The Tragic Fall of a Revolutionary Icon: A Tale of Ideological Conflict and Personal Disillusionment

The struggles outside the prison walls mounted. The sagas of sacrifice unfolded. Students stirred against the autocratic regime. Teachers were strained. The landless raised a storm in the wilderness to find a path to walk and soil to claim. On the banks of the Deumai, a hero sacrificed his life. On the Chainpure hill, the immortal saga of a brave soul was written.

In Chhintang, a river of blood flowed from the people demanding their rights. In Piskar, the pained cries of innocent people shook the forest. The rule named 'Nirdal' (Single Party) began to tremble. Though imprisoned, Bhishmaraj is omnipresent. Though confined, he pervades everywhere. His name is linked to every single incident.

He is the seed of the socialist struggle, the first leader to step back in the conflict, a philosopher's stone that narrowly escaped the bullet of power. He is the embodiment of sacrifice. He is the radiant light of inspiration. Simply put, he, he, and only he everywhere.

Sometimes Bhishmaraj's thoughts emerge outside the prison. He speaks profound things in a loud voice. He roars— "This people-killing regime is a house of sand. One day, when the people kick it, it will collapse like a house of cards. The class enemies should understand, that moment is not far. A new sun has dawned on the horizon; darkness no longer has the strength in human settlements."

He has few things to say. He keeps repeating the same things. Those who listen, listen with faith, and understand with affection. Wow, how fiery our leader speaks! How eloquently he speaks undeniable truth! That's why Bhishmaraj! Commander of the historic guerrilla war, the sweet melody of revolutionary folk songs!

The regime called Bhishmaraj a traitor. The people crowned him with the garland of Prometheus. He accepted the garland with a proud smile. Someone called him Danko, the revolutionary character from Gorky. He believed it. Thus, Bhishmaraj became adorned with virtues. He became extraordinary, he became supernatural, he became rare.

Those who praised him praised him endlessly. Bhishmaraj became excessively intoxicated by the drug of praise. And Bhishmaraj remained absorbed in silent recitation of the Gita.

Outside, Comrade Nanduram's son was getting married. Inside, Nandu was overjoyed. He was hosting a feast. There were no special dishes at the feast. A handful of puffed rice, dried and fermented leafy greens (gundruk), chili relish (dhindi), a few pieces of roasted meat (choyela). The main guest of the feast was the leading Comrade Bhishmaraj.

The feast is ongoing. Bhishmaraj is eating from a silver plate. Hesitantly, he touches the roasted meat, brings it close to his lips, and quietly places it back on the plate. He feels dizzy and nauseous. What will the comrades say? He has an uneasy feeling in his heart, fear. If only he could discreetly discard it or hide it in his pocket... Bhishmaraj is eating the feast. It feels like he is consuming something forbidden.

"Comrade, didn't you go hunting?" Nanduram asked bluntly.

"I don't have much interest in hunting, Comrade."

"Not for the big goat, was it?"

"No, no..."

Bhishmaraj is sad. He himself is not married. The son of a comrade his own age is already married. He remembered Deepshikha. A stream of scenes of their closeness and intimacy began to flow across his memory. He became disheartened—I won't get married in this lifetime. Deepshikha must be old now. Maybe she left for someone else. Or maybe she withered away from the agony of separation....

Deepshikha! Deepshikha! Deepshikha!

"Comrade, will I ever get married?"

Bhishmaraj's words became the target of ridicule. It was as if he spoke beneath his status. As if he were an unfeeling log without personal desires and longings. Or a Brahma-knower sage risen above worldly desires. As if he were an ascetic, a renunciate. As if the desires and dreams of ordinary people did not belong to him. As if he shouldn't have those feelings. Or as if having those feelings was a crime, a grave offense.

Outside there was ridicule, inside there was the remorse of regret. Bhishmaraj got up in the middle of the feast and headed towards his room. Looking back, he was completely immersed in the ocean of meditation.

000

The young man holding a sword stared without blinking. Tears welled up involuntarily in the eyes of Swami Laththakananda.

"What did you see in the letter from the past, Latthe?" the young man asked, "Did sorrow befall you?"

Swami's heart was shattered. His lips moved slowly. But no words came out. After a long time, the Swami said, "My comrades, son, they stabbed my core."

"That core is not yours, it belongs to someone else. What core does someone who is dead have?"

"Son," he mumbled, "That time... Deepshikha, that mute girl, that small one..."

"Keep watching, you will see more sinful deeds for which you will have to repent."

Swami Laththakananda turned his eyes towards the past and closed them. A line of events resting in the abyss of history began to stir on the screen of his mind. The Swami sees, Bhishmaraj was released from prison after 14 years. That news was miraculous. Has the Nepali Prometheus been freed from prison? Has the Nepali Danko arrived among the people? Will the rare hero finally be seen? Will there be an opportunity to hear his words from his own mouth?

Bhishmaraj fell into the circle of the press. Those who sought speeches began to flock to him. What would the historical figure Bhishmaraj be like? What would be the resonance of his words? There is curiosity everywhere, eager anticipation everywhere. There is a scramble everywhere to see his face and hear his words.

Bhishmaraj gave an interview to the press.

Bhishmaraj addressed the gathering.

Bhishmaraj met the leaders and activists of the socialist movement. And, it was as if a surprising deception occurred. Bhishmaraj's words lacked any hint of the complex and subtle aspects of life. He only had a dusty bundle of worn-out formulas. Wherever he spoke, on whatever topic, he opened that same bundle and monotonously recited those same formulas.

Exploiter-feudalists, armed struggle, encircling cities from villages, overthrowing the government, etc. The pulse of changing times was not reflected in that speech. The fervor and pain of the times were not expressed there. Not a trace of subtle thought, logic, insight, or foresight to solve life's complexities could be found. It was as if a tourist from a distant land was speaking to the natives in a foreign language.

For a while, supporters and well-wishers listened to his words with faith and applauded with affection. After all, he was a profound figure of history. After all, his autobiography was a thrilling saga of suffering and sacrifice. But how long could borrowed faith and affection last? It didn't last. It collapsed. And soon, it was all ruined.

Bhishmaraj descended from the castle of his imagination and stood on the dust where ordinary people stand. Standing in the dust, he appeared like dust without shine, brilliance, or attraction—colorless, pale, and pathetic. The curtain rose on the terrible tragedy of old Bhishmaraj.

Whatever happened in Bhishmaraj's life was a delusion. Out of blind faith, people called him Prometheus, called him Danko. Hearing that, he became emotional. He swelled with pride, he became conceited. He believed what people said, saying, "I am like that." Shall we call this the raw game of human nature—those who spoke were in delusion, and those who believed were also in delusion. Thus, a Mount Everest of delusion was erected. Unfortunately, when it collided with harsh reality, that colorful palace of delusion shattered.

Bhishmaraj asked his wounded inner self— "Bhisme, what happened to all this?" Everything went wrong, everything became chaotic, everything was turned upside down. I, the Nepali Prometheus, I, the Nepali Danko! How much pride, how much arrogance he had in his heart! What a sweet imagination he had—wherever I go, flowers will always be showered upon me. But that sweet dream, that romantic desire, all of it was consumed and vanished in the story of Som Sharma's father's roasted grains.

Bhishmaraj felt that he was abandoned by everyone, became lonely, and was thrown onto a deserted island. Neither his past remained, nor did he have a hold on the present. Alas! I ended with utter ruin.

Bhishmaraj looked at the past with a constricted gaze—there is confusion there, a fog of deceit prevails. He looked at the future—there is confusion there, a fog of deceit prevails. He fell from the peak of his mind to the bottom. He had everything in abundance. The royal autocratic system took everything away. Deepshikha, who was with him like his own shadow, had also vanished into thin air. His hair had turned white, his gums had receded, wrinkles had formed on his cheeks. Alas! What a terrible accident happened.

The past is left behind, the present is murky, the future is dark. "What will old Bhishmaraj do now?" Bhishmaraj asks his own tired, worn-out, and sad mind. There is no answer. All four directions are silent, unresponsive, empty.

Bhishmaraj remembered the Hanuman Chalisa, recalled the Bhagavad Gita. And a dry voice resonated in his inner being—Om! He hung a picture of the four-faced Brahma on the wall. Karl Marx's photo was on the wall before; he felt reluctant to remove it. The decrepit Bhishmaraj, whose senses were failing, whose militant faith had dissolved, sat cross-legged in the deer pose and began chanting for the afterlife—Om!

000

Startled, the dim eyes of the trident-wielding Swami opened.

"Deceitful Swami, what are you seeing on your journey into the past?" the sword-wielding young man asked.

The Swami expressed his sorrow in a voice full of detachment, "The ungrateful world has deceived me, son. First, they lifted me up, then they crushed me down."

"You are the one who lifted yourself up by swelling with pride. You are the one who crushed yourself by becoming desperate!"

The Swami was dumbfounded.

The young man brandished his sword in the air, signaling an attack.

Laththakananda turned black and blue.

"Son, you are my son after all." Like a drowning man, Swami Laththakananda clutched at a straw. "Is it a son's duty to raise a sword against his father, son?"

"You are not my father, you are a hunter. You plotted to kill me, and from within you, I was born to slay you."

"Forgive me, son. I became a victim of history."

"Not of history, you became a victim of your own character/culture."

"Of my own character?"

"Yes. When you started the journey, you were a leader (Mukhiya). Even after such a long journey, you remained the leader against the leader (Mukhiya-virodhi Mukhiya). Do you remember? Your father was a poor landlord. Like father, like son. The ghost of landlordism followed you every moment. Now you have ended up prostrating at the feet of the four-faced Brahma."

When the father's words came up, Laththakananda's mind turned to the distant past. He sees his father sitting on the veranda, smoking tobacco, scolding the crowd of field laborers in the courtyard below— "I will cut down you lazy workers. What do you think you are?" The Swami remembers his father forcing the poor to work late into the night—mostly without rice and water, without salt, without dignity.

There are many stories about his father. One story says his father would prey on young women of lower castes in some secluded spot. He would come home, sprinkle holy water to purify himself, and then worship the Panchayan deities. The workers would ask for salt for their sweat. He would give them a whip instead of salt. In his youth, Laththakananda also committed much oppression by imitating his father.

"Do you remember who you were?"

"Crimes committed unknowingly are not held against one, Father!"

"It was not unknowingly, you committed crimes knowingly."

"Huh, son? What crime did I commit?"

Pointing at the two pictures on the wall with the tip of his sword, the young man roared in anger, "Hey Latthe, what disgrace have you hung above the head of the people's leader Karl Marx?"

Swami Laththakananda froze. He felt an attack on his reawakened faith. Stiffening his calves as much as possible, he said, "The four-faced Brahma is the lord of cosmic consciousness, son. And Marx's consciousness is just a small part of that Lord's consciousness. You are a raw, young boy, you might not know this truth, son; this is the meaning of above and below."

"You are a traitor," the young man shrieked, shaking the Swami's mind, "You betrayed your own faith!"

Swami Laththakananda felt the alarm bell ringing over his dilapidated existence. Joining his hands, he pleaded, "Son, why are you casting aspersions on this old man's life? You go your own way."

"I am the consciousness of a new era. I am the carrier of truth. You stood as an obstacle in my path. To clear my path, I will first kill you."

"Son, what will you do by killing me?"

"I will go among the working people. I will learn from them. I will help them wake up from sleep, I will forge a bond of flesh and blood with them. And, exposing your downfall, we will raise the invincible flag of the liberation struggle from a new world. Listen, Latthe, but first, I will wound you."

Swami Laththakananda trembled all over. All his pleading and entreaties were in vain. In the end, he felt he was surely going to be cut down. Therefore, bracing his withered arms, he stood firm on the weak front of his dilapidated faith, clutching his trident.

The sharp tip of the trident is poised to pierce the young man's chest, who is hesitating whether to strike or not. The sword of Heman is eager to strike the old man's neck, which is past its due date, as he hesitates whether to cut or not. The sword is raised by the strong hands of the young son born illegitimately. The trident is extended from the withered hands of the old father, devoid of affection. The two streams of thought, the two interests of class in the battlefield of life's struggle, are ready to clash with each other.

"You disobeyed the holy command of your revered father," the father roared, his nostrils flaring with anger, "Therefore, to protect the eternal truth, I will pierce you with the spear of the trident."

"You scorned the duty of a father. You tried to misuse the status of a father for illegitimate gain," the son retorted, answering the roar with a roar, "You became an obstacle in the path of the progress of the age. Therefore, I will crush you."

Suddenly, the clash of the trident and the sword began.

Suddenly, the flame of lightning filled the sky of the battlefield.

Suddenly, the explosion of the clouds of apocalypse occurred in all four directions.

And suddenly...!

End