Mahesh Paudyal
One of the biggest risks prolific writers across the world run is the fear of being irrelevant. This happens for two reasons: first, when a writer holds on a conviction that was true or fashionable once upon a time, and becomes a victim of static viewpoints. Second, if the author, in spite of being prolific, does not make a worldview of his or her own, and the volumes, no matter how many they are, do not build up anything formidable. I have myself seen many Nepali poets, who in spite of delivering tens of anthologies, do not find a berth in representative collections, let alone finding a permanent space in the readers’ hearts. Why some writers prevail across space and time is because of the quality of renewability in their content, something that has the flexibility of getting adapted or used even in contexts not imagined by the authors themselves. Such ideas can be inherited and carried further by the upcoming generation. We, the great, great, great grandchildren of Veda Vyas, know it very well.
Poet Manprasad Subba is, however, a strange exception. I can count at least nine anthologies to his credit straight: Biblyanto Yugbhitra Cartoon Manchheharu (1979), Bukhyachaharuko Deshma (1983), Ushma (1987), Aadim Basti (1995), Ritu Canvasma Rekhaharu (2001), Akshar–Orchestra (2004), Kinaraka Aawajharu (co-authored, 2008), Bhuinphutta Shabdaharu (2013), and Nettiphungko Basna (2016). Yet, there is no denying that Manprasad Subba is, on this date, one of the most relevant and sought-after poets from Darjeeling hills, and from the Nepali-speaking Indian community for that matter. Imagine any literary conference of significance; he is there. Think of an inclusive academic panel to estimate Nepali literature from India, he is there. Think of a few nationally and internationally acclaimed writers from Darjeeling as of today, he is there. Look among the seniors, youngsters and juniors; he is very much there. Look for someone who balances Western theories with those from the East, and for someone who is in tune with every evolving philosophical epoch, he is there. An auto-ethnographer, a rebel, a post-modernist, a romantic lover, an avant-garde and a constant inventor, Manprasad Subba has prevailed, and has proved his relevance over decades, without letter the graph sag for any reason.
As a critic, I have noted at least three reasons for this. I discuss them point by point in the subsequent paragraphs.
The first reason is that, Manprasad Subba has a strange sense of speculation of what is in the offing. When he flared up the discourse of marginality in Darjeeling hills back 2002 with his Kinaraka Aawajharu (co-authored with Remika Thapa), few had perhaps thought it was going to develop into a movement. There’s no denying that today, dozens of young writers from Darjeeling are with this idea. A lot is being written about the margin. Many literary groups have made the discourse of marginality their core motifs. A corpus is quality work in being delivered—both creative and critical—and the idea has become a fact today. This long-term relevance of the discourse of marginality, I can envision, will last at least through the lifetime of Manprasad Subba, born in the year 1950, if I am not wrong.
This sense of speculation in Subba also appears in his post-modernist and non-conformist approach. A poet who freed his ‘word’ back in the nineties form authorial control, he sensed the overwhelming impact of the post-modern discourse. A thorough engagement with his collection Bhuiphutta Shabdabaru (2017), which collects poems written over many decades, brings us the reason to claim why Manprasad is a poet with a contrapuntal mind, always breaking away from legacies, always leaving his own former avatar behind, and moving, in spite of himself, for a new troupe. This photon of renewable energy in Poet Subba is a rare thing.
The way Subba brought into currency the idea of soil heath, environmental ethics and ecological rights in this writing can also be seen the light of similar evaluation. Back in 2001, his Ritu Canvasma Rekhaharu was still very much romantic or Blakian. It is, safe to say, a distant offspring of Lekhanath’s Ritu Bichar with some time-induced inflections. I also find here an echo of Northrop Fry, especially on how change of seasons tune with change of moods, emotions and feelings in the human beings. But many of Subba’s later poems on environment, including those collected in Bhuinphutta Shabdaharu are pregnant with ecological overtone. At a time when environmental discourses are gripping the ebb of time everywhere in the world, Subba has become a pioneer of green poetry in Darjeeling Hills.
Right from the days of Biblyanto Yugbhitra Cartoon Manchheharu (1979), Bukhyachaharuko Deshma (1983), Ushma (1987), Subba has borrowed from many myths, both Western and Eastern, including that of the Kirats. Before the nineties, his use of myths was, like in case of many poets, as a repository of universal symbolism. But, with the turn of the decade of the nineties, myths started being explained as repositories of ethnic identity. This took up momentum worldwide with the rise of identity discourses after the nineties, and Subba was quick enough to sense this. I invite readers to read his poems delivered after the nineties. We will take no time to infer how, tactfully, Poet Subba has tagged the voice of ethnic, regional or group identity in those mythical symbols.
I think I should make a clarification here. To more readers in Nepal, the question of group identity trickles down to the identity of one linguistic or ethnic group, especially a minority that has little or no representation in the political and social system of the country. In case of India, however, the case is different. When imagined from among Nepali-speaking thinkers, the issue of identity more denotes the identity of the entire Nepali-speaking community of Indians, who are having a struggle of identity vis-à-vis the mainstream Indian communities. In case of Subba too, my reference to identity or ethnic identity should be understood in the latter sense.
The second reason why Subba appears relevant over the decades is that by dint of his knowledge of the English and other Indian languages, he keeps himself updated to whatever happens in the world outside Darjeeling hills. He is often seen traveling—to Delhi, Kolkata, Assam, Manipur, Uttarakhand, southern ends of India, Nepal and where not in the region! This traveling is not merely a reflection of nomadic atavism; it is very much an effort to keep informed and updated with developments around the world. Subba, through such encounters, appears to keep himself updated with today’s philosophical and creative inventions.
The last reason of his unquestioned relevance, to my imagination, is that he always places himself midway between the older and newer generation. He has himself groomed younger generation poets and artists at home. In the college, community and the region, he keeps this tempo going. This is a rare trait. Oftentimes, grey hairs, high repute and ripe age inspire writers to keep the youngsters at bay, but the one should bear in mind that an author might not survive, even in his thoughts, if he or his thoughts have no heir at all. Manprasad is aware of this; he keeps his mind young when needed, and sighs like a lover, as in Nettiphungko Basna. Otherwise he is a constant light that focuses ahead, far beyond the present decade, and tells the younger generation: look at the ever-receding green light there. Follow it!
My fear with Mr. Subba’s poetry is twofold. First, at times he is atavistic. He calls back distant romantic musings of this youthful days and writes emotions, forgetting the expectation of serious motivations from him for the upcoming age. Second, at times, Mr Subba responds a bit too quickly to day-to-day happenings, and in such a case, a poem may run the risk of being irrelevant when the tide of the news changes (which so often happens) or even wrong thematically, before long.
Rest, who knows things better than Poet Subba?
[Critic Paudyal is the Editor of Manprasad Subba’s representative poems Manprasad Subbaka Pratinidhi Kavitaharu, published in 2017 from Kathmandu. He teaches at the Central Department of English, TU.]