
The followers saw an immense tower in a great city of the world, similar to the one that had collapsed at Durbar Marg.
They saw how horses and donkeys were struggling to get inside that great tower. How some people were forced to crawl up the walls of the tower, while the others used elevators to scale its celestial heights. They saw how people at the top of the tower had become stars. How they were walking in glittering dresses to proclaim the doctrines of equality and free love.
They saw that the same stories of gain, profit, ambition and power, were being repeated all over the world. Qaakes and Floods and landslides and famines were disfuring a globe that was being disfigured by natural disasters, just as grandfather’s globe with new continents at Lukini Bari.
Great leaders with grand expectations were emerging in many cities of the world, only to be transformed into monstrous cabbages, potatoes, onions, radishes and bananas. Puppet plays were being performed in other cities as well, just as marbles were rolling in other nations and continents. Old power centers were breaking apart; new ones were arising. Webs of similar chakkars and Ghanchakkars were spreading throughout the world.
Following the progress of supporters and followers, I realized that there were other causes of Ghanchakkar too, rather than just the four described in the leaflet. Maybe that leaflet was a torn fragment from some book. Hadn’t Dilbar Nath, too, spoken about a torn book? Yes, a broken mirror, a torn book!
Perhaps, additional causes of Ghanchakkar were explained in that book, of which the leaflet was only a fragment. It is possible that people in various times and nations were experiencing the Great Ghanchakkar of their lives in plural, manifold ways, rather than in just specific, fourfold manner.
It was to describe the same all pervasive web that the philosophers had written their treatises and the critics their criticisms. The same labyrinthine web had inspired the poets and novelists to write their poems and novels, and the painters to paint their canvasses. The same time chakra of Ghanchakkar was perpetually in motion, from the dim beginning of time to the hazy horizons of unborn future.
Is Ghanchaakar the ultimate destiny of all human beings then? Aren’t there possibilities of revolt and liberation?
My panoramic vision, blazing like some divine torch to illuminate sights from far off times and places, shuddered dangerously for a moment. Then, drawing my gaze from far off cities, nations, and continents, I dragged it down to the bed of the great lake. The same slimy bottom of the lake where I was lying near a moss covered tree as red, green, blue and yellow fish swam around me.
It had stopped raining. Dark clouds were clearing up, and the sky above the valley was beginning to open. A few stars were beginning to glimmer through the opening in the sky. I also saw that the level of water in the grand lake was beginning to diminish.
The hilltop of Swayambhu was standing high above the thunder of the waves. Maybe this is how the hilltop, rising above the waters of the lake, appeared to Manjushree when he first arrived at the valley! I turned my panoramic vision towards the hill of Chovar…and what is that?
The hill of Chovar was already breached apart and waves of water, sweeping tortoises, fish, water snakes, and frogs, were pouring through the gap. Had a new Manjushree arrived to cut the hill of Chovar once again? Or was that hill always already ruptured, even before the arrival of Bodhisattva with his divine axe?
The lake was pouring out of the valley with a rumbling roar. Maybe this is why it had seemed to me that the level of water was diminishing. The hill of Changunayan, as that of Swayambhu, had already emerged from the swirl and surge of the waves. The areas around Durbar Marg, Basantpur, Kalimati and Sundhara, however, were still under water. The paper boats, ones that I had seen earlier, were tossing high upon foamy current in those areas.
Some people, sitting precariously upon the boats, were singing songs of liberation, celebrating the eventual victory of democracy. I felt for a moment that I recognized one of them. Standing upon a boat, he seemed like my student Ranganath. Then the boat disappeared behind the waves, and I could not be certain who it was.
Turning my panoramic vision in all directions, I gazed at the four corners of the valley.
The temple of sleeping Vishnu had already emerged from the watery. The statue of the sleeping god, though slightly sullied by slime and green moss, was gazing at the sky with the same peaceful expression as before.
I turned my vision southwards. The temple of Bisankhu Narayan was standing taller than the surface of tossing waves. The hills of Swayambhu and Changunarayan were similarly standing above the waters of diminishing lake. Some frogs, snakes, and crocodiles were trying to slither up those hills. Numerous tortoises, fish, and ducks were similarly gathering around the foothills of Swayambhu and Godavari.
I saw that many of those creatures, losing their fins and gills, were being transformed back into humans again, complete with hands, feet, emotions, and intellect. Lives altered into sub human watery creatures by the touch of the apocalyptic flood were beginning to regain their earlier forms and beings once again.
Among those who had regained their human forms, some were beginning to murmur about the need for a new revolution. They were beginning to mumble about reversing the wrong steps of history, and of the need to create a peaceful, tolerant society. The chakra of time was revolving at a great speed once again.
Now, for the first time, I understood the prophecy that Manjushree had proclaimed from the hilltop of Swayambhu. Just as I comprehended the meaning of the magic that had transformed the creatures of water into human beings; and humans into fish, water snakes and ducks. I understood that the prophecy of Manjushree was both a boon and a curse.
At the one hand, his magic had made possible the beginning of civilization and given direction to the flow of history. At the same time, however, it had also imparted force to the perpetually revolving time chakra of Ghanchakkar. More the historical time-crossing the borders of pre-historical Kirat era, Lichchavi era, Malla era and the Shah Era had arrived closer to present era, the chakra of Ghanchakkar had begun to revolve speedily, and even more forcefully, than before. The endless chaos of chakkars had become more extensive.
I also understood that the same events will repeat themselves again.
Once again villages, markets and cities will be established inside the valley now being emptied of water. Once again new rebellions will begin, and sticks will fall upon the bodies of rebels. After a successful revolution, democracy will be established yet again. Once again statues and towers will rise proudly up to the sky, and hospitals, schools and asylums be rebuilt. Once again television and radio stations will disseminate the messages of peace, justice, and democracy. At the same time, contests of power will continue to disturb the lives of men and women and other genders alike. Perpetual sequences of rising and falling towers, and the meaningless play of marbles in the ministries, will keep on destroying the restful aaram of the citizens. Mutterings of Dilbar Nath and statements of Rainer, disguising themselves as new prophecies, will keep on returning upon the dance floor of nation. And new heroes and leaders, appearing on the decorated platforms of history, will discover their roles within its perpetual puppet plays once again.
This was how I understood the contradictory prophecy of Manjushree: a boon which was also a curse!
I had seen everything that I needed to see. I had understood everything that I wanted to understand. There was no need for further search, discovery or understanding. My panoramic vision, gradually contracting and losing its energy, became lightless and blind. The darkness around me intensified. Only the rumble of swirling waves remained, to speak loudly into my ears. I listened: waves were beginning to talk to me.
I, too, began to talk to them. I comprehended the language of waves with utmost clarity, and they understood me without the slightest of confusions. It was at that moment, as waves started talking to me, that I finally understood: the moment of my madness had arrived at last!
Even till one second before that moment of conversation, I had not become a total insane as yet. Even though my mind was degenerating rapidly, the possibilities of my cure and rehabilitation, howsoever faint and indistinct they may be, still remained at some bend of my being. Hopes of reestablishing myself gradually, first as a half lunatic, then as a normally insane person, and finally as a fully normal man, even though weakened considerably, still lay dormant at some corner of my soul. But now as the waves began to talk, I realized that I had crossed all limits of common sense and sanity to enter a new world. A world where only the chaotic rumble of water understood my language, and only I was able to comprehend its strange speech!
Now I accepted for the first time, in every tissue of my body, and in every particle of my being, the obvious and unambiguous fact that I had become a total lunatic!
And now the waves are talking to me incessantly, murmuring softly in my ears even as they swallow my last remaining thoughts and consciousness.
You are the King and the beggar, you are the jogi and the soldier, journalist and story teller, they are telling me, you are the teacher, student, rebel and painter. And you are the very waves of water that are drowning you. The waves are murmuring into my ears: you are the palaces and the towers, you are the puppets upon the dance floor, you are the marbles of the ministry, and you are the waves of water that have drowned you.
***
(Extract from Ghanchakkar. The section above comes occurs towards its end. The setting is a mental asylum where the first person protagonist of the novel experiences a hallucinating vision, probably a consequence of the pills he had taken to end his life unsuccessfully.)