D. B. Gurung - Life and Letters
Thursday, 26 April 2012
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      Written, collected and edited by Ram Prasad Prasainram_parsain@yahoo.com   One of contemporaneous signatures in the field of Nepali writers in English, D. B. Gurung was born in a middle-class Gurkha family in Kathmandu. His family hailed to Kathmandu originally from Rumjatar, the... Read More...
Doing creative writing is not like running a news article based on a fact - D. B. Gurung
Friday, 27 April 2012
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      (Mr. Ram Prasad Prasain and his colleague Mr. Keshar Bahadur Balampaki met and talked about various facades of Nepalis Writing in English with D. B. Gurung. They prepared the questionnaires and emailed them to the novelist; and he answered them. It is written and personal interview. –... Read More...
Ancient Kapilvastu was Pretty Much Where The Tilaurakot Ruins are Today
Saturday, 04 August 2012
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[On the basis of the Ashokan edicts at Paderia and Nigliva and their location along with reports of Rohan L. Jayetilleke (Article in The Himalayan Voice, March 22,2010) and Robin Coningham of Bradford University we can accept the location of Kapilavastu in Nepal Tarai zone. In this context the... Read More...
Litterateur Gothale no more
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
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Famous playwright and novelist Govinda Bahadur Malla 'Gothale' passed away on Monday. He was suffering from asthma and other bodily ailments since long. Malla, 88, died at around 12 in the afternoon at the Himal Hospital located in Kamalpokhari where he was undergoing treatment since Dec 5. Born in... Read More...
2013 Monsoon Floods in Nepal and India: What happened and what could have been done?
Tuesday, 25 June 2013
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[This article is extracted from ICIMOD official website. To view full text with pictures, please visit the source : http://www.icimod.org/?q=10932. Editor]   While the world is waking up to the news of the horrific scale of the recent flood disaster in the Mahakali basin of Nepal and Uttarakhand... Read More...
Oh, Subru! Hi, Humanity
Monday, 06 May 2013
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IMAGE                                                                 — Ram Prasad Prasain   Retiring the tiresome day He bid and told me, Wrapping up the all conversations, “Sir, don’t send my body to my country” “Why?”  I was... Read More...
Roman to Unicode
Monday, 15 April 2013
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Echoes From Sands’ Valley (.html

                     —Ram Prasad Prasain

Dovetailing
Thousands and thousands
Unwrought souls under the brim of sands, dales and vales
Where desert snakes are fulfilling
Their solely and wholly vested interests
Displaying tilting dances of theatrical Shiva

Of charismatic
Turning and twisting tantrums
To deepen in self, soul and immortality
In the heart of Sahara and Savanna
Where everything
Within trajectory of countless eternal continuum
Of eternal recurrence and continuous conflicts
And dangling reconciliation
From womb to home
Home to tomb
Again, tomb to greater HOME
Every game’s over
Another is beginning
As every parting another meeting
All lines are points, dots and atomic echolalia

Essence of thousand senses
Self-evidence of witnesses
Sky is limited
Body is fortified
Where soul is citadel of cradling civilizations
Where untold alchemy of miseries, lives, deaths, hatreds and affections
Under the balanced scores of affliction and HOPE

Sandy is the Sand
Hot is Sally and sales
Both are beguiling
Beguile is thrown into air
“Listen to the sound of silence,
Listen to the voice of de-voiced;
And listen to the backward portion of margins”

Being an artless voyeur
I’m lost in my wonderlands
Nostalgic dispersion
Of remote distance of pulsated buds
Having derailed imagination
Evergreen soul resides
Under the platonic cork of sandy winds
Revitalized unending droplets of elixir vitae
Of enlightened epiphany �
Steadily but surely
Dust’s dustier
Life has to play attired harmony of cordial continuum
Dusk is getting dusky
Sun’s alone basking farther from hillocks
Days are happening daily
Death-bells are tuned timey at churchyards
No chirping gets them stopped
Siblings and plants are getting greener duly
Arteries seem to be busier than honey-bees

Oh,
Dear poet!
Where has gone your Sun?!
Bravo! Bravo!! Bravo!!!
“Of course, Yes.”
No more you’re Sun
No more sons you’ve
Now and never then
Our Sun is setting unto the East
Into the warm lap of mother-earth
Where nomadic Huns stopped to think
And, friendly ants start to reshuffle the histories
Where unploughed margin of your memory
Getting avowed to attain more
And
Liminal thread for life’s balance sheet
Happily but heavily telling the story of affection and affliction
Their thrust of love
Innocence of their heartbeats
Purity of their bosoms
And never-ever unsolved equation
Of words and worlds
Being aside at and some where
At Muster points of meeting and parting
Love only love
Love to myself
Love to humanity
Love to hatred
Love to love
Where Death’s dearth
Life’s in claustrophobia
Existence is bloomed
Life harkens an eternal voice of civilizations
“Aba! Aba!!”
“Lamma sabacthani!!  lamma sabacthani!!”
“Peace be upon you”
“Peace be upon you”
No more wars in the lands of none
No more fights in the psyches of none
No more feuds in no man’s lands

Repeatedly yet persistently
Sandy is the Sand
Hot is Sally and sales
Both are beguiling
Beguile is thrown into air
“Listen to the sound of silence,
Listen to the voice of de-voiced;
And listen to the backward portion of margins”

Time After Time.html

There is a beautiful moment where I can see your face,
Which exists only between time and space

Time shreds space  and wears off fashion,
And leaves us hopeless for our precious compassion

Space consumes times without our consent,
Then hides the reality after our seclusion was spent

The space after moment reconnects another moment
Which shortens our distance like a magical solvent

Our love is regained when we meet in between
And we can live together happily after again

Kiran T Limbu
23 April 2013

Oh, Subru! Hi, Humanity.html

                                                                — Ram Prasad Prasain

 

Retiring the tiresome day

He bid and told me,

Wrapping up the all conversations,

“Sir, don’t send my body to my country”

“Why?”

 I was in grave consciousness,

Continuously vibrates my auditory drum

“Coz, my wife has no ways to run my funeral rites and rituals”

 

Striking at celebrated celibacy of silence

Again, he threw another hypnotic epiphany,

“I planned to demolish my second son in the womb”

He murmured again, “He came; and he lives a living death”

“Kids were thrown into being”, Yes, I know.

To prove my masculine potency

And, her fertile blossom, “They are our ego gratifications”,

Without being asked a single question

And, again and repeatedly

Without bearing a single alternative solution

 

No permission was granted before their arrival

Neither were they welcomed after their emergences

Of course, “He must be an outcome of common game”

That deserves to be an end game

At the brim of the promised dream

 

Nurture the NATURE

NURTURE the EMPOWERMENT

Dig a pit to unplug the minds of consciousness

Cover the chasm to fortified differences

To rejoice fractions and cracks

To verify falsification

And to justify the verdict underpinning ration rather than REASON

Change the change

Change the cloths

Change the genitals

Replace a stone in your heart

It will revitalize climes and dimes

“Cultivate a willingness to change”

Foster a culture of communications

Deviate from the norms

When my grandpa was eating apples

Newton rejoiced innovative taste

His mind valley was brewing the beverages

Of consciousness and ratiocination

With the untangled labyrinths of alcoholic intoxication

 A scream in vacuum

“Walk the talk”

“Talk the talk”

The first line of defense

 

The sky is falling

Cloudy and misty lands unwind my spirits

As a winnow churns out the chaffs from green paddy lines

Prosperity empowers chewing gum factories

Through the optical fibers of our nerves

The retina of fragility ensures strength into the inner core of regular beats

Where the germinated seeds

Are being blooming on your bald pumpkins and gourds

Where happiness is harrowing wheel barrow of sensations

Perception is received

Uncle Rip Van Winkle

Setting fire nearby the tomb of Uncle Tom

Deeply sleeping in deep desert of monotony

Where the Sun is holding a mirror

An elegy of dead death has been engraved

At the cherry orchard of lively living alive life

Lurking latently towards the Whorfian vision of semiotic and symbolic

Eternity of lacing entirety of flux, mutability and full-fledged lovely life

 The green leaves are fluttering around us

And we stand up

We are green with greenery

We became greenery and we found blooming green buds

Wrapping up the all conversations,

I was in smoggy way of memoirs and consciousness

And, I remembered Subru,

“Sir, don’t send my body to my country”

“Why?”

 I was in grave consciousness,

Continuously vibrates my auditory drum

“Coz, my wife has no ways to run my funeral rites and rituals”

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