Santosh Kumar Pokharel
It was about my childhood while I was studying in a junior class. My father had first admitted me to Lahan High School, and then to Pashupati Secondary School, Matiharwa, Lahan. This school including four other schools in Siraha were initiated and founded by Shri Bal Bramhachari Damodarananad Bhandari. He had initiated all these schools with the donated land. It is said that he would sit in hunger strike until his request for land was fulfilled. The celibate Baba was purely guided by the notion of developing education infrastructures for thousands of children from the rural Terai of Nepal. The name of Baba is not found in the Guinness Book Record as long-lived, but he lived for 132 years. Two years before he left this abode, I had visited the house of Dipendrapurush Dhakal, former Governor of Nepal Rastra Bank, at Kopundol, where Baba had been staying under a thatched roof isolated from the main building. He was 129 years old then. His arms were drooping but were thick and strong and his ears were large. It is said that people with big ears survive longer, but I have seen that the ears of many survivors also get bigger with age.
Skilled administrator Headmaster Kameshwar Prasad Chaudhary has contributed to the growth of Pashupati Secondary School. Mr. Chaudhary was a gentle and learned headmaster who taught English. Similarly, landlords of Matiharwa, social workers Chandra Shekhar Lal Karna, Ambika Prasad Pokharel, Bed Prasad Ghimire, and Ram Lochan Mahato had their own kind of contribution to the running of the school. The new school building was built by a German citizen in the initiative of Mr. Chaudhary. I studied there for one year only; even that one year has left a happy feeling in my heart.
There was an old man who used to sell bitten fried grams known as Chanajor snack, and Chanajor was a popular tiffin snack those days for us students. Who wouldn’t be tempted to see the old man with his wooden box with tiffin standing and chanting his lullaby? The old man used to seduce all of us by singing such a lovely lyric.
“Chana Jor Garam Babu I have brought wonderful Chana Jor Garam,
My gram is made, sir, eat big officers
Eating is so fair
Sitting on the chair,
The pen should run fast, spicy hot gram will longer last
Chana Jor Garam Babu I have brought wonderfulChana Jor Garam”
Try tasting my gram take no nip
Three cups of water you will sip
Shall kill your pain
No point far off remain
Chana Jor garam.
I have brought here with me
Chana Jor garam.
Bechu Dai had a kind heart. He was one class above me, as he was two years older than me. He had spent whole two rupees that time, I remember. The memory of that day is still fresh and sweet. People live in their memories and rejoice in their feelings. If the memories of the past and the emotions those bring were not in the human hearts, this world would have become a boring place to live in. The joy of swimming in the emotions is bliss. What else other can be the matter in the child’s brain?
Bechu Dai’s father jumped up in the evening, “Who are you to spend that much money? Do you know how I make every penny here?” You don’t have to go to school from tomorrow; you will again go and graze the cattle.” We didn’t hear their noise though we were neighbors. Next day I knew that I would be responsible for half of the expenses.
This decision was right because I had also eaten grams, but it was definitely less than Bechu himself had eaten, and so we were not an equal sharing of the bulk gram. My father paid half of the cost with a meek smile. My childish mind was not satisfied. It was a small thing, but it taught me a lesson – not to indulge in anyone’s money, not to make anyone spend without asking. Bechu Dai didn’t sleep all night.
Bechu’s father was a small farmer, with a small paddy field, but he would only grow there no less than fine fragrant Basmati, Kalanimak, Tulsiphool and Babhani varieties. These rice species spread their fragrance all over the area, that you won’t find those species nowadays as all chemical and pesticidal use has gulped up all the orthodox rice seeds.
Every penny was counted in that house because the money came only from selling paddy. At the same time, the source of income for all of us was the crops of the year. There was no option but to sell paddy to meet the requirements of Dashain’s clothes, Mutton for Dashain, and the market shopping. Paddy would be half-finished by paying off the loan and the rest would have to be spent on food for the whole year. A very few had monthly earnings from their offices; everyone else’s situation was the same. But the thing about Bechu’s house was different. Even though that house was weaker than the others, everything there was specific and organized. For lunch two vegetables were cooked and the smell of fine basmati rice fascinated the passers-by. He had planted four mango trees in his kitchen garden including citrus fruits like lemon. What else wasn’t there? The ground with varieties of vegetables was also there. There were many among the peasants who would not get enough food all the year round but Bechu’s father was an exception. He was an example of a good manager that drove his family that well. He had his own bull cart with a pair of stout oxen he occasionally drove in the streets blowing dust.
The next day Bechu went to school all relaxed, as he was allowed to and he slept sound that night. We were happy to learn that things settled that fine. My mother Sharada, may she rest in eternal peace! used to say, “Look, don’t spend other people’s money for yourself. Not everyone’s father is like yours.”
[Santosh Kumar Pokharel is a globally acclaimed multilingual writer and poet from Nepal. He writes in Nepali, English, Hindi, and Russian. He has thousands of poems including stories and essays to his credit. His works have been translated into twenty-seven languages of the world so far. Laureate of several international awards for his literary contributions to the world literature, the writer by profession is a senior civil engineer who completed his masters from Peoples’ Friendship University, Moscow.]