12 January 2026
[Bal Chandra] Sharma-ji’s disposition is quite striking: large ears, a high forehead, a long Roman nose and sharp eyes beneath thick, powerful glasses; well-built and more than six feet tall; fair-complexioned and a balding head always covered by a Nepali topi. First in politics and then in literature, there’s hardly been anyone as controversial as him. Numerous people admire him because of his wisdom, diligence, and patience, and an equal number of people are upset with him and do not hesitate to point out his weaknesses to concerned authorities and to the public in open defiance. Despite a clear categorisation of his human flaws, Sharma-ji has never had to face the consequences. A large network crafted by cunning has defeated adversaries. To be honest, he is a modern Chanakya, always endeavouring to hold a candle to the historic figure.
Despite the hostility, Sharma-ji is never flustered. We know he is a smooth talker. Even his sworn rivals get swayed after talking to him and end up professing their faith to him. Only after stepping out do they get alarmed by their own defeat. Well, this is exactly Sharma-ji’s speciality! So, why would he get bothered by gossip, accusations and external noise? The modern Chanakya is quite shrewd. He makes such amusing remarks: ‘I get encouraged by the accusations and external noise; that’s why people envy me. Besides, it’s not like they go around gossiping about every Ram and Shyam; they talk only about Bal Chandra Sharma, right?’
A peon placed the latest version of the dictionary’s proofs which had just arrived from Benaras via registered mail. Bal Chandra-ji explained, ‘You know this is a historical dictionary? No one steps forward to do the work and when someone does, they end up getting chastised. That’s the situation out here.’
I felt deeply moved by his comment.
‘So, what happened with the historical writings?’
‘It’s the same thing. While I was writing, everyone was going around rebuking my efforts. Then I vowed to myself, ‘If there is another historical publication in the Nepali language within the next twelve years that matches my writings [Nepal Ko Aitihasik Ruprekha (An Outline of the History of Nepal) (1951)], I’ll stay away from history forever.’ It’s been almost twelve years and no one has dared to publish a historical document more substantial than mine. So, I’ll write again.’ His vow reminded me once again of Chankya’s vow.
Turns out, these days he was also writing about Nepali literature’s history. In this context, he said, ‘Everyone has limitations. There is a lot to be done but life is short. That’s why we need to do a lot in little time. I’m not saying this out of pretence or pride—I can still make a few contributions to Nepali literature. And I want to do that soon in an original, refined way. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow.’
After a show of appreciation, I changed the topic, ‘What do you think of Madan Puraskar?’
He responded with a rather stoic expression, ‘I’m rather thankful to Queen Jagadamba for Madan Puraskar. Compared to other wealthy folks who choose to remain silent, Queen Jagadamba has become relevant for establishing Madan Puraskar. It’s not surprising that writers who never win criticise Madan Puraskar, just like members of those democratic parties who never get tired of asking for more rights. I have a couple of suggestions; if implemented, they might enhance Madan Puraskar’s reputation. Instead of getting writers to submit their own books for consideration, it would be better if they came up with a shortlist of books already in the market. And the other thing—it’s not that the donated fund has been misused. But considering topics that never receive a prize—for example, if some portion of the fund could be allocated to scientific research, the result would be more impactful. The donor’s intention would get highlighted even more.’
It was already half past four; not much time left. I made a final request, ‘I’m curious to hear your views about contemporary literature.’
‘I can go on and on about that,’ he said, ‘Before 1951, every attempt was made to destroy the self-esteem of writers, to the extent that nothing could be published without an official seal from Nepal Bhasa Prakashini [Nepal Bhasa Prakashini Samiti, or the Nepali Language Publishing Committee, the state-run literary body responsible for publishing during the Rana period]. Due to the restrictive context, writers had no choice other than to shrink their imaginations. After 1951, we had to face the world quite abruptly. We realised we also had political value, just like other nation states. Young Nepalis studied at various international universities and realised that they could also compete with anyone in the world. Consequently, this new consciousness compelled those involved in literature to pay attention to the pre-eminent styles and values of world literature. As a result, our writers began making an effort to discuss and incorporate new ideas popular in the world. But we have to understand that whatever ideas emerged in other parts of the world had their own historical trajectories, and that’s why they were embraced and respected in their societies. In our case, that couldn’t happen. Contemporary literature is fresh and it definitely deserves a degree of respect in the global context, but it hasn’t been widely accepted by the locals just yet. But I’m not going to suggest that writers simplify their thoughts just to make their work accessible. Rather, I’ll suggest that they bear witness to the daily lives of the public and then contextualise that reality while writing about emerging worldly ideas.
‘I’ve used the same example numerous times to illustrate this dynamic: A writer is like a gardener who uses his creative hoe to weed a patch of land, who often reaches deeper, lifts a layer of earth and then replaces it. This act has the potential of creating something new. Even though it’s the same earth, the context has somehow shifted. Writers should not use their talent in a vacuum; it should be for the sake of society. They should use their talent to make aspects of society more beautiful and strong. This is my complaint with contemporary writers and poets—they haven’t been able to use their amazing skills and capabilities to respond properly to basic social problems.’
He continued, ‘A Nepali might excel in Russia, might complete an FRCS in England in record time, or achieve an engineering degree in flying colours—there’s no shortage of talented Nepalis. But there are no means to utilise that talent in our own country. Since they have to struggle to make ends meet, their potential gets severely constricted. Where are those writers who have travelled through Nepal? Where are those who have collected myriad experiences from different parts of the country? Our writers are not acquainted with the Tharu lifestyle, nor with the Gurungs’ rodi-ghar traditions. They haven’t been able to experience the beauty of the Himalaya, nor have they been able to sense the thrill that comes from taking courageous steps. Where are those who have actually witnessed Nepal’s rudimentary natural beauty? These 20-somethings seem content with reading descriptions by foreign writers and then heading to the narrow alleys of Juddha Sadak to recount their grand life experiences. They have classified themselves in this way. Since they get to use similes, metaphors, and imageries crafted by Rilke, Pound and Eliot in order to express themselves, what else could they possibly want? Just dependent on exported ideas! To be honest, skilled writers are writing unskillfully because of a lack of awareness regarding our society and nation. That’s what I think!’
Like an accomplished listener known for being patient, I was listening intently to Bal Chandra Sharma-ji’s opinion broadcast like a monologue. When he said ‘That’s what I think’ after the monotonous speech, I was startled. Since the interview had ended, I stood up expressing thanks and bid him farewell. The series of questions (‘Where are those…)—posed by someone with an exceptional reputation amongst Nepali literati and intellectuals and someone who had worked hard to shape his own intimidating, influential personality—kept following my steps.
Those questions were valid—they point to an existential void amongst us. But then, what about the well-funded Royal Nepal Academy established under his leadership in order to promote Nepali literature? How has it encouraged contemporary Nepali writers and literature? Where is its support?
—August 3, 1963
