THE GHOST WRITER (Satis Shroff)

THE GHOST WRITER (Satis Shroff)

When I close my eyes,

I see everything in its place

In Nepal.

I see the highest building in Kathmandu,

What looms higher than the Dharara,

Swayambhu, Taleju and Pashupati?

The former King’s Narayanhiti palace,

Built by an architect,

From across the Black Waters.

Therein lived Vishnu,

Whom many Hindus still call:

The unconquerable preserver.

The conqueror of Nepal?

No, that was his ancestor

Prithvi Narayan Shah,

A king of Gorkha.

Vishnu is the preserver of the world,

With qualities of mercy and goodness.

Vishnu is all-pervading and self-existent,

Visited Nepal’s remote districts

In a helicopter with his consort

And militia.

He inaugurated buildings

Factories and events.

Vishnu dissolved the parliament too,

For the sake of his kingdom,

As I was told to write.

His subjects and worshippers were,

Of late,

Divided.

Alas, Ravana and his demons

Have besieged his land.

The king was obliged to go,

And with him I lost my life-job

As a ghost-writer.

I cannot remember

How many articles, speeches, decrees,

Proclamations I penned

In His Majesty’s Service.

Who would have thought

That I’d have to look

For another job?

Towards the end,

My boss not only lost his shirt,

But also his land,

And blamed me,

His sincere ghost-writer,

For my bad verses and prose.

He barked in a tirade:

“You are to blame for the misery

In my country.”

I, who had praised him,

Written admirable speeches,

Full of love, pathos and empathy

For his poor subjects,

Was now a mere scapegoat.

I, who had written

Soothing lines for the unruly masses,

Who were in revolt,

After centuries of feudal hierarchy,

Mismanagement,

Bad governance,

Corruption and nepotism.

I, who had sought a voice

To pacify the lynch mobs

In the streets of Catmandu,

Biratnagar, Dolpo

And Janakpur.

That was the unkindest cut of all.

The royal newspapers and the paid-press

Were blooming with news

Of development in Nepal.

But the people knew better.

They were waiting.

The dam of development

Had been broken,

A word play on ‘development.’

When the royal dam collapsed in Pokhara,

The people had a big laugh.

The king’s dying father said:

‘When I die,

My country should live.’

On still moments,

I hear the refrain:

Ma marey pani,

Mero desh,

Bachi rahos.

Nepal is now a republic

With cantons instead of zones,

We even have a fish-tailed mountain

That looks like Zermatt.

We have tourism too,

But where are the bankers,

The executives and firms?

We have an Aid Industry,

Cashing in dollars

From foreign governments

And NGOs.

Nepal exports carpets,

Human labourers

For the emirates,

Sherpas for the climbers

And Gurkhas for the Brits

And flesh for the Upper and Lower Grant Roads.

When I open my eyes,

I see Vishnu still slumbering

On his bed of Sesha,

The serpent

In the pools of Budanilkantha

And Balaju.

Prithee,

Where is the Creator?

When will he wake up from his eternal sleep?

Only Bhairab’s destruction

Of the Himalayan world is to be seen.

Much blood has been shed

Between the decades and the centuries.

The mound of  noses and ears

Of the vanquished at Kirtipur,

The shot and mutilated

At the Kot massacre,

The revolution in front of the Narayanhiti Palace,

When Nepalese screamed

And died for democracy.

Now the corpses of the Maobadis,

Civilians and Nepalese security men.

Hush! Sleeping Gods should not be awakened.

I, who wracked my cerebrum for the King,

Am sickened by the royal demeanour,

For Mr. Shah is now a mortal,

A politician to boot.

I, a royal ghost-writer,

Who once smelt the air

Of the Narayanhiti Palace,

Have nowhere to go.

I’m a writer no more.

I’m a ghost

Under the shadow of the Himalayas.

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