नयाँ रचनाहरू

A library serves as a bridge between the book repository and books themselves — just as a bridge connects two banks of a river. To bridge is to connect, and to connect is power. "Sangrah" (collection) means to gather, to accumulate, to assemble, to preserve, to bring together in one place and keep safe. Whatever we may call them — books, literary works, poetry, epics, journals — the volumes that people have produced through their own study or created themselves, writings on subjects of vital importance to the economic, intellectual, and social advancement of human society — on agriculture, horticulture, and much else — books that will continue to be recognised as intellectually pure achievements, helping each passing generation forge ahead with sharper clarity toward new directions and scientific research, so that the students who will be the future pillars of this nation face no obstacle: to gather books in this dignified manner, with a spirit of pure purpose, right now in the present — this is no trivial or simple matter.

First, cultivating the emotional vision of a self-proven pure idea, then translating that vision into action — to do so without delay, holding within oneself the responsibility of an ideal and setting this sacred work in motion for the sake of the nation's dignity — was no easy task. Yet, just as one might say "do not worry, I will see it through," to take up so important a matter right now — and what is more, a matter that is indispensable and urgently needed in this age of civilisation — to build a book library and put it into practice: that, truly, is a matter of the highest importance.

Therefore, within this library one finds a rich store of books useful in daily life: spanning diverse literary subjects as well as religious and cultural texts, folk literature, art — poetry and philosophy written in Nepali, English, and other Indian languages — along with works such as the Vedas, Upanishads, and Puranas.

Assembling volumes on science, psychology, agriculture, horticulture, and more — in keeping with the needs of a changing age — has become a source of pride for the state of Sikkim. At the same time, it has infused fresh energy into literary writing and kindled in readers a renewed zeal for books.

Like a granary that stores grain, or a storehouse that keeps provisions — this library has taken upon itself the responsibility of preserving and safeguarding the original works written by poets, authors, and historians in the form of books.

There is no doubt that Namchi, in Sikkim state, has today become a heritage of knowledge. This is a matter of pride — a historic achievement. The credit belongs to those who turned so sacred a purpose into reality.

These are times when interest in Nepali literature, tradition, culture, and conduct is steadily waning. A time when hyper-modern cultures and counter-cultures are encroaching upon human settlements, and when cyber culture is striking at the very heart and mind of humanity — when people's thoughts themselves turn fugitive and pure intellectual integrity begins to erode. In such circumstances, this endeavour is, for the students who will be the pillars of our future, nothing short of fragrance added to gold.

For Nepali speakers, this library is akin to a temple of Saraswati herself. At a time when we are spurning our own ethnic language, literature, traditions, and heritage in favour of a cheap Western imitation, these books offer solace and relief.

It is our great fortune that this library has become a treasury of knowledge for writers, poets, playwrights, critics, and historians from Sikkim, Darjeeling, and the Nepali-majority areas of Darjeeling, and that it also benefits Nepalis living in the neighbouring country of Nepal, Assam, Manipur, and various parts of India.

By joining hands with the Trifala International Library, located in Dhulabari, Jhapa, Nepal, we are able — through the DTOU Nepali Book Library — to make available a further range of weighty books written by scholars of the nation of Nepal.

So many precious books were gnawed away by rats, fell into neglect — were lost, burnt to ashes. Long ages passed. Times changed. So many research-based, exploratory books on medicinal subjects — indispensable to modern scientific human life — were destroyed, because we had no means of preserving them, no resources. Great universities existed, but reaching them was difficult for everyone. That is why we must bear regret today. We were compelled to read books fashioned in foreign moulds. We were made to study an unwanted Mughal-era history — one we had no need for.

We had our own enchanting histories, our own tales of valour. Geography and agriculture, science, music and art, chemistry — these were ours, and still are. But we were drenched in a foreign intoxication. Now, however, let us gradually form the habit of turning toward these libraries and repositories — our own achievements.

Let us guide the children of our near future toward Nepali language and literature. A book is as sweet and flavoursome as sugarcane — let us learn to draw from it. We have been heroes of ignorance; now let us become heroes of knowledge.

In closing, I conclude this piece with the wish for the book library in Namchi, Sikkim to endure and thrive for many long years to come.

Once there were two sparrows — a male and a female.

It was the season of Falgun and Chaitra — the very heart of spring. One day, the two sparrows came to look at the eave of Rane's house and talked it over between themselves.

The female spoke to the male: "Hey... dear, listen to me..." The male replied at once: "What were you about to say? Go on, tell me — I'm listening." Then the female said: "Look, the rains are nearly here. We ought to find a good spot, build a nest, lay eggs, and raise our chicks. Let us find a proper place." At her urging, the male said: "All right, let's look then. You raised this at just the right time — I am quite impressed by your good sense. Without delay, let us build our nest right here, under the eave of Rane's house. But will Rane demolish our nest, thinking sparrows make a mess?" the female wondered.

The male replied: "In this house too, there is only a husband and wife — just like us. So there should be no need for them to demolish it. I think they would rather take care of it. They have no children of their own. And if they shelter us, the merit of that good deed will surely bring children to them as well."

So from that very day, the two sparrows set their hearts on Rane's house — small it was, but neatly thatched with straw, its walls plastered smooth with red clay and lime, its floor polished spotless with cow dung, marigolds and velvety flowers planted all around the courtyard, a cluster of tulsi on the courtyard wall, every corner in perfect order. Always, Rane's wife Champa would be at her prayers, fragrant incense curling in the air, and a copper lamp burning bright — ah, what a beautifully serene home.

And from that very day, the two sparrows began carrying mud from a marsh not far away. How much mud could possibly fit into those tiny little beaks! Yet, little by little, beak by beak, by the fifteenth day they had built quite a large and fine nest.

On that day, Rane and Champa had gone to the fields to tend their crops. In the golden light of evening, drenched in sweat, as they arrived home — what joy they felt to see such a beautiful nest the sparrows had built beneath their eave! Rane and Champa's hearts were full.

Twenty or twenty-two days later, six chicks hatched. The parent sparrows took turns, beak after beak, bringing food to all six — sometimes grains of rice, sometimes grasshoppers, butterflies, or earthworms.

Day after day, fed with such devoted care, the chicks grew bigger and bigger.

And when Rane and Champa were tired and weary from their work, they found joy in watching those little sparrow chicks take their first flights. In time, the sparrows grew into a great flock and built nests all around the house. Then happiness settled into Rane's home like a welcome guest who decided to stay. Fruit and grain crops grew lush and bountiful. The terrace held corn, the granary held rice, millet, and buckwheat. And not long after — Rane and Champa were blessed with children of their own! Rane named his daughter "Gauthali," after the sparrow, and his son he named "Aakash" — the sky.

The daughter grew bigger with each passing day. When Champa called from the courtyard — "Gauthali!" — the little girl would answer: "Yes, Mama, I'm coming!" and come running in a flash, nestling into her mother's lap and happily eating rice with warm milk. So Aakash and Gauthali, the brother and sister pair, went to school together and studied with full heart at home too. They always passed their school's half-yearly and annual examinations with first rank.

Seeing them study with such love and devotion, Rane and Champa bought them beautiful new clothes for Dashain.

Rane's daughter Gauthali grew up to become a doctor, and Aakash became a pilot.

Do you also wish to become a doctor or a pilot? Then study with all your heart.

His name was Dhanbir. From a young age he was clever at his studies — hard-working and full of drive. Through the first, second and third grades of primary school, Dhanbir always outshone his classmates, scoring good and excellent marks in every subject to stand FIRST. The teachers of that school, too, were very pleased with him. He was a promising pupil, and he had a habit of getting along beautifully with his friends. Even during the school's games period he played cooperatively, without quarrelling with anyone. In the same way he reached the fourth grade, again standing first. Everyone congratulated him. The head teacher, with great affection, gave him many kinds of books of knowledge, along with a cash prize and other rewards. The other guardians of the village praised him greatly as well.

It was the month of December. After that, the school's winter vacation began. Then, once January had ended, the school and the other higher schools reopened on the eleventh of February. To build a fine future for his son, Dhanbir's father enrolled him in the fifth grade at a high school (a higher secondary school) in a town some distance away. At first, thinking it would be hard for the boy to travel so far to school, the father too would rise early, hurriedly finish the housework, and take his son to drop him at the high school. That year as well, the boy stood first in the fifth grade, outshining everyone — a fact both the head teacher and the class teacher of the school conveyed by phone to Dhanbir's father, Khadga Singh. Hearing that good news, the mother, Manmati, was overcome with joy. Overflowing with happiness, the whole family rejoiced. The neighbours, too, gave Dhanbir their congratulations and good wishes.

In this way, in the sixth grade too, Dhanbir stood first and won success. But when he reached the seventh grade, he fell in with a good-for-nothing boy of that same town named Ranbir. At first he supposed Ranbir might be a decent sort — a studious boy like himself — and so he kept his company. Later, however, it turned out that Ranbir was a delinquent. Another school, it emerged, had expelled him — "rusticated" him — for his misconduct. That boy chewed tobacco, smoked cigarettes and bidis, took gutkha, and now and then even drank rum and brandy. And that was not all: he would steal from shops. He would draw money from his parents' account and gamble at cards. Every so often he would stay away from school and slip off to the cinema hall. He would even steal goats from other people's yards.

One day he stole Dalsing Lama's cow, and Dalsing reported him to the police; after a night in custody he had to flee the next day — and his father, hoping the boy might reform somewhere if he changed schools, had got him admitted into this very school.

After that, this wretched Ranbir lured the simple, honest Dhanbir too, and forced him into learning to smoke. Every wrong thing that Ranbir himself did, he made Dhanbir do as well, and Dhanbir began to sink into the same bad habits as his.

Carrying on like this, he barely scraped through the seventh grade — "under consideration." And just look — oh dear! Seeing that year's annual result, his mother broke down and wept aloud. His father went to bed without touching his evening meal. Out of shame he left the house and, it seems, did not come home for a whole week. Even so, telling the boy to bring good marks in the eighth grade, they enrolled (admitted) him in the school once more. But an ingrained habit — who ever gives it up? — and, as was feared, Dhanbir failed utterly.

And that was still not all! One day Dhanbir lay sleeping until midday, and when his mother went to wake him, wondering why he had not got up, she found the pillow soaked in blood. Seeing this, the mother, in a panic, told her husband; and when they rushed him to the doctor and had him examined, it turned out to be cancer.

This is precisely why it is said: if even a good student falls into bad company and bad habits, his very life is put at risk and his future turns to darkness.

Therefore, the student — son or daughter — who heeds the counsel of mother and father, of teachers, and of elders, that very one grows into a great person. For instance: Karamchand Gandhi, heeding his mother's counsel, became the Father of the Indian Nation. Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, born into a poor household, became learned and illustrious. In the same way, Albert Einstein became a world-renowned scientist, and Abdul Kalam became the President of India. There are many such examples, dear children. You too, if you study with your heart in it, will grow up to be great people.