The joke of name

The readers know me with this very name. It means, my real name is not Chanky Shrestha. What is my real name ? This is a genuine question, and I respect it. I hope to disclose it at the end of this column.
I did not love my real name. What was there in name ? I was overwhelmed by it. I thought my life was unsuccessful, as I faced vertigo everywhere due to the very rascal name. I thought the person who has such a name is always unfortunate and poor. It seemed, my name and poverty used to run together, as fast as possible, as if they were in a hurry to reach a point. What would take place if they reach there ?
I became enemy to my own name. Often it used to follow me, sometimes as a cannibal to pounce upon, sometimes as a cobra hissing to sting and sometimes as a notorious murderer to stab a sharp razor. Though, it was a dream, the fear of my name did not leave me fearless.
One day, it stood before me, as my own duplicate.
‘Never will I leave you free. As you know I love you very much and without imprisonment, man looses his identity ?’ he said.
I realised that I had been victim of trickery, a verbal embellishment, a metaphor. And in a voice choked with resentment, I said, ‘What does the rascal identity mean whereas it always makes me sink into the pond of poverty and misfortune ? I must kill you to rescue myself from your hell imprisonment.’
Then we both attacked each other with sharp swords. All of a sudden, I woke up before the result. What would happen if we both were killed ?
Then after, I said to myself, change your name babusaheb, if you want to be successful in your life. And the time came; I invented my new name, which was extraordinary, and wrote it down in my poetry, diarybook and everywhere but nobody called me with it. (I don’t have parents, and not having parents is the first precondition of freedom to change one’s name. I am sorry if I happened to mean loosing parents is preferable.)
Then only I was known with the new name as a poet, storywriter and freelancer as I became the winner of a big poetry competition. I had to wait for it very much.
The past was clothed in new tafetta. Alas the joke of life, now I feel the new one also does not favour me and rather mocked with. And this creature also seems to me a prancing bufoon, a clown, an enemy making fun of me, as if I am walking with a strange mocking clown on my head.
The people make joke of my name, usually those who are not aquainted with my writings.When I call friends at their home, the family members generally mispronounce and ask my name repeatedly. (As you also may feel it is not a common name and very difficult for the general people to pronounce. My name is as if foreign language and men mispronounce it.) I can do nothing more than being irritated. Yes, that is why, I tried frequently to change my second name too. Some friends made joke that I had to organise a press conference to make my new name public. But this time I was totally failed, since the new name has been as my own image. It looked like a penance. What can I do now as this name is inseparable like my own skin ?

Well, I had promised you to disclose my real name. What is my real name ? Shoot the issue. It is not important that much. The past has been clothed in new tafetta. (If you are really eager to know, someday I must disclose it.)

Who am I ?

A would-be unique Nepali novel has made me nostalgic. A tall, thin and rough-tough-hasty-nasty man used to appear in Spacetime Dainik where I was a founding journalist. It is about 7 years back. Later on, he came to be known to me as Lilaraj Khatiwada. He used to write entertainment news. I remember an interview with Chhiring Ritar, the director of famous Nepali feature film Mukhundo, by him which was much more interesting. I don’t remember whether Lila was a staff jornalist or a stringer. After a short span of time, he disappeared. We were just hi-hello friends, never had we been intimates then. Later on, he used to be sometimes unexpectedly in touch with me in Anamnagar.

Truely speaking, I never paid attention to him seriously, nor did he. About three months ago, Sudarshan Ghimire, the President of Education Journalists’ Group, forwarded me an email which was munuscript of a novel ‘Ma ko hun’ (Who am I ?) by Lila. Ghimire asked me to be the copy editor of the novel. I can’t reject any request which I feel is hearty. Though I had piles of manuscripts to be read and to be written on including some professional works, I accepted the request.

The novel is really dangerously marvellous. Rahul Lamichhane, a young man suffering from Schizofrenic (I am sorry if the spelling is wrong), wanders here and there in search of his own identity. The questions arising within him are awesomely philosophical. Rahul thinks his wife Katya and the surrounding are conspiring against him, he left the country and wanders different towns of India. Sometimes he thinks he is a prince, sometimes Pratapjung Rana, sometimes he forgets who he is.

The content is offbeat. The craft and language, dialogues full of poetic and philosophical sobriety really take the readers at their scruff and compels to keep on reading until it ends.

I really enjoyed Lila’s novel. I think this will be declared an important Nepali novel. If the media will be with Lila, it will be an another good-seller.

Let’s hope the novel be published first. Best wishes, my dear Lila.