12 January 2026
Was this indeed a case of injustice? Let’s consider this carefully because in our society, it’s not uncommon to encounter those expecting major recognition even if their work might not be substantial. The number of fame-chasers who haven’t contributed anything has been multiplying. But the person who just made this complaint isn’t one of them.
Our ancestors coined an idiom suggesting one should speak up; the quiet ones won’t get noticed. Their own experiences within the bounds of this nation must have compelled them to think along those lines. Now, if we examine the speaker’s personal history in light of this idiom, everyone will agree that his complaint is one hundred per cent valid. ‘We agree. We won’t counter your claim,’ they’ll say.
This is the same person who committed to his own selfish dreams during a golden phase in life. He really was quite selfish and self-centred. Once on a path of self-fulfilment, even at times when his self-esteem could have taken a hit, he maintained a dignified stance. He accepted every obstacle, challenge, and difficulty encountered while focused on his goals. Poison became life-affirming for him. He looked at demons as if they were divine beings. The selfishness of this selfish person was quite amazing. It’s not like he wanted to be a millionaire or grab political power. His selfishness had to do with the upliftment of Nepali literature; to conceive new articles in order to promote them. And he left no stone unturned, tolerated so much, just to fulfil his love for literature.
In the Ramayana mythology, when Hanuman rips his chest apart, we see an image of Ram and Sita. Were we to rip apart this person’s chest, we’d see depictions of all the ways he was humiliated and the difficulties he faced while promoting Nepali literature. The red drops of blood dripping from his chest would fill numerous pages relaying the complete history of Nepali literature during the painful Rana regime. This person also distributed his father’s properties amongst his sons instead of controlling and channelling them towards his literary vocation. This is how his story goes, the story of the person demanding justice. Nepalis call this person Subba Riddhi Bahadur Malla.
‘Namaste Subba Saheb!’ I uttered from his threshold, still unlacing my shoes.
‘Oho! Come over, Babu. I didn’t even know about this until yesterday when Gobinda informed me in the evening that you’d be coming over at nine this morning! I’m leaving for the village the day after. My wife is also joining me, just for a change in scene. Ok then, Babu. What did you want to ask me? Go ahead.’
I was sitting on a cushion placed across a window next to him. I was facing someone who was neither a poet, nor a writer; neither was he a grammarian! He was a simple translator, and a founding editor of a literary journal. Even then, he had made a name for himself in the historical landscape of Nepali literature. When Subba Krishnalal published Makaiko Kheti during the reign of Shree Teen Chandra Shumsher, the administration came down hard with censorship. At the time, Subba Riddhi Bahadur played a crucial role in lifting some of the bans.
I was enthused by his opening, so I began right away. Alluding to the literary activities in 1933, I asked, ‘Subba Saheb, would you mind describing your experiences during the initial days of Sharada?’
‘Uff! Don’t even bring that up; there were snakes everywhere! I was always on my toes. Every article sent to Sharada for publication needed to be cleared by the Nepal Bhasa Prakashini [Samiti]. In addition, a separate committee of forty was installed specifically to supervise Sharada. An official policy stipulated that I could publish an article only after receiving permission from all forty of them. In this process of circulation, so many invaluable articles simply disappeared. Then I had to face the wrath of writers. Sometimes they got angry by my edits. There were the Ranas on one side and the writers on the other. I was living on a sword’s edge, Babu, a sword’s edge. I can never forget the way Premraj Sharma helped me during that period.’
‘It’s because you faced all those obstacles that you are so well-respected these days!’ was what I was thinking even though I didn’t say it aloud. According to a famous critic named Ram Krishna Sharma, ‘Sharada has a particular history—a special spot in the literary sector.’ And sure enough, there aren’t any elderly Nepali writers who didn’t get published in Sharada. Sharada was the primary launch pad from where literary sensibilities of a million Nepalis took flight. Sharada’s spot in Nepali literature is comparable to Saraswati’s in Hindi literature, and so Riddhi Bahadur Malla is Nepal’s ‘Mahabir Prasad Dwivedi’.
Meanwhile, he was continuing his narratives: ‘As a result of such severe authoritarianism, the numbers of writers were limited those days, but since they didn’t bring up politics, the writing was quite decent. Actually, we shouldn’t mix literature with politics. But in Nepal, after 1951, there was a massive upsurge of political writing which is still instructive and which can’t be viewed as something good.’
‘That means, do you think the present state of Nepali literature is unevolved?’ My question was meant to counter his stance.
‘No. I didn’t say that, did I? Compared to Nepali literature back then—the period where I was struggling to work—there has been a lot of progress these days. Even better than ours. I was merely expressing my thoughts regarding the relationship between literature and politics.’ Then he smiled gently.
Of average height but almost twice as big as an average Nepali, his face was marked by indigenous Tibetan features. And it seemed as if Subba saheb was always on the verge of breaking into a chuckle!
‘So Subba Saheb, why didn’t you create your own original pieces?’
‘How could I? If I touched on honest social commentary, I’d be in political trouble. But because I was intent on uplifting literature, I got involved with ancient texts and translating foreign writing.’
I knew that his own son [Gobinda Bahadur Malla ‘Gothale’] would not be satisfied with this response but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings so I asked, ‘So what would you name as your best translation?’
‘It’s definitely Gora.’
‘You just mentioned your intention to uplift literature. Where did you get this motivation? Would you care to illuminate me?’
Subba Saheb picked up a cigarette from a nearby chest, lit it, rearranged his legs, and began, ‘Of course! Speaking of intention, well, my father was a poet so he encouraged me a bit. And since I regularly went to India, I used to browse their literature. In India, their regional languages were part of the curricula, but in Nepal, English was taught as a vernacular language! And later, with the help of a couple of friends, I successfully campaigned for our rights to study our own language! I decided to devote myself to literature specifically to fight for similar causes.’
After providing this clarification, he remained silent for a few moments and then resumed, ‘Let me relay an amusing tale to you. Once, I took a test which included a section that I’d translated myself! You see—I’ve experienced things like that in life!’ Then, out of sheer satisfaction, he chuckled; and I joined him. ‘What was your first piece of writing?’ I asked as soon as the giggles stopped.
‘Sharmistha—an ancient episode from the Puranas! I wrote that sometime in the 1930s while working on the famous Ramnagar legal case and got it published in Motihari. Then I wrote Shakuntala and submitted it to the Nepal Bhasa Prakashini Samiti but I got duped by a reputed pandit who copied my ideas and published it under the name of Shree Shiva Pratap Shumsher Thapa. I couldn’t get my Shakuntala published but these days, I’m considering publishing it.’ It was as if each of his anecdotes was a historical slap on the face.
‘Weren’t you the first Nepali translator responsible for ushering in Rabindra Nath Tagore to Nepali literature?’ Scanning the walls of the room covered with pictures of gods, goddesses, saints, and sufis, I asked a compound question.
‘Yes, since he was my favourite writer, I was the one who first translated Rabindra Nath Tagore’s writing into Nepali. I also like Sharad Chandra a lot.’
‘Only these?’ There were surely others whom he liked.
‘Oh, then let me name all of my favourite writers: Lekhnath, Bal Krishna Sama, Siddhi Charan, Bhikchhu, and Victor Hugo. Regarding critics, I prefer Ram Krishna Sharma and Ratna Dhoj Joshi.’
‘Now, allow me to transition from your private interests to private plans—What are you writing these days?’
Showing off a couple of copies of his translations, he said, ‘I’d like to translate Sharad’s Manjil. Translations of his Shesh Prashna, as well as Thakur’s Naukadoobi and Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame are now ready for publication.’
‘You translate directly from Bengali into Nepali, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your preferred time to write?’
‘I start writing at four in the morning; sometimes in the evening. But when I’m in the village, since my friends aren’t around, I’m able to write without interruptions. Consequently, I end up finishing even large bodies of work within two or three months.’
‘Let me ask one more question, Subba Saheb—In your opinion, how should literature relate to society and art?’ I was determined to find out every aspect of his worldview.
His response was accompanied by the same characteristic smile, ‘Literature is a heartfelt expression—an expression of one’s thinking. Any kind of thinking should consider society because art and life are inseparable. Sharada was conceived with that intention.’
‘What role should criticism play in literature?’
‘Without criticism, there can’t be literary progress. Writers should never get upset for being criticised. But we have a couple of renowned writers who get habitually upset.’ This response was an example of his boldness combined with experiential knowledge and regrettable reality.
I sighed deeply, indicating my satisfaction, and transitioned from his literary persona to his personal details: ‘You own a publishing house spread across seven or eight flats. I’m assuming that your financial situation is quite sound.’
‘Not really. Well, it’s alright. I have so many sons! They are my true wealth.’
‘Oh, right! What do you think of Gobinda dai [Gobinda Bahadur Malla ‘Gothale’] and Bijaya dai [Bijaya Bahadur Malla]?’
‘I’m very content when it comes to these two. I’m proud of my two sons who are dedicated to Nepali literature.’ Indeed, his radiant face was glowing with pride.
Despite his relentless literary service, there are ongoing rumours—not entirely untrue—regarding his current activities, specifically when it comes to Sharada. Taking advantage of this opportunity, I posed my final question to him, ‘So, Subba Saheb, we hear these days you are prioritising business and in the process destroying a historical journal like Sharada.’
He didn’t react to my complaint emotionally; didn’t present a vigorous defence. His response was straightforward—‘Look, we recover a mere one-fourth of our total Sharada expense. So many articles have been produced but I’m always at a loss. I’ve been functioning on a deficit since 1953. Your Rup-Rekha must be in a similar condition. Listen, Babu. Patience is also a thing. And it has its limits. I wonder when Nepalis will learn to respect and assist. I’ve been witnessing this for the past thirty years.’
He had sketched a nice picture of his reality and presented it to me. There might be a couple of details here and there, but we can’t say that his narrative was totally exaggerated. Patience and tolerance certainly have limits. What if that limit gets crossed? And what if, in addition, there is a factor of injustice? Let’s consider this carefully…
—March 4, 1962
