The Mother's Dream (Gopal Prasad Rimal)

Gopal Prasad Rimal was a poet in Kathmandu, Nepal(1918-1973). During his adolescence, he came under the influence of revolutionaries who were aspiring to overthrow the then despotic Rana regime. Though Rimal had begun his career as a successful poet in 1930, and as a playwright in 1940, it was in 1941 that the real Rimal emerged on the center stage of Nepal's literary and political arena. In 1941, the brutal execution of the patriot Dashrath Chand and his friends fired Rimal's imagination and thus revolution became the bedrock of his creative ventures. Rimal founded a creative organization called "Praja Panchayat" to raise a voice against the suppression of Nepalese masses by the autocratic Rana rulers, and was imprisoned on several occasions for his involvement in the Movement. He played a pivotal role in making the 1950-51 Democratic Movement successful, but soon after he grew disillusioned. His dreams of a democratic Nepal were shattered as "harlots of anarchy" in the garb of democracy started dancing in the "castles of filth." Rimal lost his mental balance and was sent to an asylum in Ranchi. Later, he was brought back to Nepal to spend the rest of his life roaming insane in the streets of Kathmandu with the dream of a true democracy seething within him. Rimal died in 1973

The Mother's Dream

Mummy ! Will he come ?
"Yes, my child, he will come.
He will come pouring light like the morning sun.
You will see a weapon, shining like dew
Suspended from his waist,
With that will he fight evil !
You will at first imagine his presence to be an illusion,
And touch him with your fingers
To feel him, but he will come
More tactile than snow or fire."

Are you sure, Mummy?
"Yes, when you were born, I had hopes
To see him mirrored in your enchanting smile;
His soft voice in your lisping speech;
But that sweet song
Did not make you its flute.
You shall be he-
This was the dream of my youth.
Nevertheless, he will come
I'm the Mother, and as a mouthpiece
Of all the creative impulse,
I can say, will come he.
When he comes
You will not seek shelter
In my lap as you do now;
You will not listen to the truth
Entranced as if it were a fairy tale;
You yourself will be able
To see, bear and accept him;
Instead of listening to me in this way
You will leave for battle, giving
consolation to the inconsolable mother's heart,
I will no longer have to fondle your hair like this As if you were
An invalid.

You will see, he will come like a storm,
And you will follow him like a leaf !
In the past when he poured himself out like moonlight,
Falling down from life's sphere,
The vast immobile cosmos had wiggled.
He will come, my child,
And you will get up."
Will he come, Mummy?
As the coming dawn tickles the bird's throat
So is my anxious heart tremulous for his arrival.
"Yes, he will come like the morning sun pouring light.
Now, I get up and go.
But you shall be he-
This was the dream of my youth."

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Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people. - Adrian Mitchell