Life is an onion after all

This biography of someone was written! That too only superficially at a young age, while still alive! It became a real meteor in the life of the monopoly of the orthodox dominant class everywhere, an unexpected meteor! The sponsor of this meteorite is Deepak Vetwal, who earned some money by sweating hard in the Gulf world and invested a part of it in this meteorite. The author of this meteorite is Ujjwal Prasai, who created this meteorite by researching and excavating the life of an ordinary man through five years of painstaking effort. And, this meteorite was printed and delivered to the public by 'Bela Prakashan', which prints something like this from time to time.

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When the topic of writing my biography arose, I was not very interested in it. Because, I thought, I have written enough about myself in my many memoirs. So what is left to write now? Why cheat the readers by repeating the same stale topic in a slightly different language-style in the name of biography writing? But the passionate insistence of a sponsor, a few exclusive friends and a publisher did not budge. It continued to say relentlessly - to write. How many things are missed to be written in the midst of life. By finding him, he will write about the hair of life. From a new angle, in a new style, in a new pattern. In this way, the sweet imagination of the new, innovative and new was done, but how did this mind-blowing imagination actually take shape in reality? The doubt remained in my mind.

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Bolkbol was to be written in two years, while doing so, the biography was written in five years. I was amazed when I listened to the author recite most of the last part of the biography in installments. Then the other people listening were as surprised as I was. Surprised, amazed and thrilled. In the process of writing a biography, Ujjwal Prasai has rediscovered his own skills. In the complicated process of writing, rewriting and rewriting, he has created such a language-style, which has filled the taste of narrative throughout the biography. When reading this, it seems that, not a monologue autobiography in the traditional style of biography, but a large-scale narrative is being read in the guise of a biography. This narrative biography is basically the story of my time—a story of my time full of righteous social friction, thunder and turmoil. And, in the vast canvas of time, a small man is positioned, somewhere in the mainstream of time, somewhere on the edge of time. That little man is me.

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On the day of the release of the biography, on the day of the release of the biography, I felt that Ujjwal Prasai has made me a special chautari of living in a declining age. Such a square, from which, looking back to the past, you can see the Nagbeli paths that you have traveled in history. And, it is seen that it is marked somewhere on the road and somewhere on the winding path, the ups and downs of the journey, victories and defeats, stances and disagreements, consistency and inconsistency of thoughts and actions, determination and escapes, courage and cowardice, etc. Shankar Lamichhane traces life's chain of known and unknown, visible and invisible, inner and outer layers with the letters of an onion. One letter of life is written, another letter comes. Another letter is written, another letter comes. More and more letters are written, more and more letters come. And it seems, this endless sequence of letters does not end anywhere.

When I saw the letters after the letters of my life revealed in this biography from a bright point of view, I felt that my life is a complicated chain of letters than what I thought, understood and told myself. The letters of life that were hidden from my own eyes in the midst of this mess, that I considered insignificant, neglected, forgotten in the course of time and stuck in the back of my brain or covered in the illusive cover of words to show myself as 'good me', became alive and moving before my eyes. And it struck me, life is actually a rainbow confluence of different colors. The various letters of life are visible in the complex network of my life depicted in

biography. Letters of time, letters of love, letters of various events, letters of attachment, letters of struggle between bhaktipath and vagipath, letters of conflict between bound thinking and nirbandha thinking, letters of righteous partisans, letters of controversy and counterargument, letters of friction and collision, letters of entering and leaving organizations, one campaign after another. Letters of travel etc. When I was saddened by these letters that Ujjwal Prasai uncovered through careful research, I felt that other piles of letters in the biography have gone away! Here, in a very happy mood, I said to myself - Brother, life is very interesting!

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We were sitting in a restaurant after attending the procession of squatters who were going to be evicted by the barbarian government. Especially in Bhavlok, we were sitting in my biographical chautari. There were glasses of beer on the table in front, our eyes turned to the distant past. Sipping a beer, Savin recited two letters of my life from the biography. One letter was about sexist patriarchy and the other letter was about racist nationalism. Savin asked Savinay - "Brother, weren't you afraid to speak like this in front of the world about these two issues?" Not afraid, but I definitely felt very uncomfortable. I felt really uncomfortable talking about my cultural illness, especially one associated with sexist patriarchy. How will my daughter Daisy feel when this ugly feeling of mine is revealed? What is the face of my father in his eyes? I wrote about this topic somewhere. Biographer Ujjwal Prasai whom I narrated for the first time with a relevant explanation of the incident. This is an event, which still makes my heart flutter with a tinge of melancholy when I remember it. Yes, this is an incident that destroys the human dignity of the daughter with utmost disregard! The event is like this. Life-partner Jamuna was pregnant in her womb. And, standing with two hands, she proudly said - 'I will have such a son.' However, more than this was the mark of the gender discrimination culture imposed on me by the patriarchy. I was studying B.Ed. in Kirtipur for one year. One day, while visiting Bhotahiti, I met Cheezkumar Piya, a friend from Bandipur. In a joyful voice, he told - 'Sir, Jamuna didi got a daughter.' Daughter? Suddenly, it was as if Heman's cube thundered in my mind. Yes! daughter? My heart became dark. I have not told Jamuna about this sexism of mine till date. Not to mention daughter Daisy.

This is the year 2032. At that time I was already a student of Marxist Lal Chintan. I had read a lot about women's awakening, women's equality and women's liberation in Soviet and Chinese literature. That reading of mine is just like water on a duck's wing. The disorder embedded in my culture is still strong. After all, where did this disorder come from? My younger brother was the youngest of ten siblings. His son was two days older than me. That was my dajya single zaifalwale. His single nutmeg was bigger than Lohoro. This boy was Lathebro, who had a huge nutmeg of small size. So Sana Kanchhau wanted a son who was the essence of life in this Asar world. In the hope of giving birth to a son, the mother of the youngest daughter kept having daughter after daughter. After the birth of the seventh daughter, Sanakanchhau said - 'You don't have to give food to the boy who gets a daughter.' The words of Sanakanchhau spread from one ear to the other through the field among the women of the village. And, he was heard to say - to carry a belly with so much pain, to give birth to a child after suffering unbearable pain, and thus to become a star of evil, ah! Women's bra! This is a heinous illustration of the extreme injustice of sexist patriarchy.

Ever since Ramram Chet came to consciousness, I saw many forms of discrimination against the daughter by the patriarchy at home. The son does not break the cycle in the housework, the daughter helps her mother with the work since she is disabled. The son sits on the fire in Angena's dill, the daughter carries water to the gagri while sipping Susyu, scrapes it on the ground, and makes lipo. The son eats rice, and the daughter cleans his dirty plate. The daughter washes the clothes, the son carries a slingshot and goes to some place. Daughter carries manure, son plays kheppi. Daughter goes to graze goats, son goes to school. The boy, who is full of hair and legs, shakes his head and climbs up to the top of the stove, his unmarried sister of a small caste is placed on the lower floor. The son of the alleged deed does not eat rice from his sister's hand. If he eats, his caste will disappear. The greatness of the son is always heard in the house. If he is a boy, he will eat hot water in his old age. If it is a son, when he dies, golden water leaks from his mouth. If it is a son, after his death, Vaitrani is given as Gaudan. And daughter? Kanyadan is given as a gift to a daughter. The son becomes the heir of the paternal property, the daughter gets only Anasuki's dowry due to the pity in the father's heart. The meaning of all these discriminatory behavior is that the son is superior, the daughter is inferior. A son is valuable, a daughter is worthless. The son is the owner of the property, the daughter is always dependent. Before marriage dependent in father's house, dependent in husband's house after marriage. A son is a householder, a daughter is a housewife. Maid of father's house before marriage, maid of husband's house after marriage. I was a victim of the patriarchy's mental illness, which was imposed on my brain by the whip of this discriminatory culture, traditions, customs and rituals. The disdain for my daughter's existence and rejection of identity from me was the disordered belching of this discriminating patriarchal culture. I have been fighting all my life against this mentality imposed by the patriarchy since I was very young. However, the belching of this traditional ritual, which is buried in the veins, in the blood particles, continues unknowingly. In the mirror of my past created by Ujjwal Prasain, the specter of the ghost of this ugly culture is sometimes still visible.

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Savin Ninglekhu has another question—I was afraid to say frankly that nationalism is a xenophobia? I fear that nationalism is the cause of emotional fragmentation? In other words, am I not afraid to say that I am not a nationalist? The fear was not so great, but the public confession of this truth was certainly not easy for me. For a long time in my life, nationalism became a symbol of my identity and prestige. It became a symbol of my self-esteem and self-respect. Let's say being a nationalist is being a genuine and proud Nepali. Let's say that being a nationalist is being the true heir of an ancient ancestor. As if being called a nationalist is a dignity of life, a pride, an ornament, an ornament. Where is it easy to call such a humongous thing that creates identity and increases prestige as mental illness? As hard as it was for me to say this for the world to hear, it was even harder to realize this bitter truth. After ruthless self-reflection, self-examination and severe self-struggle, when I realized this truth, the power of that realization gave me the courage to say it.

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As much as I was able to reveal to the world my feelings of complete denial of the existence and dignity of my daughter, I was not able to expose the underlying psychopathy in nationalism. There are reasons for this. I had no opportunity to lose in admitting that this nationalism was nepotism. Because I was not an aspirant or a beggar for any opportunity that anyone would provide. I was less worried about the bills that would be heaped on me than that nationalism was a pernicious agent of emotional fragmentation. Because when I speak the truth, what does it matter to me if the nationalists call me a traitor? Nationalism is a sign of arrogance and narrow-mindedness, what does it matter to me if the nationalists call me someone's broker? Nationalism 'Good me', 'Bad you', 'Chokho me', 'Bitulo me', 'Raithane original me', 'Ayatit Bhatuva ta', hence 'I giver', 'You beggar', 'I submissive', You are subordinates' etc. is the barbarism of the ruts. I dare not deny this inhuman barbarism, what does it matter to me if someone gets angry with me, gets angry, and pours a cloud of condemnation on me? If I do not ask for position, money, reputation, salary, award, praise, etc. in front of anyone, if someone gets angry with me when I speak the truth, murmurs, cuts his beard, vomits poison on me, what does it matter to me?

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We two brothers were still sipping beer in the same restaurant—friend Savin Ninglekhu and me. Looking at the paths you have walked in the past, looking at your footprints on those paths. And, grieving over their meanings. Savin recounted the story of the corrupting rituals imposed on his psyche by the gender-biased patriarchy. Savin's daughter is born. Some relatives are curious about how you felt when your daughter was born. In reply, Savin said - 'I was happy too but.....!' He scared, remembering the discriminatory sentiment that the remaining after remembering the discrimination. What was the end of what was 'but that' further disconnect? That was, ' The son of the son, 'Receive the elderly!' It is not the case in Newon's Gender's gender. Why In his Word, 'Fear!' What last night? The father's winter is afraid of the Kurufh and Trisar Lingavi, who has been made of adversity from the intention of motion. Lokstatics fear their image may be tarnished and the fear of being cut off his moral nose. Fear that I would like to be femaleist. Probcomings from the lining psychothy by the patriarcharise traditions, many such fear is walking in every man in every man. I think, Limon, one of the devils are the hope of obscure to open the Handhakaki Poll.

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