Patan, the capital of fine arts, and one of its courtyards—Nag Bahal! Perhaps the nagas lived here in ancient times, those that attack others. But times have changed a lot, and these days, instead of the nagas, people live there. Like this man who lives in the same Nag Bahal, as if compelled by tradition. Just like the nagas, he is adept at striking others. But there is a significant difference—the nagas attack those they are angry at, without discernment, compelling the victim to only suffer. But anyone struck by this man might eventually get inspired to improve. There are other similarities: like how nagas hold jewels within their hearts while our naga might not wear a jewelled headdress but his name itself is ornamented—Ratna Dhoj Joshi.

‘Whoa! Summer has arrived it seems, right, Ratna dai?’ I spoke while entering the room, trying to make sure not to bump my head on the rafter.

‘Right. Afternoons are getting really hot.’ My words received validation.

Two old-fashioned cupboards stacked with books faced each other inside Ratna dai’s small room. A mattress was laid in a corner and close to it was a cot he was using as a writing desk.

‘Who are you scolding now in this beautiful handwriting?’ I blurted wryly.

‘I don’t scold; I criticise—to clarify the story, the writer and the reviewer’s stance.’

I asked again, ‘Criticism? What is criticism in your opinion?’

‘Criticism involves introducing the writer and the writing without bias, as well as providing context as to why this was written.’ His response was straightforward.

‘Do you think you have been able to uphold this principle sincerely in your daily work?’ It felt like he got slightly startled by my question. Because this was his response: ‘As far as I know, I stick to my principles while reviewing. Criticism is tricky because as soon as one embraces this discipline, one can’t reflect on the craft perfectly. Some of this is based on my own experiences. I familiarised myself with literature from the mid-forties to the mid-fifties; but it was only after that that I began forming specific ideas about its various aspects.’

‘But you are known for declaring a writer and their work to be good but specifying the reasons only much later. For example, the way you treated [Bhawani] Bhikchhu and [Govinda Bahadur] Gothale.’

He replied promptly: ‘I wrote some nice things about Bhikchhu in 1944 and about Gothale in 1959. The difference was due to the gap in years. As for principles, I firmly believe that I am principled.’

‘Ratna dai, what’s the relationship between writers and critics in Nepali literature? You must have a lot to say regarding this?’ I was still within the purview of criticism.

He took a deep breath and began, ‘Yes, I am quite experienced regarding that. There needs to be a degree of tolerance when it comes to the dynamic between writers and critics. Writers want critics to only write nice things. They simply don’t realise that critics are not working to serve writers.’

His answer naturally made me feel uncomfortable.

This discomfort, in turn, amplified the sorrow I was feeling­—as if fuel was added to fire—having witnessed his delicate financial state. Despite providing tuition lessons in the mornings, spending afternoons as a schoolteacher, and taking shifts at the Jor Ganesh Press after 3 pm, he still struggled to make ends meet, often looking for additional work. His own words: ‘I will tell you directly how my financial state is—not good! And it affects my literary life.’

I was in front of Shree Ratna Dhoj Joshi, who was clad in the traditional bhoto suruwal, with a dusky complexion, and slightly pockmarked face. His eyes looked irregular, his hairstyle a bit obsolete, and his height and build were average. And in front of us was tea and omelettes brought by his mother. Sipping tea, I looked at him—his childhood was spent in mama-ghar, where his mother grew up. He had ventured into the literary field after being inspired by Tara Prasad Regmi, [Bal Krishna] Sama, and Lekhnath [Poudyal]; and after studying the Tulsikrit Ramayana relentlessly for twelve years. His first poem ‘Basanta Gaurab’ was published in Sharada in 1939. Although he dabbled with poetry and prose initially, he has limited himself exclusively to criticism since 1944. To make up for his lack of English knowledge, he collects texts translated into Hindi, proof of which lay scattered around his room. Still sipping, I asked, ‘Ratna dai, who are your favourite writers?’

‘This can be problematic but still, regarding foreigners I.A. Richard, [Benedetto] Croce, Yogendra Nath Vasu, Marx, Darwin, and Freud and in Nepal, it’s not like I don’t like anyone. But Sama’s wholesome and conflicting poems; and I have indeed been influenced by Siddhicharan and Madhav Ghimire.’

‘And what about your own work?’ My questions followed a similar format.

The ones I feel good about are Sama’s Chiso Chulo, ‘Kathakar B. P. Koirala’, ‘Katha, Kathakar ra Alochak’, ‘Ghimire-Ji ko Lok Kabya’, and ‘Nepali Sahitya ko Goretoma’.

‘These days, do you only revisit old work or have you been working on something new?’ My question felt a bit rude but since I had already blurted it, I was compelled to wait for his response.

‘No, I have been working on new stuff, too, preparing ‘Kabi Shiromani Lekhnath’ and ‘Usaiko Lagi—Ek Adhyayan’. Might as well say they are somewhat complete—’

‘The only thing left is proper revision, right?’ I interrupted him with a chuckle. He also responded by releasing some giggles.

‘About eight or nine years ago, you wrote that Nepali literature is in a state of slumber. What are your thoughts now?’ I was obliging him to focus on the past.

‘The pace had slackened in the early fifties but there has been much progress since. What I think is Nepali literature is not too far behind compared to Hindi literature. I’ll wager this since I’m well acquainted with Hindi literature. But Nepali literature lags behind when it comes to criticism. For instance, there are a few writers who’ve begun repeating the same ideas. It’s important that someone studies their work and publishes a commentary.’

I was grasping what he was getting at, so I chose not to delve deeper. Hence, I changed course. ‘Ok then, Ratna dai. I think I’ll leave now but before that I’d like to hear your thoughts regarding two institutions associated with Nepali literature—Nepal Academy and Madan Puraskar.’

He spoke without hesitating. ‘Nepal Academy hasn’t been able to maintain the respect it once commanded. That’s because a lot of Academicians focused more on personal gain than national interest. And regarding Madan Puraskar and the kind of work it does—it doesn’t receive the attention it deserves and writers aren’t providing the support this kind of organisation needs.’

‘Thank you. I’ll take my leave now,’ I said and headed towards the city, walking along the rough, multi-levelled alleys of Patan, covered with stones waiting for a critic to level them.

—8 April 1962

Born in Lalitpur’s Nagbahal neighbourhood, Ratna Dhoj Joshi (1916–1989) was well-versed in Nepal Bhasa—even becoming an editor of a Nepal Bhasa newspaper later in life. But growing up in a Newa-speaking milieu, he did not learn Nepali till later in life; he did even know the Nepali alphabet until the age of ten. He began his literary career as a poet. He began writing criticisms of Laxmi Prasad Devkota and Gopal Prasad Rimal’s works and gradually established himself as the foremost critic of his era, publishing some ten books.