Commenting upon the subversive nature of verses, he noted that the rebelliousness of human beings perhaps found its first expression in poems.[break] When words become flints, fire is born, which can then burn or brighten a society, depending upon the nature of the ground realities.
Reading Benju Sharma is like feeling the heat of emotions even as they force the reader to reflect upon her own experiences and see them in new light.
The short poem about “Nora and Women” is perhaps not a spontaneous creation. And yet, it bristles with the fierceness of beauty and fragility of love:
A little love
In the pond of heart
Blooms as the lotus.
A little woe
Is squashed in the heart-folds
To the sedimented rock.
The loneliness of being and the frailty of belonging shine through the wail about the state of being bitten by the poisonous snake of abandonment:
In the heat of this kiln
Me alone, absolutely alone
Like a live fish in the oven
Kept turning, kept burning.
With lines like those, it is difficult to influence people and make friends. That could be the reason why Benju is much less talked about than many of her contemporaries and peers.
Daughter of litterateur Bhim Nidhi Tiwari, Benju was born when Nepal was still under shackles. It was at the fag end of an era when a Shah king reigned, and his Rana cousins ruled the country as loyal agents of foreign powers.
The environment at home was conducive to music and letters. She imbibed the value of remaining true to oneself in an age when pretensions were the order of the day. The love of learning, too, seems to have developed early. She went on obtain two MA. degrees and a PhD. Formal education failed to blunt her sensibilities. Even though she has written stories and done some editing, it is in the innocence and rage of poetry that she shines most.
An Associate Professor at Tribhuvan University, she is well aware of the stifling qualities of structured teaching and learning. Her creations are, first, a flight from the fear of realities to the freedom of imagination where she gathers courage and energy, and then comes back to fight with a rebellious spirit.
Nothing is free from politics, not even procreation, warns the poet to aspirant mothers:
No children
Lulled by lullabies
Will rock in a cradle
With this impotent time
Stop copulations.
Of course, she knows that sexual intercourses are not going to stop to prevent a bleak future from being born—human beings are destined to endure the deal that life hands them. Nevertheless, it is better to shout and make a scene than suffer in meek silence.
The stillness, after all, is even more unsettling:
In the morning, at the head of the
pillow
The siren of curfew
When the conch shell of death blows
When speed is shot
Voices are running
Throats of strings being stifled
Words are planted on the bed of arrows.
The poet leaves some of the consequences unsaid. However, slogans sprout from the arrow-bed. When they mature, the harvest of fire creates a revolution that destroys even as it clears the ground for a forest to grow, fields to plough, and glades to graze.
In difficult times, reading Benju can also be like boiling with rage on a rollercoaster ride. If only she wrote a little more often!
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