The dream was every bit simple as dreams come ; square repasts, warm apparels, nice life conditions and good instruction. The nonreader center aged husbandman and his married woman had this dream for their kids, the untouchable ‘sarki ‘ and his married woman dreamt of the same for their progenies, the authorities school instructor had this dream, the vegetable marketer of the flea market had this dream and the immature pupil of low beginnings who had come to the metropolis for his educational chases had this dream.
And so person came along who told all these naA?ve dreamers their dreams would merely stay dreams if they did n’t wake up any Oklahoman. He promised them a aureate land of plentifulness where nutrient, instruction, apparels and lodging would no longer merely be dreams. And with the moving ridge of his aureate wand he enchanted the dreamers.
The captivation was given a name “ revolution ” and the enchanted 1s became “ revolutionists ” .
A good 16 old ages have passed since the captivation and today the dream has turned into a incubus.
The history of revolution and the struggle that it so unfailingly brings along is non something new to the Nepali people. In a period of non more than 66 old ages we have been witness to non less than five revolutions -armed or otherwise. Countless people have, in the truest sense of the word, been slaughtered- for grounds that have really handily been beyond their apprehensions.
And there have ever been dreams involved.
In 2007 the dream was that of a coward sovereign who was tired of being manhandled by a clump of imposters. And the people thought it was their dream. The result of this dream is clearly apparent today in the reprehensively freewheeling life style of one Paras Shah and his deathly grave specimen of a male parent Gyanendra Shah. The male monarch laughed all the manner to his throne and the people were left rubing their caputs in complete bewilderment. There was no H2O for the camel, merely a beautiful mirage.
In 2046 the dream was that of one Girija Prasad koirala who dreamt of one twenty-four hours functioning the predecessor of the coward sovereign with his servitude in a Ag platter. He turned his dream into a world by siting the camel. The camel once more submitted itself to the false allurement of H2O. The result of this dream is once more clearly apparent today in the good-for-nothing girl of the camel-rider going a cabinet curate and more outrageously 2nd in bid of the authorities. The camel had n’t learned. No sir.
And so came the deadliest of all the dreams.
It was a dream like no other in that it did n’t refer to deriving a throne or exposing one ‘ accomplishments of servitude. For one time it promised to take the camel towards an oasis and non beguile it by the false temptingness of a mirage. A exalted dream it was. It promised the people all they had of all time dreamt of. The husbandman and his married woman, the ‘sarki ‘ , the vegetable marketer, the instructor and the immature pupil were all promised their due and a little more.
The camels came by the herd and were one time once more ready to travel to any length to acquire the promised H2O. And why would n’t they, after all it was non a rider that had made the promise this clip about. It was one of their ain. A immature and apparently intelligent camel had had the dream. This clip it was non the ciliums of the rider that drove them but the more comprehensive voice of their family, one of their ain. This clip the dream was existent.
Or so they thought.
For one time the promise was in fact existent. Time and once more the truenesss of the Nepali people had been badly misplaced. Once for the male monarch and countless other times for the king-makers they had given all they had and a little more. And what had they got in return? What so but the rhythms of poorness go throughing along similar seasons, the spasms of hungriness from holding nil to eat at all or holding a meagre repast of dhido and gundruk, the sting of cold from non holding warm plenty or long adequate apparels in the winter and most significantly the all-pervasive darkness of illiteracy.
And therefore the revolution began.
There is a unusual thing about conflict/armed revolution. It brings people together in ways non conceivable during peaceable times. The common adult male ever needs a cause to contend for. It can be every bit junior-grade as the following twenty-four hours ‘s repast or every bit exalted as release of a state. Once the motivation is in sight a sort of steely focal point enters in the kineticss. This focal point is manifested at its best during times of crisis. The Maoist revolution was one such crisis.
During the war there was a clear enemy in the male monarch and his system of monarchy, and the political parties particularly the Congress which represented, in its vilest signifier, the struggle between categories and a feudalistic procedure of idea and a similar system of subjugation of the multitudes. And so one time the common cause was had, the war took full swing. Peoples from all strata of the society be it the dalits who had been confronting favoritism in the custodies of the so called high-castes, immature people who were merchandises of an unqualified educational system and many who had n’t had the good luck of seeing any educational system at all, husbandmans who were tired of being tortured by the landlords for the little sum they had taken as loan and which now threatened to take away all they had- all entered the disturbance.This they did non out of any exalted socialist aspirations but because they urgently wanted to alter the manner things were. The dream was there- a better hereafter.
And so it all stopped.
Prachanda had all of a sudden become a hero in a similar mode as the devilish GP Koirala had become in 2046 in his brief rendezvous with the battle for democracy. And here ‘s a thing about heroes- you either decease a hero or you live long plenty to see yourself go the scoundrel.
There has unfailingly been a curious tendency in any armed revolution, the progressive devolution of ideals. First it happened with the Gallic revolution in the 1700s. The call had been for life, autonomy and belongings. But one time the revolution became a success it was all about belongings and specifically the belongings of Napoleon and his buddies. Cipher cared about the life and autonomy of the multitudes. And so the American Revolution followed suit. The cause had been release. And release they got but harmonizing to the colourss of their tegument. And so the Russian revolution led by Lenin, the cultural revolution of Mao, the Cuban revolution led by Fidel Castro and countless other revolutions came along. All fought for a cause. Peoples died by the 100s of 1000s in each revolution. And the end-game was ever the same. The leader got the booty and all others were left with what they had ever had- empty custodies and a monolithic sense of forsaking.
Despite what the initiates describe, the revolution was n’t for a ‘Greater Nepal ‘ , or a more ‘Sovereign Nepal ‘ or even a ‘Federal Republic ‘ of Nepal, particularly non that. The first and first thing on the heads of the people was a better hereafter and nil more.
It was for this that 13000 people ( and that is merely the official figure ) gave their lives off. Contrary to what the leaders of the revolution believe and would hold us believe, the fatally hurt people did n’t hold smile on their faces ; the sort that comes at holding died for a cause. The slug wounds stung like snake pit and it was existent blood that oozed out of their lesions non some glorified emblem. They were every spot afraid of decease as the following adult male which no sum of propagandist literature and rhetoric could stamp down. The cryings of the loved 1s, the injury and the feeling of holding lost it all, on seeing the mutilated and decapitated organic structures of their loved 1s were existent and non something out of the reel. And the Numberss, the Numberss were existent. 13000 and numeration.
Has the dream go existent?
No it has n’t. The current authorities is a testament to this hopelessly negative averment. The election of 2008 was logical terminal to a really unfortunate and every bit bloodstained rhythm of force. Unlike what the faultfinder predicted, people voted their Black Marias out. The turnout was monolithic. The ballot was every bit existent as the dream was traveling to acquire. Peoples who otherwise did n’t hold any involvement in the apparently ageless game of political-melodrama came out in multitudes to project their ballots. The tsunami of enthusiasm left the naysayers running for their safety. The dream was eventually acquiring existent. A authorities was formed. A authorities of the people led by their ain.
For one time the people were audaciously hopeful. And they had every right to be. They had done everything right this clip around. They had fought the right war and so had chosen the right party to transport on the torch. The monolithic 205 seats won by the Maoists in the constitutional assembly were non out of coercion or booth capturing or the promise of pecuniary inducement ; the conventionally dependable tools of the constitution. The seats represented merely one simple thing- a dream. A dream that those on the seats would do the hereafter better for the remainder of us who were out at that place.
The proverbial ball was now in the tribunal of one individual, Prachanda. And so he kicked it. That was one powerful shooting. And it hit the net. A end it was! Merely, the end was in his ain cyberspace. It was a suicide end! Peoples had thought he was different. That he was a title-holder striker, an adept ball-player. They could n’t hold been any incorrect. He had handed the ball with extreme humbleness to the adult male who had been ball-less for so long, Madhav Kumar Nepal.
The emasculation was undone. An person who had been written off as bad investing by the people, a non-performing plus was handily written back. That he had one time been as list-less and every bit ball-less as a unsexed caprine animal was n’t a thing to worry approximately. He had got his balls back. Figuratively.
With the blessing of the Godheads he did what he knew best, screw up a state! The present twenty-four hours cabinet of curates makes his expertness clear as crystal. Sujata koirala, whose lone accomplishment was being her male parent ‘s girl and who had so blatantly helped regenerate the roadie-spirit in some parts of Terai by administering free bikes, was sworn in. Kareena Begum who should hold joined the adult females ‘s heavy weight packaging squad was sworn in. Bidhya Bhandari who was one time married to Madan Bhandari and had so become the girl in jurisprudence of his party was sworn in. It was so that a clear image began to emerge. Madhav Kumar Nepal was at that place to take retaliation. Retaliation on the state for holding discarded him non one time but twice. And he was conveying along his spouses in offense. The also-rans!
The sense of forsaking felt by the Nepali people at this point of clip is, in the strictest sense of the word, monolithic. 16 old ages back we dreamt a dream and were naA?ve plenty to follow through. In the class of realisation of this dream we lost our boies and girls, our brothers and sisters and our hubbies by the 1000s. The dream was every bit simple as dreams come- a better hereafter. And now as the hereafter has come to base on balls, has that dream been achieved? Are we any better off than we were 16 old ages back?
There are seemingly two sets of answer to this inquiry.
One given by the leaders and pseudo-leaders of our revolution. Their reply to the inquiry would be a large, fat YES. Is Girija Prasad koirala better off? Yes he is, he has got a nice place in the bosom of the capital, he has a cortege of police officers who guard his frail organic structure and butter his manner through traffic jams, he does n’t hold power cuts and most obviously his deceasing want has been granted ; his girl is now deputy to the premier curate. Is Madhav Kumar Nepal any better off? Man, are you pull the leg ofing me? He lost two elections and is now the premier curate of the state. He gets to travel topographic points at the disbursal of the national exchequer and his married woman gets to label along. And most of import of all, is Prachanda any better off? Yes he is. He has fulfilled his dream of going the premier curate of Nepal, he is a member of the constitutional assembly ( think of all the fringe benefits and benefits that comes of it ) , he had had his just portion of international travel in one of which he got to agitate custodies with president of America ( the neo-colonial imperium ) and India ( the expansionist trash ) is of class a favourite finish. He besides does n’t hold to wait in traffic jams and does n’t hold power cuts. The lifting monetary value of nutrient is of no concern the province exchequer is there or else there is ever another contribution thrust.
And so there ‘s another set of reply. It is from the people who have to endure the humiliation of 9 hours of power cut every twenty-four hours, who are stripped naked by the lifting monetary values of nutrient and the worsening criterion of life, who have to be stuck in the traffic jams for hours at terminal and watch their curates and party leaders rapid climb by in their brassy autos reflecting their flashing visible radiations, and whose merely travel finish is their offices ( for the luckily employed ) or otherwise Ratnapark ( for the unluckier 1s ) . The reply from this set of people is a pealing No!
What happened to our dreams?
Our dreams-the dream of a state and its people, has one time once more been taken surety by a clump of incompetent and power hungry idiots. At no other point of clip was it as clearly apparent as at this clip that Nepal is at the point of no return.
We as a people are tired. Tired of woolgathering. Tired of waiting for alteration. Tired of being treated as punching bags and hard currency cattles. And most significantly, tired of contending for forcibly indoctrinated strong beliefs and convenient prevarications.
Conventionally there has ever been light at the terminal of the tunnel or as others would hold it their clouds have ever had silver liners. This clip and at this topographic point it is different. The tunnel has caved in and a state is choking to its decease under the weight of the debris. The cloud has gained impulse and turned into a twister go forthing arrant devastation and desolation in its aftermath.
It all started with a dream as these things normally do.
Where is the dream today?
One of the most talked about issue today is Sovereignty. I am a simple husbandman. Most of my fertilisers are imported from India. The tea I drink is flavored with Indian sugar. My nutrient gustatory sensations so good because of the salt brought over from India. The tractor I use to plough my Fieldss is powered by Diesel imported from India. I am happy with the Chinese jacket and Chinese slippers I am have oning. Recently I bought a inexpensive small Chinese ticker. I even have a 14 inch colour telecasting at place ; it ‘s Chinese. Now, if your thought of sovereignty curtails my right to eat my nutrient with salt or impairs me from watching Television, to hell with it!
You talk about a Greater Nepal. I am a instructor in a authorities school. Let me paraphrase that ; I am the lone instructor in a authorities school. I teach math and scientific discipline and Nepali and English in short I teach all the topics. My pupils study in the courtyard of what one time used to be a school edifice ; now it a merely a inexorable reminder of the revolution. My pupils do n’t care about a Greater Nepal. They are happy with the map of Nepal as it is. What they do care about is a school edifice and a twosome of new instructors. For once it would be nice to be analyzing existent books sitting on existent benches and looking at existent chalkboard.
