Rama Adhikari, TGT
Renowned poet, novelist and academic, Dr. Banira Giri has passed away. She was seventy-five.
Dr. Giri started her career as a writer from Darjeeling, India with her poem “Mutu”. Soon, her writings started appearing in journals and periodicals. the first work that earned her a national recognition in Indi a was a poem       ‘Mero Sathi Bhanchha’ published in Diyo, 1963. Her famous works include Euta Jiudo Janga Bahadur, Jeevan : Thaymaru (Collection of poems), Mero Aviskar (Long poem), Karagar, Nirvan, Sabdatiti Santanu (Novels), etc. She is a recipient of Poetic Convention Award (1964 AD), Ratnashri Gold Medal (1966), Gorkha Dakshinbahu Fourth, Lokpriya Devi Award (1991), Vishwa Nari Ratna (2010) and Kalashree Award (2073)
“Poetry is my first love,” said Banira on being asked what poetry is to her. About herself, she said, “I am a death ritual. You accept me in this form” (qtd. in Dancing Soul of Mount Everest, edited by Momila.) Momila, poet and essayist makes the following observation about Banira:
Banira Giri is an influential and brilliant woman signature in modern Nepali verses, advocating for women’s esteem and human values. Her verses are honest human voices raised against intrigue, falsity and tricks for ages. Shooting beyond the aesthetic archiving inspired by the mental and physical struggles engendered by certain wounds of life, her verses find poetic excellence in moving beyond the sigh and yearning of such wounds, in search of a place where human faith could be anchored, carving a way that could safely escort life and society.
The Gorkha Times family pays heartfelt tribute to Dr. Giri. May her soul rest in peace.
Here is a poem by Late Dr. Banira Giri.
I, a Frayed Poster
O, human!
do not make different explanations every time
out of the broken pieces of a sentence.
I have forgotten my own story.
Inside a freezing dhiki shed,
from near the fireplace
an old man tells
folktales to his grandchildren.
Parohang and Lempuhang float on his eyes
as though, he were himself a Shiva of an age
who has lost his Satidevi*
in the Dakshya’s yagya.
He tells the story
of Lal and Heera*
and sends Lal away himself
ridden on a white horse, a century old
whose hoofing is administering
orders to the ears of time.
Oops! How helpless
those people, and we are
and the old man telling this story.
He could not deny
the stretching of time, and its orders.
He could neither break
time’s dereliction, and its treachery.
How could Moses cut the sea?
How could Moses break the sea?
Yes, here I argue on
faith and its absence,
on belief and disbelief.
My truth and my faiths
have been placed on auction
at the Harishchandra Ghat
my belief too, by know
lamely loafs around,
and haunts the rubbish along the roads,
like a stray dog.
I will be cursed
by this womb, and by these ova,
that has been thrown unused,
like a broken caldron
that have run dry for want of use
like tasteless grapes.
A century later
I stand on time’s mound
in the form of a folktale
and my time will have been perforated
caressing the footmarks of wounds.
Our feet have been stamped
upon the chest of the desert
doomed to be erased.
Pity…pity…
The chilly mountain breeze of the Himalayas
is but a mere intoxication
every morning, it adds  pain, and leaves
aborting beliefs, dreams, confidence and rights,
and gets lightened.
We are walking carelessly over corpses,
the earth itself is a grave of dead bodies,
we build houses upon the graves,
organize feasts
live upon them
and boast, in front of our own corpses
from inside graves.
Swayambhars*have broken
along with the Shivadhanu* of King Janak’s palace,
these days Lav and Kush
have started flowing,
in the turbid water of Tukucha*.
Human faith needs an anchoring place
a chautari* to rest,
living needs a longing for death
a life, longer by a hundred more years
Oops!
Imagination alone becomes a maddening illness.
Life!
This is not an explanation of an epic
nor a foreword to an autobiography
it’s not an edition of one’s works either
I blow a life
out of the holes of the hearth,
and unbalance the rice  in a pot.
I will exhale a breath of life
out on the surface of a glass
and see my own face clouded.
I am a frayed poster
on time’s wall.
O, human!
Do not make different explanations every time
out of the broken pieces of a sentence.
I have forgotten my own story.
____________
dhiki: a traditional wooden lobe, used to unchaff rice; a rural alternative of a rice-mill
Satidevi : Shiva’s wife and daughter of Dakshya, who ran into the ritual fire and died to protest her father’s insult of Shiva
Dakshya: Father of Satidevi, and father-in-law of Shiva
yagya: a religious ritual where offerings are made into the fire in the name of God
Harishchandra Ghat: a place on the Bank of the river Ganga at Varanasi
Swayambhar: a ceremony where girls choose their husbands from many suitors
[Source: Dancing Soul of Mount Everest (2011),Edited by Momila. Trans: Mahesh Paudyal.]