A Tale of Two Realities: A Spiritual Awakening Amidst Political Imprisonment

Swami Latthakananda bit his lip and sighed.

"Swamiji, did you see something amiss during your journey into the past?"

"The oppressors arrested me, my son. They raped the wife of my comrade."

"That arrest was not yours, it was mine."

Who is this insolent wretch trying to stuff the glorious moments of someone else's history into his own wishful bag? With a sharp clang of his trident, the Swami vented his anger, "I am the one who ate the words of the demons, I am the one who took the kicks of the murderers, and you claim to be the one arrested? Aren't you ashamed to say that?"

"I shouldn't be ashamed, you should be," the young man retorted, "The hero who faced the boots and guns is not you, you lazy ascetic. It is me. You are a corpse that died from the fear of that valor." The young man roared, "Listen? This arm is the one that did not yield before that cycle of oppression. This arm was born by breaking your shameless arm to preserve the tradition that was about to kneel down."

"You, who steals another's wealth and then accuses me, you, you, you..." Swami's voice trembled. And his puffed-up arm sagged and fell down. 

"You are the murderer of your own light. You tried to kill the light that imparts consciousness of conscience, liberation, and morality. I was born by breaking you to save that light."

Latthakananda was exhausted. His abstract Brahmanic knowledge could not give him confidence in interpreting the complex mysteries of life. 

"You are a fool, you are ignorant." 

"You are suicidal. You are an enemy of the people."

The Swami closed his eyes and moved his lips—Om! His concentration was broken. His consciousness turned towards the past against his will. He saw—Bhishmaraj was in a cell in Nakkhu Jail. They had beaten him half to death before throwing him into the cell. Yet, he refused to kneel. His body was like a crushed vegetable from the beating. The wounds were festering and stinking in his own nose.  He had taken an oath in the name of the martyrs—"I will not bow, I will die instead." After Sukhanis, he was waiting for his turn. 

Bhishmaraj is sitting on a straw mat on the cold floor. The walls are covered with stains of blood. Those stains hold the mute stories of terrible torture since the Kot Parva. Looking at the stains, he closes his eyes. He was arrested in the Terai. Comrade Kapil, his maternal uncle, is with him. Both are tied with the same rope. They are not allowed to scream when beaten; if they scream, they are beaten again. They are not allowed to speak, but Kapil says nothing even through the expression in his eyes. Looking at Kapil's face, Bhishmaraj remembers his frail comrade, Ravilal. The jungle's secret path, he leading, Ravilal following—a khukuri in the bag, a dream in the corner of his heart to overthrow the Asuri system and establish the foundation of a new democracy. 

In the jail cell, Bhishmaraj remembered Deepshikha. His beloved, Deepshikha, once upon a time. Deepshikha was not particularly beautiful; one wouldn't need to make a face of disgust. A large physique, a calm and dignified demeanor—Deepshikha's beauty was not in her face, but in her character, in her smile. The curtains of Bhishmaraj's mind were rising now. With every new page, a new scene of love and affection unfolded. He remembered, after completing her college studies, Deepshikha became a teacher in the local school. Deepshikha was the only daughter of a modest family. Three months after her birth, her father succumbed to various ailments. Her mother, cursing her fate, breastfed Deepshikha and taught her the basics of reading and writing. Later, she fell ill with tuberculosis. 

Bhishmaraj was a stubborn young man. He used to get angry quickly. His youthful sentimentality for love grew, and they started meeting daily. As evening fell, Bhishmaraj would show up, addressing Deepshikha's mother as 'Diju'. Deepshikha wished Bhishmaraj would say something romantic to lighten her heavy heart. But he never talked about such things. Exploiter and feudal lord, deceiver and collaborator, revolution and coup d'état—he only repeated these topics. Nothing new was added, nothing old was omitted. With every visit, he would ask, "Deepshikha, have you read the Red Book? This is the science of revolution, understand?" 

One day, Bhishmaraj gave a notebook to Deepshikha. It contained three short essays—"The Foolish Old Man Who Cleared the Mountain," "Serve the People," and "In Memory of Norman Bethune." The author was Chairman Mao. Bhishmaraj had said, "Do you understand, Deepshikha? These are the only things that need to be read. Whether you call it knowledge, science, literature, or art—all the essence is in these. Do you know what happens if you read other nonsense, Deepshikha? A pile of filth accumulates in the mind. And people become swindling bourgeois."

Deepshikha listened, stunned. She was interested in Bhishmaraj. But she didn't understand his words. She listened to him because of her emotional attachment to him. She wished Bhishmaraj would turn towards life and talk about life's matters. She wished he would delve into life and talk about the small things of life's tears and laughter. But he talked about external things, big things. Deepshikha felt this man was unromantic. Yet, the natural magnetism between man and woman kept pulling them towards each other. 

One night, Bhishmaraj and Deepshikha were returning from a meeting of the women's organization. They walked silently, like strangers. Deepshikha wished her partner would talk about plans for their life. She wished it would be filled with sweetness. She wished it would be colored with her dreams. She wished it had juicy romance. But no, in Bhishmaraj's world, those things had no meaning. He knew nothing of intimate life matters beyond the clichés of revolution. The two political workers walked along the banks of the two loving canals of life. The month of Jestha was in full bloom. Bhishmaraj suddenly lunged at Deepshikha, embraced her, and kissed her mouth. That lunge, that wildness, felt like a cruel dream to Deepshikha. She tried to push Bhishmaraj away from her embrace. But he became wilder and wilder. Saying no, no, he pushed Deepshikha down under a Simli bush and did what he shouldn't have done. Deepshikha lay there like an unconscious log for quite some time. Bhishmaraj watched her silently, smoking a bidi. Finally, he helped her up. A sob, bursting from the depths of her soul, was poured out into the air from Deepshikha's mouth. 

Deepshikha walked ahead with heavy steps. Her lover was following her. A question arose in Deepshikha's wounded heart—is the creature following her her lover or an animal? 

In the hellish cell of the jail, Bhishmaraj pondered—did I commit an injustice to poor Deepshikha? She must be remembering that frail body of mine. She must be crying day and night, if possible. 

Bhishmaraj was unaware of what was happening outside. How many were arrested, how many maimed, how many killed—there was no way to know. What fate awaited him in the abyss of time? He pondered. Self-sacrifice? No, no. The executioners might not kill him. After all, revolution would surely happen. The old society would fall, it would fall. A new society would rise, it would rise. Can the Mao of Nepal be killed just like that? Will he vanish into dust just like that? Romantic waves of hope stirred in Bhishmaraj's broken heart. In that hope were bundles of his indomitable aspirations. He raised his fist and struck the wall—Damn it! The old regime, built by sucking the blood and sweat of the people, will fall—it will fall. And in the empty space, the new flag of the poor and oppressed will rise. And then...

Three months later, Bhishmaraj was taken out of the cell. He felt a sense of joy in the open air. He looked up; above his head was the vast blue sky. Beyond the prison walls were proud hills. There were human settlements on the slopes. There was forest there, there was greenery there, there was life there. On the day he emerged from the narrow hell into a comparatively wider hell, Bhishmaraj circled the jail building hundreds of times. 

Even outside the cell, Bhishmaraj remained under strict surveillance. Wherever he went, the senior and junior wardens followed his footsteps, sniffing them out. Whether out of love or hatred, many eyes in the jail were fixed on him. In the eyes of the detainees and prisoners, Bhishmaraj appeared like a banyan tree. Sitting under it, one could find shelter from the rain and cool shade from the sun. 

There was no shortage of work in Nakkhu Jail. Some wove Dhaka topi cloth, some practiced weaving homespun fabric, some wove baskets and trays, some wrapped bidis. Bhishmaraj thought these trivial tasks were not suitable for him. Does a guerrilla commander ever kill lice or peel garlic? Bhishma, what should I do to pass the time? Occasionally, old newspapers arrived in jail. They mostly contained endless praise for the rulers. 'National Soul', 'Heart-Emperor', 'His Benevolence's Good Will', Damn it! 

Bhishmaraj was not very interested in books. The makeshift political doctrine stated that reading too much spoils a person, makes them bourgeois. Comrades advised him to read history and literature. He saw no substance in that advice. How much to read to interpret the world? The crucial thing is to change the world. He had taken up arms to change it, and the wicked had locked him up. How to pass the time? Bhishmaraj began to miss his mother. His mother, who became a widow at an age when she should have been eating, drinking, and enjoying life. His cheeks had become sunken from enduring countless hardships to raise three young children. And Deepshikha? And his youngest sister, who remained unmarried.  

In jail, some played carrom, some played cards, some played chess. And some played Baghchal. Bhishmaraj had no interest in these. His nature was rebellious, yet he had to stay under the command of the junior and senior wardens. What a life! Once, he even gave a whip to a watchman. Commotion erupted in the jail. Then the police dragged him, beating him, and threw him into the jail cell. 

Arrested students kept coming to the jail. They were drawn to Bhishmaraj like iron to a magnet. Oh, to stand for a moment with the guerrilla commander! To hear his invaluable words! After being released from jail, how proudly they could say—Do you understand? I met the king of revolution. I shook hands with him. I talked with him. But as quickly as the young people were attracted to him, they were repelled. The brilliance they saw from afar would often vanish into thin air when they got close. Then the youths would say, "Damn! He was just a fraud." 

With the tedious passage of time, the emptiness in Bhishmaraj's heart grew. Sometimes he appeared in the newspapers—Bhishmaraj victim of terrible suffering, Bhishmaraj's health deteriorating... etc. His chest would swell with pride. Anyway, the world has not forgotten me. Thinking this, he would stroke his trimmed mustache. 

Bhishmaraj remembered that when he was young, he used to chant the Hanuman Chalisa. Perhaps due to that lingering influence, he started reciting the Bhagavad Gita. All day long, he sits alone in his room. His eyes trace the lines of the Gita. He feels there is some mystery in the Gita. Somehow, he feels he is grasping the essence of reality. It is as if he is Arjuna, counting the beads of life, and Krishna is telling him about the profound secrets of life. 

A rumor started circulating in the jail—the materialistic guerrilla commander is chanting the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita. He sits cross-legged, closes his eyes, and enters silent meditation. His supporters and admirers are astonished and worried. Oh! What spirit has possessed the commander's mind? Is his world of faith beginning to rot? 

"Comrade," Kapil expressed his curiosity, "There is a Gita terror spreading in the jail. What is the meaning of this chanting?"

Bhishmaraj's aggressive gaze seemed to say, why meddle in my private affairs? 

"Comrade, we are embarrassed. Opponents are mocking us, clapping their hands—your leader is so eccentric, your commander is so silly! Faith is in one place, meditation is in another. Tell us, comrade, what will the world understand from this double game?"

"Fools will not understand this," Bhishmaraj said, putting a fresh pinch of khaini in his cheek, "What is the Gita? It is a repository of knowledge. It is the science of warfare. It is the cunning art of politics. What is it and what is it not, what do the fools know?"

"But comrade, we found it difficult to answer."

"What answer is there for the questions of a simpleton? Tell the comrades, this is a trick to deceive the enemy's eyes. Why say too much?"