An even more of a truer poetic justice is Pradhan’s articulations on Rai’s novel, “Aja Ramita Chha,” which Rai avoided dealing with in his “Adharharu.” Personal sense of modesty perhaps forbade Rai to professionally dwell on his self’s groundbreaking novel of the 1950s – something, for instance, Salman Rushdie would not do: His harping, though with ample defense of his actions, on his “Midnight’s Children” in “The Vintage Book of Indian Writing 1947-1997” (edited by Rushdie and Elizabeth West) is proof enough. Not being himself a novelist also greatly helped Pradhan to exercise his free reins to deal with Rai’s unique literary merits in his novel, as if Pradhan had his singular alibi to write his said work solely for the sake of treating Rai’s “Ramita.” I may be romanticizing the issues a bit here, but it steers to something of a mutual observance of literary debts of honor among some writerly Nepalis of Nepal and outside.
I saw Krishna Chandra dai for the first time in 1971. It was in Ramesh Shrestha’s rented quarters at Bhimsen Sthan below Hanuman Dhoka, near Paropkar. Krishna dai read out a recent essay he had penned on people’s private lives conducted behind closed doors and curtained windows. Later, Ramesh and Abhi Subedi – we were fellow lecturers at Patan College then – took me to Krishna dai’s house at Tahachal. More essays followed, heavy-duty talks and topics ensued, punctuated by Newar ‘aila’ and snacks lavished upon us by Bhoujyu (Mrs Pradhan). An excellent afternoon was had by all of us, with our bodies, souls and minds satiated.
It is a huge debt I owe, mainly, to Abhi of Tehrathum and Ramesh of Bhojpur – already two celebrated young Nepali writers in the 1970s while I, from Darjeeling, was just a novice with a novel in coarse draft stage – who opened so many doors for me to Kathmandu’s genuine writers, committed editors and deep thinkers while other elements led me to hacks and ghostwriters, Panchas and royalists, anti-establishmentarians and rebels, bairagis and birahis and bidrohis, gafastaks and chatukars and janifkars, sukul gundas and ghusiyas and bhrashtacharis, huliyas and chakari-chukli-chaplusi courtiers. Pseudo intellectuals, tall talkers, surface thinkers, convinced confabulators, illogical conclusionistas, gifted gabbers, prostrate pundits, and sycophants with slippery tongues and oily palms were Rupaiya a dozen in Kathmandu. A Himalayan irredent like me would be stripped nango jhar and rendered an ardha silli in this traditionally treacherous city, were it not for the stewardship of Ramesh and Abhi, among many other newfound comrades, who steered me to the doorsteps of the few sober souls of Kathmandu.
One such kindly mentor was Krishna Chandra Singh Pradhan. It also helped me no less that my Newar wife, Ranjana, of Bheda Sing was also once Krishna dai’s student at the Kanya Mandir School, and thus the Newar Nation of Kathmandu accepted me as their own, whether grudgingly or affectionately becoming immaterial as the years rolled on.
To my incidental research, the Singh Pradhans were unique Newars, a clan connected to the old durbar in some ways, making them a sort of Hindu Thakuris among their own people. For example, chicken was taboo in their kitchen, and many other particular observances were current in their lifestyles which seemed to differentiate them from the other Newar mainstreams, whether Hindus or Buddhists. No wonder Krishna Chandra dai had a courtly aura on his person, and his behavior had certain correctness, with words carefully spoken.
Krishna Chandra Singh Pradhan was not only my mentor but also one of those most dearly beloved dais who made my writerly life possible in this mostly chronically cynical and cruel city called Kathmandu.
Krishna Chandra was the younger brother of the late Hridaya Chandra, a multifaceted writer of old Kathmandu in his own rights. He passed away early but whose pieces and poems were staples in our official Nepali syllabus in Darjeeling. So, in a way, I knew about older Hridaya Chandra in India much earlier than actually meeting the younger Krishna Chandra in Kathmandu.
The brothers’ early years in tropical Birgunj and exposure to the Tarai Madhesh of Nepal contributed much to their appreciation and understanding of the tactically marginalized lowlands. Living much longer than his older brother, Krishna Chandra was more at home with such Tarai-tinged works as “Narendra dai”, “Sumnima” (pahad and madhesh) and other novels of BP Koirala, “Ghamka Pailaharu” by Dhanush Chandra Gautam, and other plains-influenced writing in Nepali by Prema Shah, Dev Kumari Thapa, Tarini Prasad Koirala, and others.
Then Krishna Chandra came back to Kathmandu where he spent the rest of his working and writing life. School teaching for years and managing Sajha Prakashan for nearly two decades, while also being appointed academician to the Royal Nepal Academy in the old monarchical dispensation and then again to the democratically renamed Nepal Academy, he wrote essays and critical assessments of writers and their works. From the midpoint of the Kathmandu Valley, he also embraced the hills, thus connecting the three lateral levels of Nepal – the plains, the doons, and the high hills. No wonder he essayed one piece, captioning the write-up on the ad jingle of a washing soap, “Ayo Sherpa Sabun!” and the modish folksong, “Chyangba, Hoi Chyangba!” after Gopal Yonjon’s duet with Gyanu Rana. Nepal’s Adibasi Janajati ethos thus entered literary lexicons for the first time, thanks to Krishna Chandra, and much well before the Indigenous Nationalities of Nepal were recognized and gazetted by the then His Majesty’s Government and later Nepal Government.
My own personal tributes to Krishna Chandra dai are based on the personal and professional risks he took in publishing my greenhorn novel, “Pratyek Thaaun: Pratyek Manchhe,” notwithstanding the recommendations of Uttam Kunwar dai on my behalf and the posthumous preface to the novel left by Shanker Lamichhane dai. I have written the details thereof elsewhere; it suffices to say here that his calculations paid off when the novel got the Sajha Puraskar of 2034 BS (1978/79) for a rookie writer and a nouveau novelist like me, and he felt greatly vindicated.
“I think the novel’s blurb sounds like you, dai,” I told him one day. I had to ask him because a clearer grasp of my theme and its scheme is nowhere to be found.
“Of course, it’s by me,” he clarified. “Your final proofs landed on my office desk. So I took the rest of the day off, went home, read the work, liked it, and wrote the blurb.”
This is what he wrote:
“Peter gives a unique experiment [in the novel].
“Leaving the work’s meaningfulness or uselessness to readers themselves, what must at least be said is, Let us love this [book] – its places, persons, its phenomena. Places and persons may become evil, but they aren’t born as such.
“A place happens to weave its own surroundings as subjected to by its own unwarranted happenstances, arisen out of its spontaneous transformations and enlargements. People happen to be what they are in the unbecoming dilemmas of being beings, and corrupt themselves in the undoable deeds of their own. And as these happenings cannot be accepted as reckonings, so these cannot likewise be embraced competently by society. In such cases, society resorts to its own retributive mechanisms to align with its pragmatism. To do so is its compulsion, too. Thus, chronic reality and society under duress are alienated in ‘Pratyek Thaaun: Pratyek Manchhe.’ ” (My translation)
And so on. The rest of the blurb is explanatory. I dare excerpting, here, Krishna Chandra dai’s evaluation of the novel for another reason as well; that is, because the Sajha Prakashan edition of the book is history now: It is republished by FinePrint, and the new avatar does not carry my most cherished introductory passages written by Krishna Chandra dai.
Our meetings were infrequent at best, occasioned by meeting at events. I met him when he received the Shanker Lamichhane Award on Essays a few years ago. He mentioned his heart’s repairs and well as his wife’s cardiac treatments. Then he became a widower, he retired and continued writing.
The last time I met Krishna Chandra dai was on December 11, 2009 on the occasion of the first caucus of the Mahakavi Laxmi Prasad Devkota Shatabarshiki Mahotsav at Til Ganga. While I was the youngest recipient of the Devkota Centenary Award, he belonged to the 80-plus group of veteran writers, most of whom had actually known Devkota.
“Oho, Peter Bhai!” Krishna Chandra dai looked at me. “I had a hard time recognizing you. You’ve become so fat!” Ranjana had steered his senior teacher of yore to where I was standing. “Kasto moto bhayeko!”
We laughed and exchanged a few pleasantries. I inwardly vowed to show him my former leaner, meaner, thinner and slimmer self very soon. That, I now regret, won’t happen – even if I may achieve my weight loss.
Krishna Chandra Singh Pradhan was one of those most dearly beloved dais who made my writerly life possible in this mostly chronically cynical and cruel city called Kathmandu.
pjkarthak@gmail.com
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