He has indeed become a historical figure representing an era. People might not agree with each of his opinions or principles; that’s a separate issue. Everyone has their own thoughts, feelings and ways of doing things. But no Nepali can forget his service to our national language, even if they try. At the prime of his life, he devoted precious years to the development of Nepali language, especially concerning prose writing. We haven’t been able to honour him as much as he deserves. We certainly owe him and I’m confident that in the future, we will rectify our behaviour.

There won’t be further attempts to discount his incomparable contributions to various disciplines just because some people disagree with some of his propositions. Because the present is already indicating a certain kind of future. Yes, he is Ram Mani Acharya Dixit. The person who founded the Gorkha Bhasa Prakashini Samiti with the intention of serving his mother tongue even during the cruel era of Rana–Shahs. Someone who used the alias Matri Prasad Sharma Adhikari, escaped to Benaras, founded the newsmagazine, Madhavi, specifically to develop the Nepali language and began publishing in 1908. Madhavi, which undoubtedly pioneered the tradition of literary prose writing in the context of Nepali literature.

The esteemed poet Shree Lekhnath’s character of Atmaram, who says, ‘Keep studying and making a name for yourself’ was probably based on Shree Ram Mani, they say. Shree Ram Mani who helped the poet financially, encouraged him to get immersed in literature, and provided support in various ways. And the poet wasn’t the only one aided by him. Numerous writers have been receiving support from Shree Ram Mani; in return, these writers have been contributing to literature.

Known for leading a movement against the halanta rule in Nepali grammar, he still feels as strongly about this stance as he did at the beginning of that revolution when he declared his dissatisfaction despite consistent pressure from Shree Bal Krishna Sama and the late Guru-ji Pandit Hemraj.

Even now he says, ‘I am well aware that due to my rejection of the halanta rule, I am excluded from polite society today; my contributions are no longer honoured. Nobody respects me. But I absolutely believe that my principle will certainly be vindicated one day. The halanta rule will definitely get rejected.’ His entire being was infused with this belief, not just his sentences.

About six feet tall and full bodied, he had a thick moustache and hair whitened by experience. Despite being over eighty years old, his face was bright, his movements active, and his voice spirited. His principles were reflected in his deep love for the mother tongue and the way he was enthusiastic about his vocation even at old age. Having become a mythic figure in one’s own lifetime, Ram Mani-ji, having no relations with the outside world, lived in Gairidhara’s quiet Shanti Niketan area. That’s where I went one day in order to fulfil a long-held wish to meet him. Kumar Gyawali, a friend who had facilitated this meeting, was also with me.

The four of us—Ram Mani-ji, his son, my friend, and I—were already seated inside Shanti Niketan’s library. Our initial exchange indicated that he was a little too courteous. Suffice to say, when he addressed me, a young man sporting the first signs of a moustache, using the most formal pronouns, I was a tad embarrassed. To distract myself, I scanned the library and asked him, ‘How many books are collected here?’

‘Only 8,300 books. I used to be much more enthusiastic but I stopped collecting in the thirties.’

‘Why did you stop?’

‘What can I say—there were all kinds of politics. In fact, 1930 was the year I lost everything.’

The room was filled with books. In fact, other than books, there was nothing else. Ram Mani-ji was leaning against a wall, seated in front of a desk; scattered on either side were books and notepads. The three of us sat across from him.

‘How are you spending time these days?’

Each word in his response was laced with pride, ‘I’ve been waking up at three in the morning ever since I was in my early thirties, in order to write until eight. I would spend the rest of the day studying. But these days, due to old age, I spend a lot of time resting and I only write when I feel like it. I can’t seem to find much reading material because I don’t like anyone other than Lekhnath.’

‘Are you implying that we don’t have any writers here? Is Lekhnath the be-all and end-all of Nepali literature?’

His answer was determined, ‘Yes. One can say that. Nepali literature hasn’t progressed as much as it should have. Hindi literature and Nepali literature commenced in the same period but when you compare them today, there is a huge gap.’

Instead of arguing with his thesis, I asked him about his writing routine. He replied, ‘I’ve been writing poems these days; and also attempting to expand my old dictionary.’

‘How do you collect words?’

‘I prepared this Mani dictionary after consulting with everyone, including the late King Tribhuvan as well as ordinary folks. I still remember some phrases I received from the late Shree Paanch King Tribhuvan. Once, when I was consulting with soldiers at a barrack, I was even suspected of being a CID member. Out of everything I have written, I love this dictionary the most. When it comes to poetry, I have written a hundred and fifty thousand verses so far.’

I was so entranced by him that instead of jotting ‘one hundred and fifty thousand verses’, I jotted ‘one hundred and fifty thousand books’. I only realised my mistake when my friend noticed it later.

‘How many words have you collected so far? And why didn’t you bother publishing the dictionary?’

He replied in an animated tone, ‘There are four hundred eighty-seven thousand and thirty-one words so far. This was the first attempt in the history of Nepali literature. The publishing cost will be about a hundred thousand rupees, which I don’t have. When I sent a proposal to the government asking for support, it was ignored. I have requested Shree Paanch now; let’s see what happens.’

After expressing my regret regarding the financial situation, I changed gear, ‘I almost forgot to ask—When did you start writing?’

‘My literary career began in 1897 when I wrote Madhav Nidan for the first time. And I began the campaign against halanta in 1905.’

‘What’s the basis of your campaign against the usage of halanta?’

‘The language is beautiful as is and it’s also easier for the printing press without the halanta. Earlier, even Lekhnath, Chakrapani, and a few other writers agreed with me, as one can note when Lekhnath wrote Shokprawaha in 1913 and later when Chakrapani Chalise wrote Lalitya. Later, I don’t know why, even they deserted me.’

A pile of journals were stacked inside a closet. Later, I found out that he has been keeping a diary since 1916 when his son told me that if those were printed, the gaps in Nepal’s history from that era would be filled.

In a way, I had completed my mission related to this meeting. I made a final request, ‘Do you have a message for us, based on your experience and knowledge?’

‘I’ve been serving Nepali language for a long time. I’d like to witness its upliftment and progress. Anyone who goes against that is my enemy. If there’s an infestation, I’ll either kill the pest or die. That’s all I’d like to say.’

The meeting left me with mixed feelings: I was happy I’d met him and also sad considering how others had mistreated him. For seventeen years, he had worked closely with Shree Teen Chandra. Later, he became involved with the Gorkha Bhasa Prakashini Samiti and served as its director for another seventeen years. Ram Mani, who was willing to die for the sake of the Nepali language, was now ignored by everyone. How regretful that someone like him was now disgraced. Is it surprising that I’m saddened by this state of affairs?

—22 April 1962

Sardar Ram Mani Acharya Dixit was a prominent scholar and diplomat who exercised significant power during the Rana regime. He served as the first chairman of the Gorkha Bhasa Prakashini Samiti established in 1913. He was also the editor of the influential literary journal, Madhavi. He passed away in 1972 at the age of 90.