Bhupi’s dream

In 2006 a poet wrote his first poem into a notebook that could not be written in with a pen, but only with the blood of a once-King. The poet’s name was Bhupi Sherchan, and when he wrote, he wrote with a vigor, he wrote with a calm, and he wrote with the blood of the King Gyanendra, the remnants of which he had gathered from the edge of a staircase onto which the King had once fallen and cut part of his head—an event which, indirectly, led him to abdicate his throne, for what King who had no rule over his body could rule a country?

The ink with which Bhupi Sherchan wrote took two years to prepare. After he had collected the blood of the King, he oxidized it in two-parts alcohol and one-part coca cola for more than a year so that the red in the ink reddened and the stench hardened. When the oxidation had completed, Bhupi Sherchan had to sacrifice much of the ink in payments to his forefathers. Before, he had never known how many forefathers he had. There was his own father, Bhuwan Sherchan, and the father of his father, the brother of his father’s father, the father of his brother’s father’s father, the father of his father’s brother’s father, and as the red from the ink stained the legacy of his fathers, it lost meaning. By the time Bhupi Sherchan was ready enough to finally write the poem of his lifetime, he had spent all but a pinch of the ink, only enough for perhaps two lines. When he wrote, he wrote in Nepali; he wrote Nepal/ a bird rogi/ timi legacy of kasko/ mind ko marma/ ma tears jhaarchhu eklasma/ kathmandu in knots naya sadak ma/ justice dinma pretatma/ rakshi in a glass/ the director ko ho/ andho manchhe in a chair.

 On a swiveling chair a blind man learns to take in the world in its entirety and Bhupi Sherchan drinks the ink with which he writes to sprout leaves from his hands and his legs become stems and his head ripens to a fruit and he—for what remains of his life, turns into a flower.