Shrawan Mukarung is a Nepali poet and musician. He has published two collections of his poetry, the first of which was entitled While Searching for the Country. Mukarung is famous for his poems, such as Bise Nagarchi Ko Bayan and is an acclaimed Nepali writer of the new generation. He received a Moti Award from the National Youth Service in 2003.
A day in the twenty-first century
standing before the plain mirror of democracy
Ram Vharosh was suddenly devastated.
Where had Darwin’s fourth face gone?
Where was the man from Earth?
In the long and deceitful journey through Time
somewhere, the face had fallen off.
Ram Vharosh was devastated.
His twin eyes afire with rage –
search the streets for his lost face.
Perhaps it is possible to find
in the distance between home and school
the lost hair-clip of a girl-child
studying in a primary school in the hills;
it is possible to find
at a rest-house, with the police, in a hospital
– or dead in a dark basement –
an elderly man lost in the vast city.
In this remote countryside swallowed by frost-wave
where does one search for a face?
But, Ram Vharosh, agitated –
marches on – in search of his lost face.
In the valleys of the Madhesh
his many urgent steps
are melting under the intense heat of his sweat
The fields and their soil where he has toiled
and his thick-clotted blood in the water
the well of his tears
make marshes from the still ponds of his struggles
The hearts that flutter repeatedly in these trees
are his –
The endless spread of the horizon of dreams
and the expansive civilization
are his –
But, no, nowhere is his lost face
In this moist countryside, like in a cursed land
the golden ears of harvest-ready paddy
sway and swagger like a new Choudhary
Mustard flowers in their ripe abundance
smile like new-minted zamindars
Far, in the distance –
Who is that, going away in a bullock cart?
Who is it?
He searched, but, no – the face isn’t there
From sun up till sun down
only the bullock cart keeps rolling away, receding.
A fine day in the twenty first century
standing before the plain mirror of democracy
Ram Vharosh was suddenly devastated.
Where did I drop my face?
A face can be lost in the struggle against malaria –
he is trying to enter the thick jungles of history
A face can be lost while fighting against a flood –
He wants to interrogate the sources of
rivers and streams of the present
While subserviently massaging the flesh
of the masters, the face can drop to their backs –
He needs to talk to the masters.
While he diligently polishes shoes
the face can fall to the people’s feet –
He needs to talk to the people.
Standing before the plain mirror of democracy
Ram Vharosh is searching for his lost face.
Astonishing!
They who have lived many lives as Kamaiyas
don’t have their faces anymore!
Astonishing!
They who have lived many lives as Kamalaris
don’t have their faces anymore!
Astonishing!
They who have lived many lives as Badinis
don’t have their faces anymore!
What miracle is this?
Where have they disappeared –
the faces of my loved ones?
Ram Vharosh was astonished.
At the foothills of the Everest
are the footprints of his dense suffering
Everywhere there are
haliyas, coolies,
Everywhere there are
living metaphors for the anxious epochs
spent as serfs
But his face is nowhere –
and, he searches still for that lost face.
A day in the twenty-first century
as he stood before the plain mirror of democracy
suddenly, reflected on the mirror
he saw a faceless million more –
a million other Ram Vharosh
And, Ram Vharosh burned with agitation!
He touched the colors of Phagu
but didn’t find his face in any of the colors
He drank in the colors of Maghi
but didn’t find his face in any festive song
Trampling over the pride
of the mountains that touched the skies
close by –
With his pair of eyes afire with rage
Ram Vharosh –
agitated before the plain mirror of democracy –
stood before me, and said –
‘O, Poet!
I’ve discarded your favorite poet
I’ve broken your favorite poet’s busts
Like a scarecrow
who propped up your poet before me?
O, Poet!
The day when your poet was propped up
was the day when I lost my face
O, Poet! O, New Poet!!
Search for my lost pace in your poems
Search for it today! Search for it right now!
And I will keep your statue in my heart.’
A day in the twenty-first century
Ram Vharosh,
standing before the plain mirror of democracy
suddenly became a man!
I, the new poet –
standing behind the plain mirror of democracy –
suddenly became a statue.