Today my uncle is killed by Maoists. My uncle was cheated by the killing political system. Thus his death has been quite sad.
I am standing beside his dead body with a mind full of grief.
He was a good poet. Many relatives often told me this whenever they met me. Therefore, I have read almost all his poems. Besides, he used to provide me for my reading all his published poems himself. Oh how happy he looked on the day one of his poems came out.
But the circumference of his poetry moved round dissatisfaction with life, failure, conflict and isolation. Sometimes my mind was terribly upset with severe pinches and I was hurt as if these poems spread salt and sour over my emotional wounds.
I always met him at the street intersection in front of our house walking all by himself. If he didn’t appear there just for a day, I was chased by an indescribably unpleasant feeling. I felt hurt and cast my eyes far and wide waiting to have just a glimpse of him.
It’s not unnatural for a woman to love her uncle. When such thoughts rose into my head I had a most bitter feeling at that moment.
He was fully dissatisfied with his life and I had detected it whenever he repeatedly told me the quarrelsome attitude of his own life. It so happened one day that when I was busy eating my meal he arrived at our house in post haste. I saw that his face had turned quite dark and perhaps it might be because he was extremely sad. On that day he had a bitter quarrel with his family and so he had come to me to console himself.
I was glad that he came to me, because I was waiting for him. I had almost firmly established him in a corner of my heart as a respected uncle. He gave me food, paid my schooling and gave me all the clothes I needed. I prayed to God daily that he should come to our house so that I could observe him from close quarters and love my uncle.
I feel proud even to think of the word love and a kind of emotional shudder runs all over me and I ask myself whether it was at all proper to respect my simple teacher uncle. But even if I tried to tear reality away from me, my weakness had grown enormously strong and I couldn’t forget his face. Perhaps I had grown terribly trying to draw my uncle’s presence closer to me. His personality and talent disturbed me from within all the time.
He loved his family and the Nation exceedingly. He accepted any kind of terror situation of the country. His only dissatisfaction was that his job was not proper.
“Kamu, sometimes my heart pains very much when I see Maoists behavior.” He said in such a manner that I was altogether different from his relatives and I was he only one whom he could share his pain. But how could I participate in his pain? I could do nothing for him as my parents, younger brothers and sisters were all dependent on me. And the entire responsibility of running my life rested on me. That was the reason why I could not extend any help to him except love.
For the past four months he was given to writing. I tried hard not to stop him from writing, but he developed quite a negative attitude toward my suggestions. I was completely tired of making him understand as he didn’t listen to my requests at all. And today he met his death due to Maoists violence.
I feel especially sad. I am severely disturbed from within as an individual who loved me and whom I too liked and loved died today. At this moment I see people making their way hastily to express their condolence. Some individuals are shedding their crocodile tears with garlands in their hands and praises in their mouths of his poems. And today after his death he is being praised as the greatest of all poets. I, on my part, am watching these people and the dead body without uttering a single word.
I have a question now, where is the justice for my uncle?