Michael J. Hutt
Lekhnath Paudyal, Balkrishna Sama, and Lakshmiprasad Devkota were the three most important Nepali writers of the first half of this century, and their influence is still felt today. Lekhnath strove for classical precision in traditional poetic genres; Devkota’s effusive and emotional works provoked a redefinition of the art of poetic composition in Nepali. In contrast to both of these, Balkrishna Sama was essentially an intellectual whose personal values and knowledge of world culture brought austerity and eclecticism to his work. He was also regarded highly for his efforts to simplify and colloquialize the language of Nepali verse.
Sama was born Balkrishna Shamsher Jang Bahadur Rana in 1903. As a member of the ruling family, he naturally enjoyed many privileges: his formative years were spent in sumptuous surroundings, and he received the best education available in Nepal at that time. In 1923 he became a high-ranking army officer, as was customary for the sons of Rana families, but from 1933 onward he was able to dedicate himself wholly to literature because he was made chair of the kingdom’s main publishing body, the Nepali Language Publication Committee. He changed his name to Sama , “equal,” in 1948 after spending several months in prison for his association with political forces inimical to his family’s regime. It is by this pseudonym that he is now usually known. Sama is universally regarded as the greatest Nepali playwright, and it was primarily to drama that he devoted his efforts during the first half of his life. In recognition of his enormous contribution to the enrichment of Nepali literature, he was made a member of the Royal Nepal Academy in 1957, its vice-chancellor in 1968, and a life member after his retirement in 1971.
The young Balkrishna seems to have been unusually gifted because he began to compose metrical verses before he was eight years old, imitating those of his father and his tutor, the father of Lakshmiprasad Devkota. Balkrishna conceived an affection for music and art and developed a sense of reverence for sacred literature, particularly the Ramayana of Bhanubhakta: “Up until then, it had never occurred to me that the Ramayana was the work of a human being. When I watched my sister bowing down before the book, I thought it had been created by one of the gods!” (Sama 1966, 14).
At school, he read William Wordsworth and other English poets and even translated the poem “Lucy Gray” into Nepali in 1914. He was also impressed by Lekhnath Paudyal’s “Ritu Vichara, ” and Lekhnath’s influence is clearly discernible in Balkrishna’s earliest compositions. His first play, Tansenko Jhari (Rain at Tansen), which he wrote in 1921, used the classical anushtup meter, and he wrote most subsequent dramas in verse forms. These included the classic works of Nepali theater: Mutuko Vyatha (Heart’s Anguish, 1929), Mukunda-Indira (Mukunda and Indira, 1937), and Prahlad (1938). Sama was undoubtedly influenced by Shakespeare’s use of verse in drama and experimented with unorthodox metrical combinations, showing scant regard for the rules of Sanskrit prosody.
Sama was also an accomplished painter and story writer, as well as the author of a speculative philosophical treatise, Regulated Randomness (Niyamit Akasamikta ). His poetry represented the second facet of his literary personality, although it was certainly no less important to him than his plays. All of his poems were published as a single collection in 1981, with the exception of two long works that appeared separately. It is clear from this volume that Sama produced far more poetry in his later years than in his youth: less than forty poems were published before 1950, but more than one hundred and fifty appeared between 1950 and 1979. T. Sharma (1982, 92) believes that Sama’s poems fall into four categories. The earliest were fairly conventional compositions in Sanskrit meters and were followed by the many songlike poems that are sprinkled throughout Sama’s first verse dramas. After 1950, he produced poems that dealt with philosophical themes in ancient Vedic meters, as well as thematically similar poems written in free verse. The earlier compositions were more formulaic than later works, although Sama’s interest in experimentation was clearly evident at an early stage. In “Broken Vase” (Phuteko Phuldan , 1935), for instance, the opening verse is symbolically shattered and fragmented:
oh the vase . . . from my hand…
slipped . . . fell to the floor . . . broke with a crack
. . . water spilled . . . flowers, too,
. . . smashed . . . to smithereens!
His most famous nonmetrical poems are praised for the sweetness and simplicity of their language and often have a strong didactic tone. If they have a fault, it is their tendency to become long-winded and humorless. Sama was a rationalist and an agnostic, which made him highly suspect in the eyes of the rulers. His personal beliefs were set forth in poems such as “Man Is God Himself” (Manis Svayam Devata Huncha ), translated here, and a longer poem, “I, Too, Believe in God” (Ma Pani Dyauta Manchu ):
I, too, believe, holy man,
I, too, believe in God,
but between your God and mine
there is the difference of earth and sky.
Him you see when you close your eyes
in meditation’s abstract clouds,
Him I see with my eyes wide open
in the dear sight of every man.
The subject of many poems was poetry itself: one of his longest works, “Sight of the Incarnation” (Avatar-Darshan, 1973) is a seventeen-page prose poem that describes a dream in which Sama encountered the goddess of poetry, presumably Saraswati. Extracts from this poem are presented here. Sama’s incomplete autobiography is entitled My Worship of Poetry (Mero Kavitako Aradhana ), and the composition of poetry evidently meant far more to Sama than a mere literary pursuit. This attitude to poetry, common to all South Asian poets of earlier generations, is derived from ancient classical traditions, as expounded by the tenth-century poet Rajashekhara in his Kavya-Mimamsa (Treatise on Poetry). This attitude continued to influence Nepali poets well into the present century. Sama’s literary perspective was far broader than that of thoroughly traditional poets such as Lekhnath, however, and his exposure to Western literatures and knowledge of world affairs led him to conduct a number of unusual experiments.
Among the most ambitious of these was a long poem in free verse entitled Fire and Water (Ago ra Pani ), which was published in book form in 1954. In Fire and Water , Sama attempted to describe the whole history of humankind as a struggle between the forces of good (water) and evil (fire):
Golden fire, silver water,
ruby spark and diamond snow,
their confrontation is not new,
their lack of concord, constant conflict,
struggle, tangle, war and scrabble,
slaughter, murder: these all began in long ages past.
Certain passages of Fire and Water are remarkable, but the work as a whole is somewhat overcontrived, and its concluding chapters, which describe a utopia governed by “regulated randomness,” are unconvincing. Despite these shortcomings, Fire and Water is considered, with some justification, to have been a bold and significant new venture in Nepali literature.
Sama’s second major poetic work was a full-blown epic (mahakavya ) entitled Cold Hearth (Chiso Chuhlo ), published in 1958. Its theme was a tragic love affair between two young people divided by a difference in caste. Part of the epic’s novelty lay in the fact that its various characters spoke in a diction that imitated that of other Nepali poets. Cold Hearth also demonstrated Sama’s erudition and represented his humanistic rejection of the Sanskrit convention that holds that the hero of an epic must be a character of high birth and nobility: the central character of the story was Sante Damai, a low-caste tailor. Critics generally agree that Cold Hearth is diffuse and overextended and that it ranks somewhat lower than Fire and Water and “Sight of the Incarnation” among Sama’s major poetic works.
All of Sama’s shorter poems (including “Sight of the Incarnation”) are collected in Balkrishna Samaka Kavita (The Poems of Balkrishna Sama, 1981), and some appeared in English translation in Expression after Death (1972). The two long works Ago ra Pani (Fire and Water) and Chiso Chuhlo (Cold Hearth) were published in 1954 and 1958 respectively.
Man Is God Himself (Manis Svayam Devata Huncha)
He who loves flowers has a tender heart,
he who cannot pluck their blooms
has a heart that’s noble.
He who likes birds has a gentle soul,
he who cannot eat their flesh
has feelings that are sacred.
He who loves his family
has the loftiest desires,
he who loves all of Mankind
has the greatest mind.
He who lives austerely has the purest thoughts,
he who makes life serve him well
has the greatest soul.
He who sees that Man is Man
is the best of men,
he who sees that Man is God,
he is God himself
(1968; from Sama 1981)
I Hate (Ma Ghrina Garchu)
I hate the loveliest star-studded silks,
I hate the scent of the prettiest flower,
I hate the moonlight’s thin, lacy veil,
I hate your sweetest love song,
because, because,
they come between your lips and mine.
(1968; from Sama, 1981)
Aall-Pervading Poetry (Kavitako Vyapti)
Picking up a huge basket, a holy man
ventured out to the forest to gather poetry.
Through hills and streams, pastures and fields,
he searched every waterfall, fruit and bush,
but nowhere could he find it,
so he decided such things were out of season,
at a loss he had set off home
when he came upon an aesthete.
To his enquiry this man replied,
“Is poetry not everywhere?
If you look at those falls through prosaic eyes,
even they will be dry, just declaring the void
left by the hair which falls out as youth passes;
but what could dry up these waters,
or make this hillside bald?
“Holy man, look with redoubled love
at the heart’s smooth surface
where foaming blood gathers;
gather up all this sad world’s blows,
attack with a powerful breath;
lift waves of experience to your head,
scatter pure drops till your eyes are wet,
make your vision subtle with sympathy,
look closely: you will see the blood
which runs through the veins of these rocks,
you will touch the hearts of stones,
the cliffs will shower nectar,
you will have poetry to drink!”
With this the aesthete faded away,
melting like beeswax in the sun,
and the holy man’s eyes softened too.
The trees melted like resin, the fruits like honey,
the green fields dissolved into lakes,
the whole world thawed like snow,
the sky dissolved to become the Ganga,
the stars were all droplets of water.
And then the holy man knew
he meant no more than a teardrop;
throughout the world, in each atom’s womb,
pervading destruction’s terrible sound,
he found poetry surging forth.
(1972; from Sama 1981; also included in Pachhis Varshaka Nepali Kavita 1982)
From Sight of the Incarnation (Avatar-Darshan)
She came before me incarnate,
the mother of the universe, beautiful verse,
snatching sun-flowers, scattering star-leaves,
streaks of dark cloud her agile pen,
their rain her ink,
the poems she wrote were lines
of heavenly lightning-letters,
making the moon sing softly,
making the thunder echo a song
that only the moonbird could hear.
She came dancing, her slim body of spotless crystal,
and as she spread her veil of delusion I doubted
that I had truly seen.
She came like my mind’s reflection,
she surely came,
but what of this watcher’s reform?
On trembling elbows, my head bowed low,
I try to crawl on four limbs of rhyme
toward poetry’s tempting light,
but into a trap I tumble
to struggle there like a four-legged beast,
with no prospect of further progress:
my weight makes me sink ever deeper.
Or maybe I am a black insect,
tumbling onto the wrong path,
prostrate in despair on a slippery rock,
waving four legs at the empty sky.
I saw Poetry’s tangible image,
the speech of the cosmos incarnate,
beauty and joy I witnessed,
but what could I do? I could not touch her feet,
I could not bow low with a change in my heart,
no words of strong love could I find,
I could not fly, could not dissolve in the Goddess.
Poetry, Poetry, was it an illusion,
that sight of your lovely incarnation? If so,
whence came such joy? I could not guess
at such joy in the world,
except the bliss which springs from your touch.
I write, remembering things from my past,
but most I forget—all that remain are the dregs
which cling in an emptied jug.
Yesterday is met by today,
today obscured by tomorrow,
tomorrow wiped out by the following day,
each second erases our footprints,
wandering around, awaiting death,
one sleep shatters scores of resolutions.
Death closes our eyes and makes us forget
the things we aimed for in life. I write what I remember,
but Great Death tells me, if my heart should stop
as the morning sun climbs high tomorrow,
I would go to embrace the fire,
forgetting my resolves,
forgetting that fire can burn. But still
I begin to relate the events I recall,
I cannot account for all the blows inflicted,
but write all I can of important times.
I remember him who caused me pain,
but forget the one who wiped my tears,
I remember him who wounded me,
he who healed me I forget,
I remember the man who brought me fear
but forget the one who always consoled,
I remember the ones I have loved,
forgetting those who loved me.
Though I am a sinner, ungainly and unvirtuous,
I will never forget that sacred vision,
I feel you came just now: still I see you,
all before me fades away
as your feet approach with the sound
of ringing anklet bells…
Where have they gone, those lovely childhood hours,
when I lived through each day and night
as if they were my body?
All that once was has passed away,
all that was not has come to pass,
the future holds all that the present lacks.
Still the days are fine, sun and moon undiminished,
Dasain and Tihar come adorned as before,[1] Dasain comes anointing foreheads with red,
making the rupees ring, then comes Tihar,
applying strokes of sandalwood paste,
adding dashes of color in lines,
filling mouths with fruits, piling garlands high,
cracking chestnuts with the teeth.
But now such lovely feasts bring dreams,
dreams from the past which tell only of death,
and that high peak of festivals melts,
springs of tears burst from the eyes,
pools of water collect and soon
the dam is breached and they fall.
Garlands, anointments, are all washed away,
the heart is uneasy, the mouth is dry,
unswallowed fruits stick in the throat.
Where has that burning childhood fled?
What of the golden sun, the silvery moonlight?
What of the gilded finial set by the sun
on silver mountains made by the moon?
They are no longer seen,
now only cold snow is heaped on the mountains,
their peaks always bear fresh wounds,
inflicted by dark ignorance, by insane selfishness,
whose hunger gnaws ever deeper:
that time is gone like the sky itself.
I remember that day of my vision,
I was nine years old, new things fell to new eyes
all around, the sky was as clear
as an ideal, I thought it would reflect the earth,
all upside-down. There was sweet new sunshine,
transparent and soft, a display of colors
surrounded me with grandeur. Tall trees danced
with classical gestures, bending from the waist,
whispering their songs, lifting their hands
to stir the white clouds with brushes,
weaving poetry, poetry! In this movement I felt
I might clearly see you take shape;
the air was ringing with bird song
as if your voice would burst out—then it flared!
You appeared, I saw you! In your face
I found such joy that now I know
no other happiness in this life.
This is no fulfillment,
it is a lifelong thirst,
a hope which will last until the pyre
raises its last flag of flame.
(1973; from Sama 1981)
[Source: Hutt, Michael J. Himalayan Voices. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991. ]