This is Radio Nepal- A motivational Story

 'This is Radio Nepal'

This is Radio Nepal
Child listening to radio !!


 There was only one radio in the house. My father used to sleep only after listening to the BBC Nepali service at 9.45 pm. So the radio was on the rest of the night. I slept in the back of a large cupboard beside my parents' bed. Everyone in the house had a habit of going to bed early and getting up early. I slept late at night and woke up late. So I would come quietly at night and pull the radio from my father's head to my head.


 I listened to the radio in a very soft voice. Radio Nepal would close at 11 pm, then I would search for channels on Shortwave. How many Indian channels were picked up? I listened until 1 o'clock. In the morning, he would take the radio from my head to listen to religious programs. Later it became a rule. When my father was asleep, I would turn on the radio. When I was asleep, my father would turn on the radio. It was as if we had reached an agreement in silence.

 One Saturday night at half past eight I was listening to the radio. A new program has started, the same day - 'Samjhana Kusum'. Hindi ghazals were playing in the program. If a singer sang lazily in a soft voice, I understood that it was a ghazal. Ghazals did not play much. I grew up in Kailali listening to film songs like 'Chad Gaya Upar Re, Ateria Pe Lautan Kavutar Re'. I liked that kind of song. And, the same song was played on the 'loudspeaker' of the drama. Whether it was someone's wedding or the school's Saraswati Puja, Tharugaun's gimmick or the school's cultural program, Mohammad Aziz, Udit Narayan Jha and Kumar Sanu's songs used to play. Alka Yagnik who accompanies almost everyone.

In 'Didi Tera Devar Diwana', I had danced hip-hop at weddings. My past was linked to such songs. Listening to such songs, I reached the past of my life and I liked such songs. I was looking for a similar song on the radio.

 But, such songs did not ring in my mind. Deuda was played in cassette shops. I didn't understand because of the language. Radio Nepal also played such songs in a few programs. Radio Nepal's time was filled with folk songs, language songs, modern songs. I was compelled to listen to the song played on the radio. And, I made such a song a narrow paste to reach my past.

 At first, I liked the sound of the announcer running the program 'Samjhana Kusum'. She spoke softly. She spoke every word with love. When he said 'this is my first show', I still paid attention. Because, I memorized all the programs that were broadcast from Sunday to Saturday. What about the new program? What are the parts in it?

I became alert. Many ghazals on the radio that day. But, what fascinated anyone? I listened to the whole ghazal. At half past nine, Sara Manm Bazaar was asleep. The rain from my window was blowing softly. I looked out of the window at the high mountain. Who was sitting in a sheet of the moonlight. The sheet was studded with pearl-like stars. I was lost in the soft voice of 'Jagjit Singh'. Beautiful nature, emptiness and the sound of water gushing in the lake.


 My eyes were looking out of the window but my mind was on a journey to the past. My eyes, heart and ears were filled with joy for the first time. The sadness that sat in the heart became a bird's feather and flew in the open sky.

 For the first time, I enjoyed listening to quiet and melodious ghazals. I liked the program. At the end of the program, the announcer said, 'If you have created any ghazal, send it to our address. We will read. '

 She said the address. I lit a torch. I flipped through the sheets of paper and hurriedly picked them up. And, the announcer finally said, 'Let me give leave to Diksha Bhatt too. Good night

 That was a really good night for me.

  ...

I woke up in the morning.

 I searched for the poem I wrote for the first time. I forgot which copy I wrote. I searched the floor and found my poem in a science copy - like a dried rose petal. Once I read the poem, I felt fine. I decided to send this poem to the radio. I moved it to a clean sheet in beautiful letters.

 

 Who do you show before sending it to the radio ?

 Didi Tulsi was standing at the counter of the shop. I went to her side and placed the copy in front of her.

 'What is it?' The sister asked.

 "Read the poem I wrote," I said shyly.

 Sister smiled, 'Why did you write?'

 Well, I like to write. Is this also the question to ask? However, I did not want to provoke the first reader. I said slowly, 'I'll send it to the radio.'

 She read the poem with her lips and laughed.

 "How do you feel?" I asked in a dead voice.

 "Poetry is good." Didi said, "The letters of the poem sent on the radio should be good and short and long."

 Well, I didn't know that. I used to write on a piece of paper with the tip of the dotpen firmly buried, the dotpen could not be chipped, so the letters were fine, but how to combine this short and long?

 "You don't mix." I begged.

 "I don't want to come." Didi said, "But looking at your letter, it seems that the short and long do not match."

 Who would want to date a person who can't even spell his name correctly? I thought a lot but no one's face came to mind.

 I just swallowed

I listened to the same program again next week. Ghazals have already been sent from Syangja and Chitwan. Diksha recited in a sweet voice. The ghazals were written in the same spirit of separation. It sounded good. My mind became stronger. Even if the composition is sent from outside Kathmandu, it will be read. And, even if it is not excellent, it will happen. And, I clenched my fists - what if I didn't shake for a long time? Emotion is a big thing.

 Now I send ghazals on the radio.

 I swear, but two or three days have passed. What did I think of my own name - Buddhiram Chapai. I felt embarrassed. Again, in Manma, anyone would ask, 'What is this chapai?'

 When I was in Kailali, I had never heard such a question. I have been listening to 'Chapai' since I started to know it. Get used to it. I chewed the whole village. The villagers are also used to it. When we came to Kalikot, the orangutans started flying while throwing stones at Golo.

 Government employees who came around the district said, 'We heard Guragai, Chaulagai, Bajgai, Amgair, Chapagai but for the first time we heard Chapagai. What are you doing?

 What? '

 Once an employee in our shop asked, 'Choi, whose shop is this?'

 Chwai?

 We laughed uncontrollably. Later I found out that Chwai is also a surname. It is moving more towards the east. I was finally shocked - I have never heard so many surnames. Chaudhary, Lamichhane, Rawal, Khatri, Jaisi, Poudel, Shahi, Vik and Khan - these were the last names I heard. Just as I used to laugh heartily when I first heard 'chwai', so do others like to laugh heartily when they hear 'chapai'.

 'What is this chapai? Where did it come from? ' Not only me, but my father and mother were listening to the question. Nepalis are more interested in 'Thar', I finally found out. And, find out how important 'Thar' is. I used to find questions everywhere, whether at school or on the road, but I could not answer them. I used to say, 'Chapai is Chhetri. Surkhet and Kailali are everywhere. ' But, Bale would answer a little deeper, 'Chapai is a surname that has been around for seven generations. They live in the far west and midwest. Ekthari says that he migrated from Chapagaun in Kathmandu to Surkhet and became 'Chapagain'.

 Even though it is a strange surname to hear, 'Chapai' is a surname that has come a long way in history - that too with bare legs. My surname, which starts with 'ch' like a bird's nest, looked original even when looking at it like this. Devanagari's thirty-six syllables seem to have been chosen. At school, the teachers did not write my last name correctly. Most of the chiefs used to write 'chapai'. If you have to write in English, what is it? Ba used to say that 'CHAPAIN' is pure spelling. The heads would miss the last 'n'. 'N', yes sir. They would sniff, 'You know me?'

 Anyway, I kept fighting for my family. Therefore, the long history of 'Chapai' should not be ignored. 'Chapair' is fine. Another disliked word was between 'Buddhi' and 'Chapai' - Ram. Buddhiram: What does your name look like? In Kailali, 'Ram' used to be among many names, but in Tharu village. In the hilly villages, 'Prasad', 'Kumar', 'Bahadur' and 'Krishna'. My father's name was 'Bahadur' but how did 'Ram' come between my brother's name and mine? Why didn't I become 'brave'?

 The names I have heard are often derived from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. The astrologers spread the names of the warriors of the Mahabharata all over the village. Ramayana and Mahabharata were the only repositories for Jyotishba. Some were called 'Krishna', some were called Arjuna, some were called Bhishma, some were called Laxman, some were called Shiva, some were called Ganesh. The girls are Lakshmi, Parvati and Sita. But, I had never heard of a man named Ravana and a woman named Draupadi. The astrologer had the illusion of naming - as the name suggests, people are becoming the same.

 There were two famous gods in Kailali, Rama and Krishna. Everyone must have thought that their children were Rama and Krishna. If everyone named their children Ram and Krishna, there would be a procession of 'Ram-Krishna' all over the village, even for the post office. So, is it possible that 'Ram' and Krishna are secretly inserted in the middle?

 So is 'Ram' inserted in my name too?

 Before sending the ghazal on the radio, I decided to change the name a little. Whether it was music or a literary program, the names that came to my mind started ringing in my mind. Everyone was hanging something behind the name. Wounded, tearful, homeless, afflicted, crippled, crying, miserable and so on. I was thinking that the name sent on the radio should be a little sad. Creation is also sad, name is also sad. The announcers also recited the composition in a sad voice. Radio Nepal of 054 Salta had put on musical programs every day after the news at 9 pm. Poems, ghazals and muktaks were often recited to the audience. Sad names were recited. Thinking like this, it seemed that the country is being filled with sorrows. Young people all over the country are 'wounded' by unconditional love. There are only tears in his eyes.

 I wanted to change my name, but I didn't want to make a sad name.

 I pulled out a Nepali dictionary wrapped in red hair. I struggled all day but found words that touched my heart. I thought - there is no word I am looking for in a dictionary full of millions of words.

 And, I started reading magazines.

 Daily newspapers would come to the government office after weeks. Every day at 1 o'clock in the afternoon, I would reach the door of the post office carrying a daily newspaper like a pipe. Hakim Saap was reading the old newspaper in the sun outside the office, leaning on his chair. Fifteen days after reading the news of the overturned bus, he was terrified. The whole Manm Bazaar was cursed to read the old news. The government radio did not broadcast the news sought by the revolutionary-minded rulers. That's why they read the news late.

 I liked to read magazines but I was forced to go to government offices and ask for magazines. There was only one magazine shop in Manma. Sauji was a communist ideologue, so he brought magazines like the party's mouthpiece. Even so, he occasionally brought magazines such as Nawayuwa, Yuvamanch and Madhupark. On the day I brought the magazines, I would buy them one by one, but I would kneel in the sun and read. But, sometimes the magazines did not come for months. At that time, he was wandering in the market, thirsty for magazines.

 Manma was full of traders who came in search of opportunities. There was no one to read the magazine. Manma was full of chiefs who had passed the public service. They read public service books but did not read magazines. Hakim read only snakes, with which I was afraid to speak. After scattering for several days, I came to know that magazines would be filed and kept at the Agricultural Materials Center. It is like a small library. There you can read the file by flipping it. The agri-materials center was in the middle of the market but no one came, it was quiet. I started running there. Sitting in a dark room smelling of mold, I read an old magazine.

 But, one day, Hakim Sap of the Agricultural Ingredients Institute had a party all night. Five people have drunk sealed alcohol. Only one person wakes up in the morning, whose eyesight is gone. Others are unconscious. Alcohol mixed with poison is consumed. The police put everyone in a helicopter from Surkhet and sent them away.

 For many days, the whole market was buzzing. Then, magazine filing stopped in that office.

 I was 'injured' again by the bottom of the magazine.

 But, I put wisdom. Many traders in the market were already familiar. When I found out that some traders were coming to Surkhet to buy goods, I used to ask them to bring the magazine by paying money. Someone would return the money saying 'I forgot', while others would come back with the magazines they found in a hurry. Most of them used to bring literary magazines Madhupark and Grihalakshmi in Hindi language.

 I flipped through the pages of the old magazines I had and started looking for a name that suited me.

 I was looking at the old issue of Madhupark - I saw a name, Buddhisagar Parajuli. Kum was added in the middle of the name - 'Sagar'. I once pronounced my name in my mind with 'Sagar'. What a beautiful sight. I smiled and uttered again - Buddhisagar Chaparin. The name seemed to be correct. Let's write once. I ran the nib of the pen over the copy. Even when you look at the writing, it looks good. And, I made the first and most serious decision of my life.

 I took two bricks from the name made of letters bricks and added three bricks. My name has been restored.

 'Ram', who was hiding in the middle of my name, went into exile again with sad eyes.

 ...

 Name ready. The radio has said to send ghazals. I have written a poem. There may be some difference between ghazal and poetry. Who should I ask now?

 There were no poets in the market. There were merchants - they only wrote loan accounts in the name of writing. There were employees - they only wrote leave letters. There were police - they only wrote letters to his wife at home. There were teachers - they only wrote arithmetic on the blackboard. There were one or two artists - they only wrote signboards. There were Ahabs - they wrote the name of the medicine on a small piece of paper. There were leaders - they only wrote requests for assistance to the JVC.

 There was no one to write poetry.

 I don't like to think too much. Based on listening to other people's ghazals on the radio, I had found out that ghazals are close to songs. There should be two letters. The last words have to be the same. And, I made Kanikuthi like a poem I wrote and put it on a clean sheet in as good a letter as possible.

 It was Friday. So I didn't go to school. Buy an envelope and bring it. Ghazal sheet folded like a heart inside the envelope

 Recently. I slapped the envelope lips with the glue. Of envelope

 I wrote the address on the outside. I ran to the district post office.

 On the west side of the market was the slope, the post office. There was a small house, it was quiet. There were few employees. There was only one when I left. He asked, 'Should I register this letter?'

 I do not understand

 "Register letters cost more." He explained, 'But, it is reliable. If the letter does not reach the address, it will be returned. The post office takes care of the register letter. If lost, the culprit is the post office. And, it arrives faster than a simple letter. The post office does not take care of ordinary letters. If the postman doesn't find the address, he'll just throw it away. '

 Ah, I finally understood. I remembered that while reciting the composition on the radio, the host used to say, 'Now here is the composition of such and such a person. He has sent a register letter.

 This is how it is. I decided to register. When the weight of the little letter was weighed on the scales, it came to fifteen-sixteen rupees. I gave The postman just spat and stamped the stamp on the stamp.

 I used to listen to my favorite radio. When he fell asleep, Patt would turn off the volume. I went back to sleep. From the day I sent the letter, listening to the radio, I was not the same as before. The day after I sent the letter, I remembered the day Kusum came. Bhavsuman started at half past eight. But, my heart was pounding. I was having a different experience. I knew that my letter sent from Manma yesterday would not reach Kathmandu today. However, my composition is read as if it was being scattered.

 Sanchalika Diksha read the composition from the mountain at the beginning. And, she played the ghazal. She read five compositions in the program. How many compositions were weaker than I sent, I got the courage, I am fine, of course I can read. At the end of the program, she happily thanked the audience, saying that she had received many letters. She urged everyone to send their creations. I smiled - I sent. That too by registering.

 The longest week of his life passed. Saturday came. Bhavasuman came. The initiation came. Five or six poems came but my composition did not come. My heart ached, but I thought the letter had not arrived yet. After the program, Jyan came back with the same warmth. Well, we had to wait another week.

 I sighed and turned around.

 Hard days began to pass. How about a week Sometimes I wondered what would happen if time could be rotated like the hands of a lost clock. I used to walk around from Sunday to Friday. Bhavasuman would come. But, time went on in its own style. For me, time was walking slowly, breathing like an old man.

 I tried to push the time forward, time was plowing its hooves on the ground like a stubborn goat, it was not walking.

  ...

 Janet had a very difficult week in my life. And, the day of Bhavasuman came. At nine o'clock at night, I turned around and put the radio on my chest like a cat. Remembering Kusum started. At the beginning, the ghazal of the listeners from Chitwan was recited. And Hindi ghazal was played. The second ghazal was recited by the listeners of Jhapa. I began to squirm. What is my turn? When the program started, my heart started beating fast, it seemed that it stopped beating slowly. It was as if I fainted at the end of the program. The bardali air of my soul had fallen down. I gave up hope. The heart said, "Will it come next week?" The mind used to say- never come, never come.

 Diksha, the host of the program, said at the end of the program, 'Today's program ends here.  

 

But gradually it is presented - 'Ghazal sent by Buddhisagar Chapai, a listener from Khandachakra, Manma-5, Kalikot.'

  Then my ears closed like water. It seemed to stop suddenly. It was like a stomach ache. What should I do? Diksha was reciting my ghazal. My heart was pounding out of my chest.

    I was tossing and turning like a man who had lost consciousness. The program was over. I feel sleepy. Feeling we have 'Run out of gas' emotionally. I started laughing alone in the dark.

      At this very moment, the plane of life had returned to change course. !!