~Bhairav Aryal~
Translated by: Manjushree Thapa
In today’s world, a son has greater worries than the unemployed; a journalist is in a greater rush than a taxi car. On top of that, if someone takes up journalism in order to stave off the daily hassles of being a son, you can imagine how patchy his life gets. And I am the kind of journalist who must serve journalism all day on the basis of a rickety cycle, and enjoy the nectar of filial life in the early evening, scraping out the pot for storing grains. That’s why my mind keeps spinning all night and all day-as if a cinema reel were flickering on the screen of my brain. One second I’m thinking of the disarmament speeches of world leaders, another second I’m thinking about the boiled rice rations that I must gather by this evening. One moment it’s the Geneva Convention, and the next moment it’s the divorce of the mothers of sons and daughters.
This incident is still fresh and warm, just from the day before yesterday. I had finished reporting on the meeting of the All Nepal Family Problems Solution Meeting, and was heading home when I thought I heard a baby crying at the edge of the Kamalpokhari pond. For a while I thought it was just my cycle squeaking, so I ignored the noise, but then I saw that a young woman was solving the problem of family. I carried along, telling myself, ‘Why keep digging once you know it’s a useless root, and not ginger,’ but to her misfortune, or to my misfortune, the tube of my cycle burst just then, so loudly you would think that a bomb had detonated on my head. She frantically tossed her bundle into the brushes and looked at me. As soon as our eyes met, I recognised her. She had led a delegation to the International Forward Ladies’ Conference last year, and only a few days ago, she had given a talk on the edge of the Ranipokhari pond, vowing to dedicate her life to taking care of children by remaining unmarried all her life. There was no question that a journalist like I would recognise her.
You surely know, many things that a journalist sees he cannot write about, and many things that he writes about he cannot see. If he could write everything he sees, then the papers would be full of shoving and crushing and anger and jealousy and poison, et cetera. If he could see everything he writes about, then the world of man would be like the world of the gods: all progress, development, friendship and idealism. So why should a modern journalist pay attention to her bravery in solving her problem? The age demands wife and children planning; just because the method is different, how can it be called a crime? It could be that she’s come up with a means of her own, to suit the times.
When I reached a little further, I saw a policeman scolding a loiterer. I dragged my cycle along, my legs trembling from fear that he might scold me too, but then, how would he dare catch a gentleman who rides cycles? Indeed, I had found a main news item, and I even thought up its title-‘Confrontation Between Police and Robber.’ Whether or not the man was a robber was for the police to figure out. I’m just a journalist, all I need is news.
In the end it doesn’t matter, because these days, in every country, intelligence reports are Bramha’s words for the government, and the papers and radio news are Bramha’s words for the citizens. Intelligence agents and reporters have become so skilled at concealing what has happened, writing about what hasn’t happened, coloring the white and twisting the straight, that in reality, world politics is in their hands.
A friend of mine used to say in jest-at the border of two countries, there were barracks on each side. One day, an intelligence agent and a reporter were walking towards the border on their side of the divide. Just then, a uniformed soldier from the other side ran across the border with something in his hands. The intelligence agent immediately called headquarters, and the reporter called the office. ‘A soldier from such-and-such country entered our territory.’ A police Jeep arrived immediately. The journalist at once reported, ‘The police have also arrived.’ The news was true enough. In no time at all, the morning editions of newspapers beat up a fuss-‘Border encroachment by a soldier of such-and-such country.’ The intelligence report was proved by the newspaper report. Politicians rushed to release statements, the parties rushed to hold an emergency meeting and passed a proposal of protest. Editors rushed to write editorials. The radios rushed to review the editorials. Allied nations stirred into action, learned folks like us got a chance to sit around at restaurants talking about all of this while chewing on meatballs. In the end, investigations showed that the soldier had been suffering from dystentry, and had to take a dump as he was heading out for morning duty, but the toilets were all crammed full, so he grabbed a mug of water and ran off to sit down wherever he could find a spot. Now you tell me how important intelligence agents and reporters are. That’s why I decided to make news out of the encounter between the loiterer and the police.
I hadn’t even had time to write a report on the speeches given by various intellectuals and representatives at this morning’s Firewood-and-Dung Distribution Meet. As soon as I got home, I settled down on the trunk to write, thinking ‘I’ll cough up all this nonsense all at once.’ I ordered the mother of my son-‘Alright, I don’t have any time to eat any rice-shice, just bring me a chillum of sour tobacco leaves.’ My sleeping son, representing his mother, replied-‘Mother axed the chillum and burned it, Father!’ I looked with amazement at the mother’s face, only to see her make a face and say, through her nose, ‘I couldn’t find any firewood anywhere, so..’ I shut up and started to write about the speeches and proposals made at the Firewood-and-Dung Distribution Meet.
A t two o’clock at night, I lay down on my bed with torn sheets. Like the guerillas that descended from Formosa during the Chinese revolution, bedbugs descended on me from the walls and corners. Like the fighter jets that roared above Japan in the second world war, mosquitoes whined by the light of the oil lamp. My thoughts were speeding ahead to tomorrow’s routine-at six o’clock the Health Minister was going to inaugurate the cleanlinesss campaign, at ten o’clock the cornerstone of the fish pond was to be laid, and in the evening there was a reading of Nepali poems at India House, a screening of Himalayan films at the American Embassy, an official dinner of the Foreign Minister at a British function, and the celebration of Rabindranath Tagore’s birthday at the statue of Bhanubhakta Acharya.
I’m just a journalist, but if I may speak honestly, I see that today’s people spend all their energy on forming committees, and all their intellectual work on passing proposals. I alone have joined five committees: I’m the chairman of the construction committee for the neighbourhood toilet, the chief minister of the council for national dress, the propaganda minister for the jobseekers’ club, the joint secretary of the undercooked restoration group, and the finance officer of the international elements slap-up group. This is probably why my son has also gathered together all his friends and formed a committee for playing marbles which has unanimously passed a proposal to not play marbles on the road, even though his own hand, broken when a motorcycle hit him as he played marbles on the main street, isn’t yet fully healed. One of these days, the mother of my son will also gather the energetic women of the nearby houses and form a hair combers’ committee.
But I am not a coarse man so narrow as to dislike committees, meetings, speeches and proposals: I’m a vigorous man of the twentieth century, a journalist who reports upon man, the helmsman of an atomic age that shrinks with rockets and expands with pockets! And so my mind began to race, once again, over worldwide gatherings, meetings, committees and conferences of the past, future and present. And as I listened to the juicy speeches of mosquito politicians, I drifted off far away, to an international frog conference, where on the main door I saw a sign written, in words that were bigger than frogs: ‘International Frog Conference’.
The International Frog Conference had been organised by the Fewa lake in Pokhara. Frog representatives had gathered from most of the main rivers of the world, carrying their national flags. There was a crowd of journalists and photographers on the lake’s shore. At the Baraha temple at the middle of the lake was a pedestal decked with flags from all over the world. A local frog stepped forward to make the introductions and to give the welcoming address, and photographers pressed forward, elbowing each other aside. Journalists got their pens and notebooks ready. I too was standing at the bottom of a tree.
The local frog began by pointing at a tall, fat, red-and-white frog-‘This is the leader of the Mississippi delegation, Mr Old S Dollar.’ Everyone started to clap and shake hands. The local frog pointed to an attractive, extremely red frog-‘This is the leader of the Volga delegation, Marshall Liartov.’ After that, he introduced the Thames and Seine delegations’ leaders, then introduced the leaders of the Huangwho delegation and the Ganges delegations. I had to go out as the introduction of the Bagmati delegation’s leader, Tartoor Singh, was going on, and when I returned, the welcome speech had finished.
I found out, from a pile of papers distributed at the meeting, what the objectives of the conference were-the conference was being held to discuss the major problems of the world. The main topics of discussion were-
1. An immediate ban on the practice of throwing nets and explosives into rivers.
2. Peace and goodwill between all rivers, based on the five precepts of Buddhism.
3. Consideration must be given to the problems of small rivers.
4. Arrangements must be made for the housing of frogs during the dry season, etc.
These are the main issues of the day; and surely a few decisions would emerge from the ensuing discussions. After all, when there are any problems in our village, all the elders get together in a panchayat meeting and make decisions. All the world’s brains have gathered here, I reminded myself.
But even as I thought this, there was already a commotion going on about who to elect as the conference’s chairman. One group was proposing Marshall Liartov, another group was proposing Mr. Dollar. Their arguments grew so sharp that they began to hurl accusations at each other, pouring out all the anger stored up from their ancestors’ times. After a four-hour argument, those who had the loudest voices all formed a joint chair-group.
After that, there were excellent, intellectual speeches, clapping, and a variety of proposals from a variety of delegations. I was racing my stubby pencil through my notebook with all my might when another commotion broke out. Even as he spoke on the problems of small rivers, a leader from a big river struck out against small river
delegations.
His saying was-no matter whether the river was big or small, frogs must rule over them. If not, tadpoles would take over. How could there possibly be equality between large and small rivers!
As he said this, a scuffle broke out elsewhere. I got scared, and tried to flee, but an old journalist said, ‘Didn’t you know, in frog’s language, the five precepts of Buddhism mean five punches.’ And indeed, everyone was punching out each other, and nothing could be heard but the sound of punching. Marshall Liartov and Mr Dollar too started to exchange blows. What of the problem of explosives, what of world peace?
The fish that had come to the conference started to shout-‘Save us, save us! Don’t stamp on us simple fish! Don’t pollute the clean water by letting a few fat-bellied frogs scuffle in it!’ But what effect could the cries of fish have on the head frogs? Who reads the Vedas when they are angry? One of the frogs jumped up and let out a loud belch, and-suddenly, there was a huge blast in the lake. I too awoke at that sound. And I looked at my watch and saw that I was already late for the inauguration of the cleanliness campaign. My eyes were still seeing visions of the frog conference, but what could I do? I told myself-‘The fox will carry off the hens if the old woman turns towards festivities’-and ran off to my next program.
(Source : Nepali Times)
