नेपाली भाषा र साहित्यको सम्पूर्ण पत्रिका

Translations of Nepali Poems by Himal Khadka

Himal Khadka
सम्बन्धित पोस्टहरु

Poem: The Ravana

                           Bhupi Sherchan
However up we rise
however run hither and thither
roar however loud
but we are just water droplets
powerless water droplets
risen by the heat of the sun
and turned into the clouds
Sail here and there
at the hints of the wind
and consider ourselves dynamic
and once reaching up
we forget our ground
and to own ground
to the river
to the beaches
we bark contemptuously the way pet dogs
bark at the stray dogs
Through the windows
and resolve our bark as roar
and at the end of the day
fall , smashed
turning into water droplets
feeble water droplets
and live rest of the life
in some well, pond or puddles
fostering,croaking contemptible frogs
embracing nonvenomous snakes
however up we rise
however run hither and thither
roar however loud
but we are hollow inside
there is no significance
of our rise
no aim of our run
of our roar,
there is not much weight than
a ‘hiss’ of the firebrand
thrown into the water
however we look superior
we are but decaying inside
our height is false
is an illusion
it has not much importance
than the mushroom grown on
some mound
or do not has much specialty
than the Indian trickester
upon stilts
It do not has much special quality
than the dancing circus joker,
in conical hat
we are enticed, intoxicated and
overjoyed with our height
we have but forgotten
our perpetual rusting and worning
at the island of our reverence
falling to the small island of inferiority
we have got into oblivion
we have forgotten our real height
we have forgotten
the common height of the man
we have forgotten
the height of the common man
so when a mediocre man comes and lies down
like the ‘Gulliver’ of the story
we look at him awestruck
we are awestruck
as we look at him
astounded by his height
scared of own dwarfishness
we attack him
with the needle like weapon
of our inferiority complex
ascend different organs
of his body
jump upon,
and at last, descend
become seren
and surrender,
like the way the tide
surges up a massive rock
and soon falls at the feet of the rock,
washing and splashing
gloryfying him,
we start worshipping him
making him god
we however look tall
we are but rusting inwards
we are ‘lilliputians’
we are sub- humans
we aren’t able to unite ever
on our free will
somebody else has to unify us
on our free will,
we aren’t able to be devided either
somebody else has to dissect us
we are unable to go forward
without someone whipping
at the rear
We are the discoloured and
crumbled carom counters
things for entertainment
dependent on a player
having lost own velocity
driven by a striker
yes, we are less of the human
and more of the counters
we are brave but idiots
we are idiots
that’s why we are brave
we never could be brave,
without being idiots
we are like the ‘ Eklavya’
of the epic ‘Mahabharat’
‘Dronacharya’ of every era
ignores us
refuses to teach us,
refuses to value our skill;
our power
and our existence
but we erect
same Dronacharya’s idol
in front of our huts
and worship
bowing down
practice archery continuously
and get skilled
better than
the aristocratic deciples
of Dronacharya
surprised and scared
of our skill
Dronacharya comes
and asks for
his ‘Gurudakshina’
and we, at the hint
cut our thumbs
and present him happily
handover him
erasing own existence
at own devotion
and  strength
that’s why
though we are brave
we are idiots
we are idiots
so that we are brave
we have never been brave,
without setting up anyone’s idol
we are the feet
just the feet
Feet – the body stands on
Feet-  the body walks on
Feet-  the body runs on
Feet – That believe that the body is
fostering them out of kindness,
out of favor
be delighted at the greatness of
the body and bear the load, always
never rise the head to look up
always remain low,
we are the feet
we win the race, always
our forehead is marked by Tika
and our neck is surrounded by garlands
we win the race
and our chest becomes full of medals
the forehead marked by Tika
is not us
the neck surrounded by the garlands,
the chest full of medals
are not us
we are just the feet
that step, walk and run
at the hints of the others
only the feet
and just the feet
we are nobody
and perhaps
If, that’s why we are somebody
we are not living
but perhaps
if, that’s why we are alive
so, come o’ void worshipers
lets we all worship this void
lets we all bow down
to this emptiness,
to this god
of our existence .

-Madhav  Prasad Ghimire

Beyond the peak of  Machhapuchhre[2]

is Muktikshetra[3], the land of liberation

where lamps glitter  in the bubbling fountainheads


your birth-place is a divine pilgrim-site of the first flame

O Kali, the river! please tell me

how do you sculpt the Shaligram[4]?


ducks, from the basin

reach the hills along the sandbanks

trees on the banks bow so low on the creepers

as if the shadows would get swept away

roam in this heart of mine, inside the womb of Rishi Jehnu[5]

the sacred resources of yours, peak like the river Ganges


‘this is the very corner where  Jadbharat[6]  practiced austerity,

where, while she was filling the water

the magnolia fell from the fairy’s head

as if touched by the footprints of the fearless Vishnu[7]

my stones have bound the crafts of Amaravati[8], the city of immortals’


‘breaking the  high peaks,  ventured towards so farther,

I have kissed even the rough and hard so passionately’

thinking that you would write some signs on the stones

‘how to portray me in art, by myself !’


O, man! beneath your very heart lie

the secrete un-known nerves

it is said that various idols breathe life

under your incantation

you are the source of all the splendor, gross happiness

though it is you whose heart is unconscious

and it is you who is the mistake of the creation


on this soil, as an unskilled sculpture`s idol, cries,

pedestrians  pass by, laughing,

who cares to listen to others’ sorrow nowadays!


O, my craftsman! give some healthy form to this whole,

draw this entire world, in one single, simple, and small composition


may  there be the shadows,

may  there be the sun that spreads over the green forest,

may there be the beauty that swings through this town,

may there be the skill that preserves that beauty in the city of immortals,

may there the oil lamp in my secluded hermitage, be the witness


my real comfort is in some new creation on daily basis,

on forgetting oneself in the luxury of that creation


whoever doesn’t find the source of the nectar under their  chest,

will never be able to quench the heart’s thirst


when the whole country gets tired of overwork

when the sun sets far beyond the hills in no time,

with that crimson in the sky, I will shut my eyelids peacefully

along your bank O Kali! I will arrive at Muktinath


Jhuma[9], my ever-youth temple courtesan in the Himalayas

whose exuberant tresses hang lushly on her back,

this very evening

lighting a divine lamp with yak[10] butter

will take me to the caverns of the extreme mountain


may not, the remnants of the sunrays on the mountain, remain fresh

may hide, the talismanic images of the day, under the shadows


would Muktinath[11]  himself sit

empty in meditation, static like a mountain

tying on Damodar`s head, the white constellation of seven stars.


[1] the sacred  river situated in western Nepal

[2] one of the famous mountain in western Nepal

[3] one of the top holy shrines for Hindu and Buddhist

[4] a revered stone

[5] one of the famous Hindu mythological sage

[6] one of the important Hindu mythological character

[7] One of the Hindu trinity of supreme godhead

[8] Hindu mythological city

[9] a girl surrendered to a temple to serve as the temple courtesan

[10] Himalayan cow

[11] lord Vishnu


Serpentine colony

– Binod Bikram k.c.

The first lessons you taught me were

to never crawl in life

to flow, sometimes egoistic

like a lover engrossed in own Loveland

to flow, sometimes roaring

like a rebel desperate to change the world


thank you! O river!

you saved me from dying

the inviting death by stagnancy


on the fourteenth day of my mother’s death

sitting on a rock at the bank, I wept

looking at your flowing face

Mother used to say, never pollute a river

that the soul of the river will cry


men of ill intentions have built

a serpentine colony


how the traitors would know!

the fish, the Peebles, and the sands are

someone’s offsprings


like a mother

who lost her sons and daughters one by one

sometimes in famine, sometimes in war

you are wandering off-track

carrying in your chest stories of grief  infinite

and the tune of the salt in your throat


When I am reading a newspaper  in a dream

suddenly Aurahi river breaks in the paper

Om Prakash a.k.a. Dilip Kumar,

the river lover’s dead body at the sandbank

crushed completely under

the tire of a tripper truck

fully smeared in blood


it is dull news in a country that is

tempted to mass-murder the lovers


but sometimes

a single matchstick can cremate

your dream-world

and after that

you will start loving

trees, rivers, clouds, birds, children, Dilip

sacredly as never before,

this is the belief of a poet

please do not wrong it


at this hour

there are things that I must prove

I am not the man

that accommodates the river

just on the play- cards, banners or

on Facebook on Twitter


my nerves are

the river’s nativity


I am not afraid of

the gun on the shoulders of

the returners from the hunt of the river


to snatch back the reigns of the river

from the hands of the dread

and hand it back to the river itself,

will flow from my heart

a river of fire any day

I’m sure of it.


Rivers are not like the human

  • Bhupin


are not into politics like the human


Are not adept at manipulation like the human

demolishing the  wall of

life-less consciousness

rising ugly hands, they do not defame each other

they do not have falling out with each other


they do not separate colors, they are not racist


do not discriminate the caste

in rivers’ constitution, even the tiny fountains have the equal right to become

the ocean

even the tiny rivulet has equal right to become the ocean


defying inhibitions,

Rivers can ascend the hills

Rivers can cut off the hills


Rivers are capable of drying  themselves up if they like

Rivers are capable of swelling up if they like

but perhaps rivers

are not able to bow low like the human

are not able to ache like the human


Rivers never walk away from  the streams, poor and dwarf, cheated by the creation,

Scared of own ego hurt, like the human


Rivers don’t choose to walk down a different path

Fearing color mismatch, like the human


River’s  black water can match with River’s white water

River’s white water can match with River’s  black water


Rivers are not the Negros by birth

Rivers are not the whites by birth


Rivers do not be the Aryans and the Mongolians

Rivers do not be the Muslims

Rivers do not be the Christians


Rivers are like Rivers

They are not like the human.

‘R’ in rivers is capitalized for the cause.

Translations-Himal khadka

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