By Kamala Sarup
Now my uncle is murdered by Maoists. My uncle was taken advantage of by the murderous political system. So his death was grievous enough. I'm standing next to his dead body with a pain-filled spirit. He was a great poet. Many people in my family used to tell me that when they met me. As a result, I read most of his poems. Moreover, he used to provide me for my reading of all his poems published himself. How happy he was the day that one of his poems got out.
But his poetry revolved around dissatisfaction with life, failure, conflict and isolation. At times my mind was terribly upset by severe pinches, and I was hurt as if these poems were spreading salt and sourness on my emotional wounds. I've always met him at the corner across the street from our house on foot alone. If he did not appear there just for one day, I was pursued by an indescribably disagreeable feeling. I felt hurt and threw my eyes away waiting to get a look at him.
There's nothing unusual about a woman loving her uncle. When such thoughts rose in my head, I had a most bitter feeling at that moment. He was totally dissatisfied with his life and I had detected it whenever he repeated to me the quarrelsome attitude of his own life. It happened one day that when I was busy eating my meal, he arrived at our house in haste. I saw that his face had turned quite dark and perhaps because he was extremely sad. On that day he had a bitter quarrel with his family and he had come to me to console himself.
I was happy to have him come to me, because I was waiting for him. I had almost firmly placed him in a corner of my heart like a respected uncle. He fed me, paid for my studies and gave me all the clothes I needed. I prayed to God every day that he would come to our house so that I could keep a close eye on him and love my uncle.
I feel proud even to think of the word love and a kind of emotional shudder runs all over me and I ask myself whether it was at all proper to respect my simple teacher uncle. But even though I was trying to get away from reality, my weakness had become very strong and I could not forget her face. Maybe I had tried terribly to attract the presence of my uncle closer to me. I was constantly disturbed by his personality and talent from within. He loved his family and the country very much. He accepted any kind of terror situation in the country. His only unhappiness was that his work was wrong.
“Kamu, sometimes my heart pains very much when I see Maoists behavior.” He said in such a manner that I was altogether different from his relatives and I was his only one whom he could share his pain. But what am I to do with his pain? I couldn't do anything for him because my parents, my younger siblings, we're all dependent on me. And all responsibility for running my life came back to me. That's why I couldn't help him without love.
During the last four months, he started writing. I tried not to prevent him from writing, but he developed a pretty negative attitude toward my suggestions. I was completely tired of making him realize that he was not listening to my demands at all. And today he encountered his death because of Maoist violence.
I am particularly saddened. I am very disturbed on the inside as a person who loved me and loved me and died today. Right now, I see people rushing to offer their condolences. Some individuals are shedding their crocodile tears with garlands in their hands and praises in their mouths of his poems. And today after his death he is being praised as the greatest of all poets. I, on my side, I look at these people and the corpse without saying the slightest word.
Now I wonder where justice lies for my uncle?
