The Half Closed Eyes and the Setting Sun   
translated from Nepali by Subash Ghimire

Hey guide!  You don't understand, you cannot understand at all, how thrilled we, the westerners get to step on your land for the first time.  This green valley as soon as the plane enters the valley, and the series of farming lands, and the red, yellow, white houses smeared with its mud; and the scent of the soil and mountain in its air, the peace of ages in its environment; you were born here; you might feel this embrace of these blue mountains by extending their hands a bondage; but we, who live in plains, who live on the side of the ocean, whose sight get lost in the horizon, either that of the land or the water; we know how the bosom of the mountain always stick your sight.  You haven't had the experience of degradation of vanishing when the sight vanishes.  Maybe because we are just running with the vastness, we love this boundary of yours.  And have you pondered over a thought?  How you feel the Buddha's half-closed eyes seem to be welcoming you; how you feel like finding a peace, a recurrence, and a shelter?  You always knew of giving to the westerners- you gave religion; you gave Purana (a holy scripture of Hindus); you gave the bronze statue you gave palm leaves; you gave ornament of ivory; you gave copper leaves; you gave civilization; you gave knowledge; you gave garland of jasmine; you always kept giving and you don't know what is called taking; you don't understand what ownership is; you don't know what is called consumption!  My friend, I know your history.  Before coming to your country I have gone through each and every page of your invaluable books for many years.  You are just a guide who leads me to the modern paths and roads; I can take you to the ancient road.  I can clearly see this valley immersed in the water and I can see a water lily blooming and where the Swambhunath is.  I see Manjushree striking scimitar at Chobhar; I see the male and female monks in yellow dress begging for alms and preaching religion at the corners of Kashthamandap.  Oh!  Look at the eyes of these clean shaved monks!  Your eyes cannot concentrate there.  Their sight is called pure vision.  Do you understand the meaning of pure vision?  Its meaning is pure and detached sight- such vision which looks at the objects in their true form.  Have one more peg; then we will go for the dinner.  The temple like house that you live in; you don't have the realization of its form, beauty and hypnotizing.  Don't you feel the music flowing in the wooden idols from the chisel of an artist's hand in these decorated designs and in these different styles?  Tell me how these robust and healthy artists buried under the dust of the past would have worked all day long in the field and would have created the beautiful images of their own deities in the morning and evening.  Wouldn't the bubbles that would rise as his fair, short wife would pour liquor from the pot into the bowl carrying the baby on the back while he would be scrapping off the wooden idol with the earthen jug inspire him to use the tile for roofing?  Ah!  Your country is really great.  This is the country where many cultures flourished; Aryan, non-Aryan, Hindu, Buddhist, everybody got another life here.  This is the affect of your soil; this is the affect of soils of different kinds; my friend, everything got the opportunity to grow together here.  Come; let's add one more peg.  It's not time for dinner yet.  I am so grateful to you that you fed me both the Nepali and Newari food.  Ah, just remember the momo.  When in the wintertime, sitting on the upper floor only in the light of fire, while the smoke is under the roof in cluster like the mist; the scene of grandfather sitting on the mat and giving the description of each and everything that was sent to Bhot while marrying Bhrikuti off; the grandmother is taking tobacco in bamboo hokka (hookah), and making the grandfather's memory fresh, and the daughter-in-law carrying momo in the brass plate, and while putting the hot momo in the mouth the grandfather's babbling, the grandson's laughter, the grandfather while trying to swallow it fast burning of his tongue, and scolding in  dirty language- these are such sceneries that cannot be read in any old books of any library.  For it one has to come to Kathmandu and has to be mix up with the environment.  I am really grateful to you for this.  Let's cheers once again today in the name of your and my great countries, ah!  And another thing that is not in the books is, smile that is spread in the face, a welcoming smile, such a smile as if we are meeting according to the pre planned program; as if this is not our first meeting; as if I, who has worked all day long in the field, am the oldest son of that Jyapu; as if my labor has succeeded and my father is fully satisfied with me; as if I am bringing the most beautiful woman in the world behind me making her my wife and my mother is smiling with welcome; as if I have a deep friendship with my sister's husband and the two of us, brother-in-laws, are coming  intoxicated, singing, stumbling and hugging each other; as if I can't say no matter how much I describe I can't describe completely- this smile is with full of wisdom; this smile is intimate; this smile is natural.  One peg more for your Nepali smile, for this sweet smile and for the eyes, those eyes engraved on windows, these eyes of alcoves of the doors, these eyes of stupa, these eyes of human beings, these eyes of mountain looking from the corner as if your neighboring boy is looking at your plum tree raising his leg.  This is a country of eyes.  This is a country, which is protected by the half closed eyes of lord Buddha.  Even if the books of all the histories are destroyed, your eyes will create a civilization, will keep a civilization safe.  My desire to see eyes is not quenched yet; let's go to some solitude place tomorrow, where there is a stupa, and where there is a pure eye, where I want to see the feeble sun when it is about to set, reflected in the eyes of the Buddha, in the corner of his eyes.  Show me such a beautiful and great, complete eyes in the remembrance of which this journey of mine would be eternal.  Let's go for dinner now.

Come guest!  I will show you the eye today.  This hill is called Chobhar.  We come here to see the mark of scimitar and the outlet of Bagmati.  I will have you climb this hill, where the guests go, where the guests' vehicle don't reach, where even now (in your own words) the dust of time has not covered the ancient culture.  Do you see the stone that you have stepped on?  Look, a child artist of this village has created a bird; at another step there is a map of a temple.  The artist has forgotten to draw what religion it belongs to.  In the middle of the village up there, there is a temple of the first God; at the premise of which there is a temple dedicated to lord Shiva; there is lord Buddha and there are many prayer wheels of "Om, mene, peme, hun" (Buddhist chanting.) In your own saying, this is the living example of Nepali's tolerance and co-existence.  There, children play happily without caring about the Gods, their religions, and their philosophies, but my guest I won't take you there.

You have already seen enough of it; have already understood enough of it; have already advertised enough of it.  Today, I will take to such a house, where you will find the palpitation of our reality.  This is such a family of farmers, whose 1-2 ropanies of land should be around here, somewhere; where they work at, sweat, and go to the city to pay the half of the production.  There is not much smoke in their garret; warm and hot momo are not cooked in their kitchen; there is no discussion of Anshubarma's daughter Bhrikuti's dowry in the cold.  There is a child in their home.  This child is not any incarnation.  A child born in a Jyapu's house attacked by polio cannot definitely preach the religion.  Surely, he cannot contribute anything to this world.  He is born here as a strange creation of the creator.  Another thing, my friend, you are tired climbing up the hill.  Would you like some filtered water of thermos?  Yes, I am not going to have you see him as any symbol either.  You, who had flown in the waves of black and white yesterday, and as you have asked me to show you such an eye, which would remind you of your Nepal visit forever, I am going to take you there to show you such an eye.  The child's whole body is dysfunctional.  He can't speak; he can't move the hands; he can't chew; he can't spit.  In his body the only things that are alive are just the two eyes in whose support he is alive.  I can't say there is no pure sight in those eyes.  I can't understand the definition of this either.  But his face is definitely without the feelings; the sight is detached, aimless, speechless, without the actions, without the exercise, without the meditation (Probably even without the desire I have spoken the Aryan eight fold path (ashtangi) of the Buddhism, which is your influence or it's a character of a child.)  My guest!  This is the eye you looked for.  Different kinds of force have been conducted by life, by a soul.  You get happy; you smile; you feel pain; you cry; you feel cold- you long for the warmth; you feel hungry- you make the arrangement for eating; you try to learn unknown things; you succeed; you fail; you get a lot of bitter-sweet experiences; you express those experiences with your close friends considering the time and sensitivity.  How ordinary are these activities?  My guest! Yesterday you said- we the easterners just kept giving westerners, right?  Would you like some water?  Are you panting?  This child is as such, he can neither give nor take anything.  Just put yourself in his shoes.  You want to order the fingers, they refuse; you order the voice, the speech does not come out; there is no feeling of touch; every vein, every tissue, every bone refuses to obey the order of the mind; still you are living.  I know this disease exists even in your country.  But the ability to bear this disease, to keep the eyes detached, to grow the pure vision to live without the language, without the actions, without the power, without the conduct, without the reaction, is possible only in easterners.  Come, come closer; I told a lie to his parents that you are a doctor.  Look into their eyes, there is an admiration, intimacy, a generosity, and a gratefulness- as if this arrival of yours was a preplanned program.  In the wrinkle of their face, there is the smile you described; as if you are their first son and from the seven oceans far you have brought the life-giving herb for your brother.  In the Jyapuni's smile, there is the cheerfulness of getting the first grandson from your most beautiful wife in the world, isn't it?  I know this smile will keep remaining in their face until you are here.  I know-your back won't be able to see their smile; they will extinguish in the same darkness.  This child has a sister; a sister whose every organ moves and this child keeps looking at the sister going on hands and knees; picking anything and putting in the mouth, overturning jaand (liquor made from the fermented rice), knocking down the firepot.  A desire to do something like that is reflected in his eyes for a moment, just for a moment and again the same kind of detachment is spread.  One day his sister got yelled by the mother.  At that time, a light shone in his eyes- I don't know what philosophy of what age was present in that light, but I found he was trying to say, trying to tell his mother- through the medium of speechless, sign less, voiceless sight- Mother!  How would you know- what joy there is in falling down; the knees dragged on the green lawn, the skin getting peeled off; the bleeding, the mixing of one or two drops of tears in the blood a pain of one-two threads wrapped up on the knee, a cry, a demand for help; these are such things, this pain is such experience that is sweet.  To wash one's wound with the snout, to put on spit, to take out the pierced thorn; the breaking of the old wound caused by the piece of glass, to rest in bed for a few days; getting the nail undone while trying to take out the picture hanging on the wall by climbing on the mud pot, the dropping of the picture, the breaking of the mirror, the strange noise of glass breaking, the wave of fear of the glass getting broken from one's own hand; these are such things- ah, own experience that fire burns; own experience that the water makes one wet, own experience of getting blistered with the nettle; one would fall down, would get wounded, would get broken somewhere; something would get knocked down; one would be able to cry when something gets broken; when somebody dies, one would be able to cry, would be able to exchange smile with somebody; would be able to hit somebody when teased; would be able to loot somebody if somebody loots one.  These are such things my mother on the basis of which your son would have grown up.  These are such things, in the absence of which my sister who when learns every new word there is human beings' thousands of years of devotion of language; there is a history, a tradition, a culture.  In her ability to learn, a future is born- not from a person like me who can't move the lips.  In my body, in my power, in my sign, a continued process of history and human development cease.  A long labor, a long attempt, series, an unlimited future suddenly get broken, and these are the eyes guest, which can't recollect anything even after seeing you; these are the sights who can't express themselves; these are the same beauty which are complete, and which don't have any other expression.  These are the same eyes that are surrounded by the mountains; these are the same eyelids, which are the series of the land, where in the monsoon rice ripens and where in the winter wheat ripens.  These are the same eyes, which welcome you; these are the same eyes, which create.  Look at the last breath of the life in those eyes.  This is not less beautiful than the scene of reflection of about to set sun in the corner of the Buddha's eyes.

©Shankar Lamichhane, 2005