लगातार 104 दिने पहाड बन्द भएपछि
13 जना भगत सिगं सहिद भएपछि
हजारौ क्रान्तिकारी जेल गएपछि
गोर्खाल्याण्डका आवाजहरू भूमिगत् भए पछि
"म पनी जाने Rising Star*,
ऐतिहासिक बन्द बेअर्थ फिर्ता लिएपछि
क्रान्ती थन्काएर शान्ति रोजे पछि
उन्मुक्ति संग डेभ्लपमेन्ट साटे पछि
सहिद परिवारले सहिदको ज्याला पाए पछि
'म पनी जाने Rising Star*
विभिषणहरू लकां गए पछि
सत्तामोहले दासत्व श्विकारे पछि
उर्दिवालाहरूको तन्खा र पदोन्नती भएपछि
मरौ घरमा उत्सव राखे पछि
_म पनी जाने Rising Star*
(Note- मलाई नाँच्न र गाउँन त त्यती आउँदै तै पनी Rising Star* को खिताब जित्न कवि अगमसिंह गिरी द्वारा रचित तथा स्व अम्बर गुरूङको सगींत र स्वर भएको यो गीत अभ्यास गर्दैछु।
'गीतको बोल यस्तो छ_
हो, नौ लाख तर उदाए, धर्तीको आकाश हाँसेछ।
शरद लाग्यो बनमा, फुलले प्रीति गाँसेछ।
नजली यहाँ झिलिली, मनको तारा निभेछ।
गुराँस फुल्यो पहाडमा, मनको फुल झरेछ।
नसम्झ आज नेपाली, सन्चोले यहाँ बाँचेको।
काँडा कै माझ पहाडी, छैन र कहाँ हाँसेको…२।
सुनको सपना आँसुमा, किन हो बाँधील्यायौ नि।
घरको माया बिर्सेर, किन पो यहाँ आयौ नि…२।
हो, मुटुको रगत एउटै हो, पिरको वह बेग्लै छ।
हामीलाई यहाँ चिन्यौ कि, मनको चोट बेग्लै छ।
नियाली हेर हामीलाई, भिजेको छैन परेला।
आँसुले गह भिजाए, अरुले निर्धा सम्झेला।
बुझ्छ र कस्ले रोएको मुटुमा काँडा लिएर।
अरुका सारमा हाँसेको, आँसुका घुट्का पिएर…२।
पहाडी फुल नफक्री, किन हो चुँडिल्यायौ नि।
मनको आगो निभाउन, किन पो यहाँ आयो नि…२।
-(हार्दीक श्रद्दा सुमन, स्व कवि अगमसिंह गिरी, स्वर्गीय अम्बर गुरुङ, अनी गोर्खाल्याण्ड आन्दोलनमा होमिएका सहिदहरू प्रति।)
-एक जातिय कलाकार
|प्यारी दिदी ममता|
By Poet Palden Gyamtsho Dukpa
Where the mind is without fear
And the head held high
Gorkhas are there always ready to die
For our country so beautiful and
For our country of contrast
Gorkhas are here for now till last
For our country so true and
For our country so dear
Gorkhas are here for one and all
Let us all join with Gorkhas so brave
Who can fight for his mother
To dig his own grave
For our country so vast and
For our country so great
Gorkhas are here for ever more
Still fighting not just for country
But still fighting for land
Upon which our Gorkhas need to stand
With mind without fear and
To hold the head high
Gorkhas are here till do or die.
Ink in my pen,
Twinkles the Gorkha name.
Bravest of the braves is our fame.
Our Identity is in mayhem.
Turn the pages of history,
Blood shed,Valour to victory.
Unlock the fierced mystery.
Gained no liberty in our own country.
In the amidst of cloud.
Honour the martyrdom shroud.
All the sacrifices has drowned.
Politicians have to spew.
Happy days to come true.
WILL to CHANGE is in you.
Have FAITH untill bleeds blue.
|Aayoo Gorkhali by Gyanuraja97|
|Release of Pradip Lohagan’s first anthology |
“Sankee Samay” in Kalimpong on Sunday.
The function also saw poem recitals by noted poets, including Raja Puniyani and Sudhir Chettri along with other young poets Chewang Yonzon, DK Vaibha, Karna Birha, Ashadeep Rai and Vinod Sharma. The programme also had the presence of Kalimpong MLA Dr. Harka Bahadur Chettri, the GTF chairman Dr. Anos Das Pradhan, former Kalimpong College principle Kumar Chettri, advocate Amar Lama, poet Sanumit Rai, writer Sanjay Bisht, Kalimpong Municipality Chairman Jayan Lepcha and litterateur Tara Lohar, along with various other literature enthusiasts.
First time in Darjeeling, the idea to document poems in an audio-visual format has been introduced in the field of Nepali poetry. Gorkha youth poet Nima Sherpa's endeavor of his visual poem, 'Gaon ko katha,' (village story) is a poem where the poet expresses his thoughts on the changing culture of the village, then and now.
|Darjeeling Press Guild|
The idea to “create” poetry is an innovative one for the hills, one that could perhaps carve the way for others to follow suit. But Nima’s achievement, gained through hard work and dedication, is not without its critics, with the principal one being none other than his father who labours in his field from dawn to dusk.
“We used to shoot for the ‘poetry’ even late at night in order to perfectly blend my poem with the visual presentation, which annoyed my father. He even called me mad,” Nima told the audience comprising poets, writers, journalists and students.
‘Gaon Ko Katha’ was presented by the Darjeeling Press Guild in collaboration with the Mass Communication and Journalism Department of St Joseph’s College, Darjeeling.
Nima is a lecturer at the Ghoom-Jorebungalow Degree College and writing poetry in innovative ways is a ‘mantra’ he wants budding talents to inculcate.
“I interacted with several poets in Nepal and came to know that only a few of them had ever tried writing poetry using audio and still pictures. That was when it struck me to do something different, and the idea of a visual format was born,” he said, while giving credit to the music arranger and his cameraman friends, who had toiled even harder to create the ‘piece’ Nima had envisaged.
“Initially I was skeptical about how the work would come out. I was not sure about how synchronising the music and visuals of the village with my words would go. But all credit to the music arranger and cameramen for the end-product,” said an elated Nima, who shot all the visuals at his native Rampuria village in Takdah.
The poet also unveiled a short selection of poems from his ‘Kurup Phool Ko Gandh’, which was released in Nepal a week ago and will soon be available in the Darjeeling hills.
The audience was also treated to a 40-minute documentary titled ‘Paper Boat’ created by the students of the mass communication department. This was followed by poetry recitals by five poets invited especially for the programme.
The lush green fields of Rampuria forest village, about 25km from Darjeeling turned into a natural canvass earlier this month as villagers came together to express their creativity through farming.
|The coriander art patch in Rampuria village, Darjeeling. Picture by Suman Tamang|
Sherpa encouraged the farmers to grow coriander, which when fully grown has turned into a relief work, its design spelling out the words “Mero euta sapana cha.”
“Art has always been confined to galleries in these parts of the world. Being born in this village, I have seen that many of my villagers are creative but they cannot express their creativity. I wanted to give back something to my friends from my village and make them feel happy and break the monotony of farming,” Sherpa said.
Sherpa studied fine arts at Santiniketan before completing his masters in fine arts from MS University of Baroda. He is currently freelancing in art galleries in Vadodara.
The villagers immediately took a liking to Sherpa’s project.
“I had initially thought that even if five to six farmers showed interest, I would be more than happy. We held six meetings with the farmers and finally we had 21 farmers involved in the project. There was excitement for they were doing something creative,” Sherpa said.
The project started on April 16, 2014, after L.B. Rawat, a local resident, agreed to part with a portion of his land to grow coriander on a 3ft x 27ft space.
“We probably spent only about Rs 2,000 as the entire village participated in this project. We are happy with the end result,” Sherpa said.
He said he was in touch with a Canada-based non-profit charitable organisation, The Vancouver Biennale, to try and showcase a documentary of their project during one of their exhibitions.
“I am in touch with them and am hoping for the best. If the documentary is shown, it will bring recognition to my village. I also plan to screen the documentary in art galleries in Mumbai and Delhi,” Sherpa said.
The coriander leaves,when fully grown, were plucked in early. “We had sown in half a kilogram of coriander seeds. The leaves were not for sale and were given to the villagers for their own consumption,” Sherpa said, adding that the project was aimed at celebrating creativity more than looking at commercial interest.
On the day the leaves were plucked, the residents organised a poetry recitation programme in the village.
The programme titled “Barima Kavita” or poetry in the farmland, was attended by budding poets Nima Sherpa, Saran Muskan, Bhupendra Subba, Binod Pradhan, Asish Rai and Pradip Lohagun.
Muskan said: “We have been reciting poetry in various places but it was a different feeling to recite a poem near a coriander field. We, too, are trying to bring poetry to the common people and this project by Sherpa also reflects our ideas.”
Sherpa now plans to invite artists from across the globe to his village for an art camp in the fields in October this year.
“I am also planning to organise a workshop and invite school children to participate in the event,” he said.
Sherpa and the local villagers believe that if they can come up with such unique ideas, they can make the village an attractive tourist destination in the long run by starting homestays.
Nima Sherpa, a resident of Rampuria who is a lecturer at Ghoom-Jorebunglow Degree College and was involved with the project, said: “Our long-term goal is to promote village tourism in the area by encouraging people to come up with homestays. We need to create a unique space so that the village can stand out to be different in its activities.”
The villagers are predominantly farmers who grow maize, cabbage, potatoes, carrots, cardamom and ginger. Some of the farmers have also set up flower nurseries.
L.B. Rawat, one of the farmers, said: “Everyone in the village was excited about the project as it has brought about something new in their lives. Most of the educated youths have left the village but now many are returning and brining in new concepts to the village. This new concept made us think we can do something different and this feeling, I think, can help us think differently. We were too stuck with our lives and we had stopped thinking.”
Nima said: “We can do unique activities in the village and connect with global initiatives, even if it is about celebrating creativity. We can create a unique brand and identity for the village. It will, however, have to be a sustained effort.”
The website of The Vancouver Biennale says its is a non-profit charitable organisation that celebrates art in public spaces. “Our exhibitions are unique in the world in that we feature sculpture, new media, film, music and dance.” The website states the project is inspired by Martin Luther King’s famous speech “I have a dream”.
The Biennale has a documentary video section in its website where documentaries of such project across the globe are featured. Sherpa, who is making a documentary on the project, is hopeful it will feature not just on the website but would be shown during events.
|Dr. HB Chettri at the Indo-Nepal poets' meet in |
Kalimpong on Saturday.
Chapagai said only the poets who are true to themselves will become immortal through their writing. “A real poet is a real human being and only he has true dreams. It is the responsibility of every poet to keep the passion alive and help the upliftment of Nepali literature,” he stated. He observed poets from both the countries write in the same language and the expressions are similar. Therefore more programmes like these between the countries should be given priority and said his organisation has always shown such commitments and continue in the future.
तल मधेसबाट साँप नचाउने,
जादु देखाउनेहरु पहाड आउदैछन्'रे।
कति लुट्ने हुन यो पहाडमा मधेसीले
कहिले दुईचारवटा साँप ल्याउछन्,
नचाउछन् अनि अौठी बुट्टि बेच्छन्
अनि भन्छन् शनि, राहु, केतु छन्'रे
वरिपरि दुश्मनै दुश्मन पनि।
दिन्छन् रंगी बिरंगी बुट्टि अनि
कहिले कालो कपडाले ढाकेर
जीउँदै मान्छेको फोक्सो मुटु देखाउछन्
जादूको छडी लिएर रकम लुट्छन।
हिजोआज पहाडे दलालहरु
मधेसी ज्ञान लिन कलकत्तातिर धाउदैछन्'रे।
टुनामुना सिकी अब कति कुर्लने हुन,
तन्त्रमन्त्रले सबैलाई कति मुग्ध पार्ने हुन।
दुईचार दिन पहाडको बुद्धिमा मन्त्र छर्छन
गिदी र जिब्रो बटुल्छन पहाडबाट दलालहरु
अनि बेच्छन् तिनै कलकत्तालाई।
तिम्रा जादूसर्कस, टुनामुना अब
धेरै देखियो चाहिन्दैन- भनिदिउँ।
तर के गर्ने…!
हेर, पहाडका दलालहरु
युवाहरूको पाखुरामा बुट्टी बानी दिन्छन्
अनि दिन्छन् त्यो छडी जादूको,
र भन्छन् दलालहरु निस्फिक्री,
म गोर्खाहरुको बाउ हो।
एउटा बिबादास्पद status, फेब्रुअरी०१४
Source: E-man Bantawa Rai
|पत्ति देखि चिया सम्म|
टोक्री भरि भर्छन आशा
ती... आशाका मुनाहरुलाई
हिसाब किताब राख्न अघि आऊँछन
मेरा ठेकेदार काका-बड़ाहरु।
आफ्नो आमाहरुले मेहेनतको पसिना चुहाउँदै
कोषिशका दस नङ्ग्रा खियाउँदै
संग्रह गरेका आशारुपि पत्तिहरुलाई
तयार हुन्छन मेरा दाज्युहरु
कारखानामा सुरक्षीत पुर्याउन।
जहाँ खड़ा हुन्छन जानकार जीवन
ती आशाका मुनाहरुलाई
खण्ड- खण्डमा बिभाजित गनं
म्यानेजर साहब भएर।
मेहेनत र पसिना भरिएका
आशाका कलिला मुनाहरु
नाफाका चियाको चुस्कि बन्नलाई.....
Source : Sameer Sewa
Like a siren you have lured me to your slopes and sun filled glades.
How could I resist the urge to come and join you there.
To be assailed by your beauty, smell your perfumed air.
I sit here in your paradise, from my pen the words do flow.
I sit and write of what I see and hear and watch the poem grow.
I know now and the meanings clear. Darjeeling the abode of God.
For only from his mighty hand could such a place be forged.
And so I sit and write of the glory that I see
And as I wonder at the glories another sits with me.
I cannot leave this beauty but alas I have no choice.
I would sing of beautiful Darjeeling but I do not have the voice...
By Joe Cole
कता लाग्यो त दरबार
होइन हजुर यो जनता दरबार होइन
यो त हो दलीय कार्यक्रम
दलको कार्यलयमा भएको
नीतिगत बिरोधी जानै नसक्ने
समस्या भन्नु गए झण्डा पक्डाउने
पक्कै यो जनता दरबार होइन
यो त हो दलीय कार्यक्रम
दल छोडी गएको लोभिहरुलाई नोट देखाई तान्ने
हाम्रो दल नै ठुलो भन्दै फोटो खिचाउने
होइन हजुर यो पटक्कै होइन जनता दरबार
यो त ढटुवाको देखौटी हो नाटककारको नाटक हजार!!!
Source:Samir Lama Gorkha
हाम्रो सपना हाम्रो राज्य
सुन्दर सुसज्जित पहाडको हरियाली
के गोर्खा के कोचे मेचे
के बंगाली के मारवाडी
के लेप्चा के बोडो के राजबंशी
गोर्खाल्याण्ड सबैको सुनौलो सपनी
सपनी एक तर राजनीतिमा अल्झिएको
गोर्खाको बुइ चडी गुण्डा नेताले अन्यलाई भुलेको
बिकाशको कुरा गरि मानचित्र घटाएको
अन्य जाती त दुश्मन बनायो नै
अहिले गोर्खा जाति पनि हेर फुटाएको
मानचित्र कोरे मानचित्र मेटाए
सम्पूर्ण छैन यो मानचित्र अब
धुर्त नेताले मर्यादा बेची गोर्खाल्याण्ड तुहाएको!!!!
गोर्खाल्याण्ड होइन मात्र गोर्खाको
मांग होइन यो मात्र तीन महकुमाको
गोर्खाल्याण्ड होइन चिनारी अस्मित्ता बेच्नेको
यो हो स्वाभिमान अखण्ड भारतको!!!!!
|Why should I be afraid?|
Where my grandfather died of diplegia
And the loss of memory.
My father was a rebel they say,
He had gone hiding on that day
For our so called democratic government
Was trying to suppress our just voices
In their own meanest way.
I did not see my father’s face,
His black and white picture
In the family album is all what I know of him.
Though they say my eyes resemble my mother,
I did look like him with long eye lashes, bulging chin,
Muscular limbs and broad shoulder.
Of my mother too I have a vague memory,
The warmth of her love hardly relished my soul
She too went away when I was just a toddler.
The old, sick grandma was all there for me
Who worked so hard to feed my hunger
For hours in the nearby Tea factory.
I spent most of my childhood all alone
Playing outside our tin roofed house
Watching the distant snow clad mountain,
And envying the freedom of the swallows
Flying aimlessly into the pure air
While the silence of the mountain was broken
By the whistle of our ages old toy train.
I did go to the school; our village primary school
Where everything, even the English was taught in vernacular.
And though the students were less and teacher the more
No motes of education touched me there.
Other than for studies,
My school was of great importance,
People used to gather now and then, when
The long boring speeches were delivered there.
And the next day when school reopened
Hours it took for us to clean the class rooms
And collect papers of strange symbols lying everywhere.
I heard them saying one day,
‘Preserve our language and promote the culture.’
But in truth their own words meant nothing to them
For their sons and daughters were enrolled
In English medium schools far-far away.
I learnt less in the school
And more from my grandmother at home.
Though she knew not how to read and write
She showered me with the overflowing wisdom
Of Ramayana and Mahabharata every night.
But one day she too went away to the fairy land
Now leaving me all alone.
They found her sleeping in the nearby tea garden
With ‘doko’ and ‘namlo’ by her side.
That was the first and the last time fear touched
My deepest being for I was too afraid
And confused to tread the road ahead.
It was when she passed away that I realized
My house had nothing but a rusty trunk,
Containing a ‘Maadal’,a ‘Sirupate Khukuri’,
Red ‘Chaubandi-Cholo’neatly muffling a‘poteah,’
A box of ‘Sindoor,’ ‘Jhumka’ and a‘Bulaki.’
Seeing these things, at once I broke down,
My instincts told me to whom they once belonged.
Trembling hands I ran through the ‘Khukuri' and Maadal,’
And the ‘Chaubandi- Cholo’ that smelt strange yet so familiar,
Punctured my eyes with abounding tears.
The dusty photo album
I opened with haste
Longing for the motherly love.
But there I saw my father’s face
And recalled the words grandmother once said,
“You are a martyr’s son,
A rebel’s blood flows into your veins;
Your father denied all forms of slavery and died fighting
Don’t you ever be afraid!”
I guess I was just thirteen at that time
But I refused to live on other’s charity.
I chose to help myself and forge ahead
And to live a life of dignity.
Three long years I worked in a novitiate,
Where there were no signs of God but of the priests.
They speak of Love and Forgiveness
Which they themselves never practice.
Pity I felt for those poor novices
They pay the costliest price,
Pushed in these places when in their teens
Crushing their youth in the name of God’s service.
And suppressing the greatest of all longings,
The desire to touch and to be touched,
The courage to question the unknown,
The freedom of thinking.
Just like God cannot be found in church alone
So does my stomach can be fed somewhere else!
I chose not to be just another sheep among the herd
And decided to leave the novitiate.
The road was long for a young boy to walk alone,
But I wanted to smell the flowers on my way.
I too could have been another labour in the village tea factory
Selling my youth to the bourgeois working night and day.
But I was determined to see beyond the horizon
So I took; yes I took the unknown road instead!
I am a martyr’s son; my father denied all forms of slavery
And died fighting, why should I be afraid?
I went to Delhi in search of work
But it was quite different to what I have thought.
There the people were more yet everyone alone,
Though sky high buildings were built with colourful lights,
Far better was my village’s tin-roofed home.
Luxurious cars moved on the streets
Where people were dying of hunger.
Humanity was unclothed in their very eyes
Yet no one seemed to bother.
These cars were heading to the same place,
Where people cannot see, cannot feel,
To the place of sleep walkers walking faceless,
The city where the hypocrites dwell.
I worked in apartments as a security guard
And to my surprise I found many of my home folks there;
Vibrant with life, full of dreams in their heart.
They must have left their homes hoping to live a better life,
Grinding their ripened youth working overtime;
But who is there to tell them that it’s the city of sleepwalkers
And they must not strive?
My time there did not last for more than few months,
At last I had to give him what he deserved.
I still remember his name, my boss, Mr Singh,
Who was more like an animal and less a human being.
He never called me by my name but ‘Bahadur,’
Though many times I told him it was not.
At last I had to tell him what ‘Bahadur’ actually meant
Though it was too late for him to learn.
It was one night when as usual he came drunk,
And shouted, ‘Hey Bahadur, come here and speak.’
He abused me for so long and I could not resist,
I broke his nose and said,
‘I am a martyr’s son; my father denied all forms of slavery
And died fighting, why should I be afraid?’
I went back to the village, my sweet home,
But there I saw nothing the same.
Tea factory was burnt down to ashes
And our people were dying in hunger and pain.
Fathers were shot dead making hundreds of orphans again,
Our women were raped by the ugly, tall dark,
Government appointed army men.
Schools and colleges were shut down,
Youths were mercilessly beaten
And were taken somewhere.
Shops were looted, buildings were destroyed,
There was nothing but complete chaos everywhere.
But we fought with all our strength
Against the dictatorial government.
Surely it would have been our victory
Had not our leaders sold their dignity.
When victory was in the air,
And our long awaited destiny was so near,
Our leaders sold the dreams of our ancestors
And turned out to be the greatest betrayers.
It was an insult to my father’s soul, an injustice
To our people who faced so much of pain.
How can I let the sacrifice of our martyrs
And their long standing dream to simply go in vain?
I must fight against these traitors with all might!
I am a martyr’s son; my father denied all forms of slavery
And died fighting, why should I be afraid?
I roared like a wounded lion in front of these traitors
Unveiling their hypocrisy…
“Our demand has become a joke now
Making the whole world laugh at us.
If you cannot fight till the end
Then why you created so much chaos?
You had the gun but ours was the shoulder,
Judas too must have laughed at you,
You are the greatest of all betrayers.
Our women were raped, fathers were shot dead,
Where were you hiding at that time?
Many lost their families and died in hunger
Can you bring them back again?
I have seen my brothers and sisters abused in public
Have you ever tried to hear their cry?
They flock towards the unknown cities
Have you ever wondered why?
Your sons and daughters must have been
Engineers and Doctors,
Who cares about our schools and colleges?
Who cares about potters and vendors in the street?
Let the roads be blocked and shutters are down.
Who cares about musicians and sportsmen?
Who cares about artists and writers?
Let them find opportunities on their own.
Who cares whether Tea factories function or not?
Who cares if labours and their families sleep empty stomach?
Who cares if roads are damaged?
Who cares if people are deprived of drinking water?
Who cares if only hospitals are there but no doctor?
I could not finish my speech,
Something so badly struck my head.
I saw one of my brothers running with the ‘khukuri,’
He must have done what he is been said.
I may not finish narrating my life
In a moment or so I will be dead.
But now I am too dying fighting like my father,
Why should I be afraid? Why should I be afraid???
Source - Facebook