The Story-telling Chautari Under the Kavra Tree
Swapnil
Smriti
Grandson
– A long time ago
here
was a giant Kabhra tree.
(After
resting her load of taro leaves
Grandma
started weaving the yarns of her tale)
Three
long, long ropes couldn't encircle it's trunk
No
mad raging storm could shake it
Neither
could floods or landslides take it with them:
that
giant, that Kabhra tree –
It
was the mainam of the village life,
they say
It
was the murumsitlang of the power of
the settlements
At
its crown, like a bridge suspended between sky and ground
the
moon would rise;
Under
its shadows the farmhands measured the days
When
it shed its leaves, it was Udhauli
When
it grew new leaves, it was Ubhauli
They
say – the ancient civilization of the locals
was
all in the heart of that Kabhra tree!
Its
branches spread in ten direction –
the
biggest branch pointing to PhaktanglungHimal
the
tangle of roots spread in seventeen directions
the
thickest root turning towards Chotlung
Hand
in hand, round and round, singing, Ha... Ha...
Matching
step to lockstep, adorned in chyabrung,
– jumping, frolicking –
Greatest celebrations of love,
under the Kabhra tree!
Grandson!
The tangle of that Kabhra's
roots was fragrant with the scent of an ancient communism
And the tops of that Kabhra
was the Shangri-La empire of singing cranes!
But, listen – Grandson!
In the BikramSambat year so
and so – a long time ago –
And by a long time, I mean – a
very, very long time ago –
Your grandfather's
grandfather's grandfather saw in his dream
– Loom! Loom! Kadyāng! Kūdūngdūng... dūng...
dūng... Haryākk!
A nightmare – a thunderbolt
splitting the Kabhra tree!
But, when he awoke, he saw in
a fork on the tree
the three-leaf sapling of a Pīpal,
springing from wild-cat turd...
(The breeze blows through
the chautari–siririririri... ririri... riri... ri,
We – grandmother and grandson
– are lost in the world of tales
Have I – as I listened to a
story about a Kavra tree – turned into one?
What did happen thereafter,
Grandma? Go on!)
Ask
what all didn't happen!
The
Pīpal bore its roots into the Kavra
And
to the Kavra came a slow death
The
Pīpal grew bigger and bigger
Until
one day –
theKavra
became just a hollow heart and flaky bark
Within
it, the Pīpal stood with the uncontainable vitality of youth
But,
even as the Pīpal trampled the Kavra under it and danced in the breeze
the
progeny of the old Kavra mistook it for a new Kavra
Listen,
now – Once the old Kavra fell, they say –
the
heads of young men and women also fell
the
children became lifeless, like well-stitched dolls
theMūndhūm
dharma of the wise old fell –
The
hearts fell and the country fell
Misery
alone found birth in the village
Hunger
and thirst alone found new incarnations
Once
the Pīpal trampled the Kavra under it, they say –
they
say that is when the culture of oppression and exploitation began
When
the yellow leaves of the Pīpal spread wide
they
say this round chautari was built under it
With
a grand ritual-fire and human sacrifice
And
with each morning, an offering of blood
That
is when it all started – they say, Grandson –
the
history of envy and grudge...
when
in the Kavra tree started the history of the Pīpal
hatred
was born in the people
rage
was born
war
was born
...
... ...
Grandson!
(After
taking a deep breath
Grandma
let her tale rest for a bit!)
The
story is longer that the Tamor river
It
is time to feed the hogs – let's go home!
(It
was my turn to carry the load.
Before
me, leaning on his cane, Grandma continued her story.)
Grandson!
On that chautari
so
many despots out for conquest
have
stopped to rest
They
tied their horses to Pīpal roots
and
whistled their deathly calls...
...
... ...
Grandson!
On that round chautari –
no
matter how long we sit to rest
we
remain just as tired! ...
...
... ...
Grandson!
That is the very branch
from
where your great-grandfather was hanged and lanced
That
is the shiny rock where
–
your great-grandmother, then with child
–
was
picked and thrashed, picked and thrashed
until
her belly tore open ...
Translation:
PrawinAdhikari
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