Wednesday, 15 January 2014

Remember me as a Good Man : BP Koirala

(Source: August 8, 1982 Amrit Bazar Patrika, Calcutta (Kolkata))

Devastatingly handsome. Tall and lean, he has an easy grace in his movements, and even more graceful is his courtesy, for he proffers his hand and says, “I’m Koirala!’ Yes, of course, I mumble and follow him into a large room where few cane chairs are strewn about, and there is a big bedstead with a sheet on it for many people to sit on.?

Tea comes in small cheap glasses, and I remember that every other politician in town had served tea in expensive crockery. Koirala was a sickman, with a permament hoarseness in the voice, and it was clear, long conversation tired him, the vocal chords in particular. But for the four hours or so that I talked to him, on two days on the second, he wore Nepalese dress he never sought rest, thought our conversation was interrupted quite a few times by people visiting him. Not all, it seemed to me, were political workers, but he had time for everybody, and even when impatient, was never angry or imperious like some people we have seen nearer home. When Tirthankar Mukherjee met Bishweshwar Prasad Koirala (BP to his friends) they close to talk of things not immediately political. What were this elder statesman’s life’s lessons? Why are dreams never fulfilled? What still impels a man never to give up? How can one not be frustrated when every single belief of one’s crumbles? Extracts from their long conversation follow.

TM : How early in life did you decide that you would not be a doctor, an engineer or whatever and instead devote yourself to?

BP: You see it was not be conscious decision. Politics was in our blood. My father had to leave Nepal when I was three years old. Everyone in the family had a warrant of arrest against him, our entire property was confiscated. We were in exile in India for 12 years so I had my schooling in India and thereafter I joined college there. In school I had joined the terrorist movement. In those days the terrorist movement was not centrally organized, in Calcutta there were two or three groups, there was the Hajipur group in Bihar. There were two or three groups in Punjab. The groups had tenuous links but every group was independent. I was with the Bihar group and I was first arrested when I was at school in Beneres. I was released because I was too young and the magistrate could not believe that I had perpetrated that robbery and dacoity. Then I joined the communist movement and In Benares I started the nucleus of its students’ organization along with Devkant Barooah and Rajeshwara Rao. I was secretary of that organization and we were on the periphery, on probation, sort of, to the Communist Party. My disenchantment started when there was a conflict between Trotsky and Stalin I was for Trotsky and also I was drawn towards Gandhiji during the nationalist movements.

TM : If you remember your feelings of those times, did you think of India as home?

BP: Almost, in our home we used to discuss Nepalese politics because people in exile would come and meet there. We knew we would ultimately have to go back to Nepal, that was always in the background, but we participated in the Indian nationalist struggle. My father was a member of the District Congress Committee. He used to say that without India’s independence, no democratic movement could succeed in Nepal, because, that was his expression, they were two sides of the same coin. So it was the task of Nepal’s democrats to fight for India’s freedom. That’s how I got interested in politics, and then I came in contact with the Socialists in 1935 and I was a very active member of the Congress Socialist Party.

TM : Well, that was 1935; forty years later, do you regret having joined politics? What I am asking is do you think political movements can give people anything?ª½No, I mean can anything be done through all these processes?

BP: You see I have not resolved that problem yet, because by the time I was in active politics, I had begun dabbling in literature also. Writing stories and all that. I used to write in Hindi and all my stories used to appear in many important Hindi periodicals when I was a school student. Then I started writing in Nepali. So If I had not joined politics, I might have done some creative literary work. But ultimately my feeling is that even if you want to escape politics, politics will grip you, like you pay taxes. In the kind of society we live in now, the State has invaded even the private sphere.

TM : That is the point; the State has invaded, so what is the fruit of the democratic process that you have fought for all your life? Don’t you think that democracy, in our countries, not in the advanced nations, has only been worked to show that it can’t be worked?

BP: But still? Take the case of India’s last two parliamentary elections. Everybody there said the elections were a farce, booths were captured and yet crores of rupees were spent. That is a problem we are facing and one of our tasks is to make genuine democracy work in our country. I think it is possible, with the sort of cadre that we have, with the virgin soil that we have at without India’s deep-rooted traditional conservatism. We are not as conservative as Indians are.
Even in India, the people have not “failed, it is the leadership that has failed.” It is not that they have done nothing, as compared to some totalitarian countires like Pakistan, Bangladesh or the S.E. Asian countires that have established the same infrastructure. India has done better that any of them, but still feel that the priority the leadership set for development in India was wrong. They opted for development on the American or the European model, which is the only model they know of. I have been telling my people that the model India adopted came from America and under that model India will develop immensely but this would mean keeping 40 to 45 per cent of the people under the poverty line for ever and ever.

TM : I have a quotation from you here: “We did not have an economic base for a socialist program.” Do you still think so?

BP: Yes.
TM : And what will be the temptation for you when you become Prime Minister and have a free democratic hand, to turn Nepal into another Honk Kong or Singapore?

BP: No, I am opposed to such big scale models.

TM : Is Gandhi still your model in these things?

BP: I don’t know what of Gandhi you have in mind.

TM : Say his basic concept that you cannot make a country prosperous with foreign aid?

BP: Yes, I agree.

TM: What about the effect of imperialism or colonialism over man’s mind? You must have watched the change in a section of Indian youth?

BP: Well, you adopted the American or European model for development. When there is an affluent class which indulges in conspicuous consumption that becomes the ideal for the rest of the country to aspire to.

TM: Yes, but how will you stop the Nepalese from following such models?
BP: Because, I will not introduce such type of affluence; I will not build big hotels. I am opposed to big hotels. They corrupt the minds of the youth. The cost in terms of national character has to be reckoned.

TM: Gandhi did not leave any impact on the Indian leadership what makes you certain you will succeed here?

BP: Gandhi was used by the Indian leadership. The moment India became independent, the leaders parted company with Gandhi. Now Gandhi, was a very hardworking man, his daily workload was unbelievable, yet he maintained a small establishment and did not need a palace. The moment you live in a palace and give palaces to your bureaucrats, you set a style. As soon as a boy does well in studies, gets a first class, he wants to step into their shoes. How can you give them character when the leadership?ªÆ Even Jawaharlal Nehru chose to live in the Commander-in-Chief’s house. I have faith in the Nepalese man, otherwise I wouldn’t be in politics. I couldn’t survive ten years in prison, or being so close to the gallows if I did not have this faith in people, this faith in my country’s destiny. Of course, there are moments of frustration, but then I console myself by thinking that even if I cannot cure my mother of cancer. I would not give up, and would try to give her the best.

TM: Hasn’t your life been one frustration after another. Say, the failure of the socialist movement, then you being out of power here for so long?
BP: When Lenin had the opportunity to develop Marxism on a large scale his model was America. I am fascinated with his infatuation with America, he always said we will catch up with America in 25 years; America was the model and what was America’s model? It was Henry Ford who had introduced mass production on a conveyor belt system. So that was the model Russia adopted, and therein lay the roots of the failure of Marxism. Now if you are an executive in a Russian factory you might well run a factory in America also, because the model and the means are the same. The means of exploitation are different but the technique of production is the same. If, to satisfy the basic material needs of the people, you adopt the same models, it will produce the same type of evils whatever be the political system in your country or your ideology.

TM: Mao never went for the American model in his 30 years of control in China.

BP: Again, Mao did adopt the same model, but since he did not have the technology he chose to do without it. “With our bare hands we will?

TM: ?«­ove the mountain?

BP: Yes, but that was not possible. That is where Mao’s fault lay. China, too, calculated development in terms of the quantum of material benefits produced, if you adopt the American model, you have got to adopt their technology. If you are to have mass production, if you want quantitative progress, if you want to achieve an objective, you must apply the right technology. When I was in China I went around the country and I was millions of people engaged in the construction of big dams to produce electricity. Why all this big things? Because they wanted to compete with America. Even though they did not have the essential things like bulldozers.

TM: Do you think that such big countries like China can do without massive industrialization?

BP: I have not applied my mind to China’s problems, but in Nepal we do not need, we cannot afford big things.

TM: But, this again demands new men. Can you keep your people from succumbing to temptations?

BP: This is a difficult task, but this is very vital to my thinking. I am even against construction of roads and I have invited a lot of criticism because everywhere I say that we do not need big roads. Roads are what? They are for communication. You see America started with a vast country, with vast resources all just waiting to be tapped. There were comparatively fewer men so they had conscription of labor and had to develop laborsaving technology fast. That is not the case with us at all. Then, they had different colonies at different centers of production and these had to be connected so that goods could be moved. But that is not the case here. Crores of rupees have been spent on building roads connecting cities between which there is little traffic. Only a few buses may ply, and we do not even have the money to maintain the roads. Our task should be to build villages, eradicate poverty there, eradicate ignorance there, provide medical care, education etc.

TM: You think you can do this?

BP: If we can’t, then it’s not worthwhile being in politics.

TM: Of all these leaders you have met, all people of different persuasions, as a person who struck you as the most sincere man?

BP: Gandhi.

TM: Leave him out of this; I was asking about people who held power.

BP: Power? I think Jawaharlal Nehru was a very sensitive man. I met Subhasbabu fleetingly and he impressed me very much, but I didn’t know him too well.

TM: What about people outside the subcontinent?

BP: Chou-En-Lai; I hold in very high regard. Mao I met only once, for about two hours, at dead of night. He was an old man, a fatherly figure, a soft and cultured figure?ª½I think Nehru got his success without much effort, so you did get the impression that he was a pampered man. I don’t know how Gandhi chose him as successor, but he was an antithesis of Gandhi. Chou-En-Lai had a better grasp of international affairs. He was very cultured and sophisticated, and he impressed both my wife and me immensely.

TM: The basic things you have been fighting for decades Parliamentary rights for everybody, basic human rights or civil liberties?

BP: And economic amelioration of the common man?ª½Well, there is an interesting story. When I became Prime Minister, I used to have occasional intimate talks with Mohan Shumsher Rana. He told me “Well, now that you are Prime Minister, what is your ambition? What do you want to do?” I said I had only one ambition. I belonged to a lower middle class family but I got two square meals a day, I had a small farm which gave me my basic requirements, and I had a few cows. I had my children studying in schools here?ªÆ So my ambition was and I said I needed 15 years for this, and I would retire after that to put the poorest family economically at par with my family. Not big roads, palatial buildings and all that, but the poorest family must get the same economic status as mine had.

TM: Don’t you feel frustrated that nothing of this has come about?

BP: Well one has got to go on making efforts. Of course, sometimes I do get frustrated; sometimes I do feel that I am breaking my head against a stone wall, but that does not last for more than a few hours. I have got to make efforts.

TM: How long do you think before democracy is achieved in Nepal?ª½two years, three years?

BP: No, democracy is a process, it evolves. I will be happy if that process begins, if the strategy for economic development is properly formulated, and implementation of those policies is initiated. I don’t have long to live now, and I would be happy to see a beginning. History does not come to an end with establishment of democracy. Mankind will be chasing problems perpetually; all I want to see is that we are trying to solve those problems in a spirit of freedom, with no restrictions on our spirit or choice of decisions. I am possibly getting a bit philosophical. You see the tragedy of man is that he can never be perfect. Take peasant, he makes all efforts; tills the land, puts in fertilizers, then something happens over which he has no control and all his efforts are laid waste. That is the fate of man. You don’t know what the future holds and man doesn’t know everything. You can’t have the full data before you begin working but you have got to act today. Man is not God; his assessment cannot always be based on full understanding. Still, we have to take decisions about our country, our society, shall this right to take these decisions be given to one individual or will the decision be made collectively by the people?

TM: You have often been in jail or in exile, so your party has developed a second rank leadership. How good is this second rank? When you are not on the scene, would they be able to carry on the agitation and would they be able to carry on, what is more important, the administration of the country? Have you been able to develop a second rank leadership to your satisfaction?
BP: I will not be fair to you and honest to myself if I say that I have been able to develop a second rank leadership which can guide the country. Our people are very honest and they have suffered, but I will not say that they will be able to run the show, at this stage, on their own. This is our weakness. For foreign affairs, for finance, for planning, may not be having very competent people in our cadre. We may have to import them from outside, which we do not want to do?ªÆ
This was not the case with India’s independence. You had enough men of ability, and the country has not suffered because they were incompetent but because you did not dismantle a single institution that the British had built for imperial purposes the police manual, the ethos for recruitment to the army, promotion there these all remains the same.

TM: Will You be able to change the system ? Bribery, corruption?

BP: That can be changed. Our people have undergone greater suffering proportionately than Indians and the involvement in terms of sheer number has been greater also. They are loyal and disciplined, and they can be depended upon to break this kind of feudal trappings of the mind. But when they try to build the new society they may be wanting in ability?ªÆ Look, when Lenin gained power it was touch and go for the first few months. The overall question was how to recognize the army. The problem before Trotsky, as the man in charge of the Red Army, was that the officers, those who could take command or run the army headquarters, were all from the feudal class. He was in a quandary; then he started differentiating between those who were sympathetic to the Bolshevik cause and those who were not.

TM: How dose it feel to be known as a man with charisma for 30 years?

BP: No, I think I have received more love and affection, personal things, than respect as a leader. You see, people call me Sandazu, which means little elder brother; that is the youngest among the elder brothers (this combines respect as an elder brother with affection for being nearest one in age); so I lead a family group, a very big family no doubt. But I have received brickbats also, by virtue of my position in the party. If I had been pampered all along, perhaps I might have lost my head. I don’t know?«Éhen my colleagues are at a loss to decide on what to do, I find a solution not very bright, perhaps, but something to go by.

TM: What is the primary source of your decision making processintellectually, intuition?

BP: I don’t know. I can’t analyze myself.

TM: How would you like to describe yourself as a man with his feet firmly on the ground a bit of a romantic, possibly more of an idealistic?

BP: The first Press Conference, I held was in Calcutta in 1947, at the Grand Hotel. I was very nervous, and the Calcutta journalists are not a kindly lot. But I answered them as best as I could. When we had finished, one journalist came up to me and said, “Mr. Koirala, you give the appearance of being a romantic person rather than a realistic politician.” I think I am one, too, you cannot bear the agony of life without a touch of romanticism to sustain you, this is what I feel. I am a bit of a dreamer, too. In person, I was kept for six months in total isolation. My hands and legs were loosely fettered, and I saw no men only heard distant voices. I used to dream about how to escape and this or that. After a few hours, I used to realize that I was dreaming not merely personal strains, I think you need a certain amount of romanticism in your psychology to bear the strain of all the suffering round you. The suffering women, the emaciated children?

TM: What controls the destinies of nations Marxian dialectics, God?

BP: I am a Marxist in the sense that I have accepted the Marxist methodology in enunciating how a society evolves. But that is only part of the thing. According to me, man has infinite facets. It is not only his economic aspects that define man. As a matter of fact, I feel that history’s revolutions have not been inspired by the urges of the belly. People don’t make sacrifices unless they are enthused by some higher objective. Consider the Great Bengal Famine during the war. Millions of people died in Calcutta’s streets, but there was no revolution because their hunger was not linked with any higher objective. Secondly, I think there are two basic contradictions in man, between his anarchic elements and his social element. The leadership is always anarchic, not accepting any restraints on its freedom. The best socialist of a communist society is supposed to be that of the bee; or ants; but they do not evolve because there is no rebellion there. In human society, anybody who wants to strike new roots is violently rejected: Christ, Socrates, Gandhi. The only comparable man who died peacefully was Buddha, and I cannot explain his case. But what is rejected today becomes the charter tomorrow. I have tried to fulfill my anarchic, my rebellious instincts, through writing novels etc. and my social instincts, I have tried to fulfill through my work in politics by trying to improve the lot of the people around me. As a socialist I am searching for better laws to bind the people, as a writer I am breaking all the laws. People find it difficult to reconcile these two. They say, my writings do not mirror my political struggles. That is because I am not a politician when I write.

TM: Dose God come into your scheme of things?

BP: No, There is God, but not the God in usual sense, as a creator of our destiny. Once I was talking to Jayaprakash Narayan. He would sometimes bring up such topics and I said?«·ome time ago, I told you man must be a dreamer. Now if you love a girl and if you are not deluded enough to say that she is a rose, or that her face is like the moon, then you have not loved her enough. This is delusion but it is reality, too. Poetry is also reality. If you are not overwhelmed by the sight of the rise of the sun over Tiger Hill; if you are not excited enough by it to be happy for the whole day, if you do not sleep well after watching the sun set from Chowpatty, you have missed something fundamental. If you are not moved by serene grandeur of the sea at Puri, then you have missed something in life. God resides in poetry. God resides in dreaming. You can’t explain Him through science, through materialism. God is a spiritual experience.

TM: How else could you have spent the last thirty years? What regrets do you have?
BP: No other way, if I had my life to lead again, in some details perhaps, I would opt for a change but basically I would do the same things. I am not an embittered man in any way, not a frustrated man; I am not a contented man either. I certainly would wish for better understanding, more wisdom but no basic changes. No, I am not complacent. I have no compliments. I have got a family whom I don’t deserve. I have got comrades who love me, even my enemies have high regard for me.

TM: What is your happiest memory?

BP: Happiest memory was not when I became Prime Minister. My wife was dead set against my becoming Prime Minister so much so that she refused to join in the festivities for some time. Actually, my happiest memories are of when I was with?«¬ will tell you of a recent incident I was on tour in the villages when a young girl came up to me, beautiful and handsome, 19/20 years old. She came to me after offering worship at a Shiva temple, and bad put on that Tika. I was very busy but she insisted on meeting me. When my friends brought her to me she said she would like to talk to me alone. When we were alone she said she had gone to the temple to offer her life for me. She knew I was not keeping well and would soon be going to Delhi for an operation, so this girl, not yet married and with her whole life before her was offering her life for me. I told her “that is too big a gift for me. What return can I give you?” She said, “But I’ll not be there to receive your gift, for I will be dead.” That day, I wept for sheer joy. That was my happiest memory. The other day some old men were coming to the house. So I asked who these people were. They said they wanted to see me. They had come from a Terai village for a pilgrimage to Pashupatinath and were returning home. I told them they had a full three days’ trek ahead of them and they should not be wasting time coming to see me. Their leader said when they returned home, the villagers would abuse them otherwise. “You went to Kathmandu and did not see BP Koirala!” Then they wanted a picture of me to take back to the village with them. How can you not be happy when people love you so much?

TM: How would you like to be remembered?

BP: I don’t know?

TM: Particularly by young people?

BP: You see I don’t have long to live, three or four years at the most. If I can do something about restoring the process of democracy. May be that would be something to remember me by. Then, when I am gone, well, I am gone. The Hindu practice is to throw the ashes into the water, no monuments, no tombstones. I think that is a very good idea. Remember all of Hindu art the, massive temples?ª°o one knows who designed them, who built them or who painted the Ajanta frescoes?ªÈhis anonymity has always held great fascination for me. Even after all these years of politics, I am very embarrassed by big receptions. People know I do not pretend when I say I do not like big shows. I never tell people by which flight I would be travelling for I feel very embarrassed, if they come to receive me at the airport. Anonymity suits me in public. I am shy of crowds. You see, no man is as great as he appears to be, neither is he as small as he is made out to be.

TM: What about Gandhi ?

BP: He was a class apart. One of the greatest of all times, not that I subscribe to all that Gandhi prescribed, but he has been my life’s genius. The person who next to Gandhi has my highest personal regard was Jayaprakash. Not as great as Gandhi certainly he did not have Gandhi’s keen mind but a genuinely good man. Others have been all ordinary men, some of them, but I could not be Gandhi.

TM: When I asked you what you would like to be remembered as, what I meant was, would you like so be known as a good leader a compassionate man or?


BP: A good man. I would like to be known as a good man. I have written a novel called The Wife of a Modi (grocer). The episode is taken from the Mahabharata, from the Gita. I read the Gita when was in prison for eight year. I read all the commentaries but the Gita did not satisfy me. Then I wrote the novel. The hero is a boy nineteen years old. He tells the grocer’s wife all that he has done, all that he wants to do. The last sentence is, this woman tells him, ‘Don’t be great. Like the heroes of the Mahabharata.’ Their greatness brought about the holocaust. Be just good. A good man. I wrote another novel, Hitler and the Jew, even before I became Prime Minister but I have not yet published it, there also I enunciated the thesis: if you aspire to be great, to be God, you only bring ruin.
(Source: August 8, 1982 Amrit Bazar Patrika, Calcutta (Kolkata))

Permanent rebellion: The story of B.P. Koirala by Ramchandra Guha

(Source: The Hindu, Sunday, July 29, 2001)

The autobiography of Nepali politician and sometime Prime Minister B.P. Koirala is a vivid account of personal and social turmoil and of exile and rebellion that provides acute insights into the history and politics of the 20th Century. Formally released in New Delhi in April, this book’s compelling themes have been made more poignant by the recent happenings in the Kathmandu palace, says historian RAMACHANDRA GUHA.

“EVERY man’s life,” remarked Dr. Johnson, “should be best written by himself”. Strangely, Johnson did not carry out his own injunction, for it was another pen, that of James Boswell, that set out for posterity the main contours of his life. One must not unduly regret Johnson’s failure. For one thing, it allowed Boswell to write what is still the most widely read of all biographies. For another, the autobiography is the most perilous of literary forms. As the French scholar Andr Maurois pointed out many years ago, it is marked by a “deliberate forgetfulness”, a willed failure to remember failure, a desire to omit from one’s authorised account events that were unpleasant or that might undermine one’s reputation. The autobiography, writes Maurois, is a genre marked by a lack of sincerity. It forgets and it rationalises. It gives order and retrospective coherence to decisions made ad hoc or more-or-less on the spot.

The memoirs that rationalise the most, further notes Maurois, are those written by military men and politicians. The General’s victories in his re-telling owe nothing to accident and impulse, or luck: they are the product of planning and tactical skill alone. The Prime Minister’s policies owe nothing to expediency or compromise; they are made exclusively on the basis of ideology and principle. I have no interest in military history myself, but the political memoirs I have read tend to confirm Maurois’s judgment. For the most part, these are exercises in vanity and self-justification, and the less authentic (or readable) for that.

The autobiography of the Nepali politician and sometime Prime Minister B.P. Koirala stands as a stunning exception to the rule. This is a remarkable document of personal and social history, a vivid account of exile and rebellion that provides acute insights into the history and politics of the 20th Century. Koirala’s memoirs were not written but spoken, dictated into a microphone held by his friend and associate, the Kathmandu lawyer Ganesh Raj Sharma. When he began the exercise, in December 1981, the politician was already in the advanced stages of throat cancer. The transcripts remained with Sharma for years; only when Nepal renewed its acquaintance with democracy, in the 1990s, was it deemed safe to place them before the public. A Nepali edition appeared in 1998, published by Jagdamba Prakashan in Lalitpur. Now, three years later, we have an English version, translated by Kanak Mani Dixit and published by Himal Books under the title: Atmabrittanta: Late Life Recollections.

Born in 1914, B.P. was the son of Krishna Prasad Koirala, a poet, businessman and reformer who fought and made up – and then fought again – with the Rana rulers of Nepal. Krishna Prasad helped establish the town of Biratnagar in the Terai, where he made his money running a series of customs posts. He opened a school and a hospital, and promoted the uplift of women. He believed that girls must ride bicycles and horses and learn to use daggers and guns – if only to keep away lecherous louts. He once remarked that “women and men are like two wheels of a chariot and that you needed both wheels to run the chariot”. With ideas such as these it is not surprising that he fell foul of the Ranas, and sought exile in British India. His son’s memoirs narrate the ups and downs of the Koirala fortunes; the business bought by the father and sold or run into the ground; the homes fitfully occupied by the family in the towns of Bihar and the United Provinces.

B.P. grew up in the India of the 1920s, a place and time with a plenitude of political choices. There was Gandhi, and there was Lenin. And there was Attaturk, an appealing model for rationalists seeking to rid their own society of tradition and custom.

Koirala chose Gandhi. After hearing the Mahatma speak he told his father he would now join an ashram school. The patriarch encouraged him, for he believed that the Indian National Movement “was also our movement because the autocracy of the Ranas was supported by British imperialists”. The boy, meanwhile, was soaking in the progressive writing of the Indo-Gangetic plain. He read Maithili Sharan Gupt and Jai Shanker Prasad, and above all, Premchand. Indeed, it was in Premchand’s journal Hans that B.P. made his literary debut.

Along with the brother Matrika Prasad Koirala, B.P. was arrested during the 1930 movment, suspected of being part of a terrorist ring. He was, however, released for lack of evidence. The father had, meanwhile, made up with the Ranas and gone back to Nepal. The son stayed on in India, and turned leftwards. He read Marx, listened to Radio Moscow, and hung about with the communists. The Assamese writer Dev Kanta Baruah (still a honest radical then, not the craven chamcha of Indira Gandhi that he was to later became) alerted B.P. to the exploitation of farm workers by landlords. Koirala was impressed by Marxist theory, but less so by Communist politics. He could not accept the Communist Party of India’s view that the national movement “was nothing, that it was being masterminded by the British themselves, and that Gandhi was an unknowing agent of the British.”

It was at about this time that the Nepali radical made the acquaintance of that other oscillator between Gandhi and Marx, Jayaprakash Narayan. “I was greatly impressed by him,” writes Koirala: “he did not use sophisticated language and exhibited a simple personality.” B.P. also befriended Acharya Narendra Dev and Ram Manohar Lohia. He was studying at the Banaras Hindu University (BHU), a hotbed of the Congress Socialists. Like them, and like Jawaharlal Nehru, he thought of going to Spain to fight on the Republican side in the civil war.

After graduating from BHU, Koirala tried his hand at law, and also worked as a labour organiser in north Bihar. He was arrested for inciting workers, but quickly released. He was “out” only for a little while, for he got caught up in the Quit India movement. He was now lodged in Bankipur Jail, where one of his colleagues was Dr. Rajendra Prasad. They engaged in friendly but vigorous debate; Rajen babu on the side of spiritualism, the Nepali on behalf of scientific socialism.

Koirala was released in 1945, and began plotting a successful return to his native land. The War was over, and Indian independence seemed imminent. The formation of an interim government led by Nehru in September 1946 encouraged the Nepali exiles to think seriously of fighting for democracy themselves. Their country had for a century been in the control of Ranas. This lineage of aristocrats owned the land, controlled the army, monopolised the top administrative jobs and manipulated the hereditary monarch. As the historian Aniruddh Gupta has written, “the survival of the Rana rule mainly depended on his capacity to suppress the growth of political awakening in the country”. The most effective way of retaining control was to deny the privileges of higher education to commoners.

To get himself a college degree, the ambitious young Nepali had necessarily to travel to India. With education came political radicalism. By the 1940s, were plenty of young men like the Koirala brothers, who believed (to quote an emigr journal) that “the salvation of the Nepalese lies in struggle”, that “to hope for reforms from the Ranas is like hoping for milk from a dry cow”. On January 25, 1947, these men established the Nepali National Congress, with the help of funds from a handful of disgruntled Ranas. In March of that year, B.P’s younger brother Girija Prasad helped instigate a strike of jute mill workers in Biratnagar. B.P. crossed over to help. He was arrested, and taken with his fellow agitators to Kathmandu, a long, slow walk across the hills. It took three weeks to get to the capital, the prisoners’ march attracting much attention and helping to radicalise the peasants whose villages lay en route.

The Koiralas were kept in a Kathmandu bungalow. Letters to the Rana Prime Minister by Gandhi, Rajendra Prasad and others helped bring about an early release. B.P. went back to India, and began looking for arms to storm Kathmandu. He tells a lovely story, possibly embroidered, of how he journeyed to Calcutta in the last week of January 1948, to buy arms. He made contact with an arms dealer, and at 6 p.m. on January 30 was met on a Calcutta street corner by a stranger who passed on a parcel and vanished. The parcel was to be passed on in turn to a dissident Rana named Basanta Shumshere, who was to throw its contents at his assembled kinsmen in Nepal. As Koirala waited, the grenades wrapped in a hand towel, “from the radio of a cigarette and paan vendor nearby I heard the news – Gandhi has died.” The Rana arrived: the bundle was handed over. B.P. came back to his boarding house and wept through the night in remorse. In time, he was consoled by the words of Ho Chi Minh: “Whatever may be my disagreements with Gandhi, we are all his products. Wherever there is a struggle, he has given his support and moral leadership. Even as someone who believes in violence, I can say that we are all his progeny.”

The story has a tame ending: the Rana entrusted with the job was too scared to set off the grenades. So later in 1948 B.P. entered Kathmandu himself, disguised as a pandit. He made contact with other democrats, but was found out and put once more in jail. The conditions were awful. Fetters were fixed on his feet, and “a blacksmith was brought from outside to do the job. He had to hammer vertically in order to fix the fetters, but in order not to hurt my foot in case the hammer slipped, he was striking at a slant. Once, the hammer did slip and struck the stone on which the fetters rested. At that, the officer who was standing next to me scolded the blacksmith, ‘Careful! You might break the slab!’ The blacksmith replied, ‘I was aiming at the foot but it slipped and hit the stone. If his bone is broken it will mend, but will you give me money for this broken piece of stone?’ Such harsh words serve to illustrate the attitude of my jailers.”

The blacksmith visited the prisoner twice a day, to remove and put on his fetters before and after his meals. The British jails he had been in, writes Koirala, were a model of decency and cleanliness in comparison. To draw attention to his condition, B.P. went on a fast, which stretched on for nearly four weeks. He was then freed, and trekked once more into India. It was now June 1949. After a hasty medical check-up, the exile began planning his return. In April 1950, the coming together of two factions created a brand new party named the Nepali Congress. Then, in November, King Tribhuvan fled to India. The struggle accelerated. A band of Nepali Congressmen stormed a treasury in Birganj. A tractor dressed up as a tank – by covering its sides with metal sheets – forced its way into the governor’s garrison in the key town of Biratnagar.

Meanwhile, the Ranas in Kathmandu were growing nervous. King Tribhuvan’s flight, remarks Aniruddh Gupta in his book
Politics in Nepal, “not only dealt an irreparable blow to Rana prestige, it made the people anxious about the safety of their Monarch whom they regarded as a divine being.” From his exile, the King published an appeal for reconciliation. The Indian Government convened a conference in Delhi, after which Tribhuvan returned with honour to his capital, and put in place a coalition of the Ranas and the Nepali Congress. The union was uncertain from the start, plagued by mutual suspicion (it seems in this respect to have been much like the coalition between the Indian National Congress and the Muslim League in Delhi in 1946-47.) B.P. was Home Minister, but had to resign after his policemen fired on a students’ demonstration. The Government fell, to be replaced by another with Matrika Prasad Koirala as the head.

A revealing aspect of these memoirs is the bitter rivalry between the Koirala brothers. One was cautious, the other hot-headed. One was a moderate monarchist, the other a republican. Their disagreements were political and they were personal. B.P. even alleges that his brother once tried to bump him off. Jayaprakash Narayan tried, without success, to effect a reconciliation. Eventually the Nepali Congress split into two parties, one for each brother.

In 1955, King Tribhuvan was succeeded by his son Mahendra, a man of greater ambition and resolve. The politicians were dismissed to the margins, with powers centralised in the hands of the monarch. After half-a-decade of rule of puppet Prime Ministers, the King was forced to call a general election in 1959, Nepal’s first. The Nepali Congress swept the polls, winning 74 out of 109 seats. B.P. took office as Prime Minister. He stayed in the job for 18 months, visiting India and China on state visits, and consorting with Nikita Khruschev at the United Nations. King Mahendra was resentful of Koirala’s popularity within and (especially) outside Nepal. Late in 1960, the King organised a coup, sending his royal guards to arrest the Prime Minister and put him in jail. Mahendra was being pushed by the landed aristocracy to act before the Congress put in place radical land reforms. And, like monarchs everywhere, he had a congenital suspicion of democracy.

While his brother was in jail, Matrika Prasad went off as King Mahendra’s Ambassador to the United States. His family was fearful that B.P. would be bumped off, thus to meet the fate of the independent-minded Prime Minister of the Congo, Patrice Lumumba. Jawaharlal Nehru sent a message of reassurance through Koirala’s sister. Nehru’s “level of personal interest,” remarks B.P. was “a source of great and reliable moral support for us prisoners who were so suddenly isolated.”

In 1965, with B.P. in jail, the Oxford University Press published a book called Heroes and Builders of Nepal. The author, the civil servant and diplomat Rishikesh Shaha, began his narrative with Janaka and Buddha and ended it with Tribhuvan and Mahendra, paying his dues en route to the great medieval warrior-kings such as Pratap Malla and Prithvinarayan Shah. The last chapter, titled “The Dawn of Democracy in Nepal”, is a paean to the monarchy. The ending of Rana autocracy is attributed solely to Tribhuvan: “never before had there been a king who staked his life and throne to secure the liberty of his subjects”. Mahendra is praised for his “successful foreign policy” and his “work on national construction”, “his leadership and personality,” it is said, “have aroused a deep awareness of national purpose.”

Given its author’s position and the timing of its publication, the book makes no mention of the Nepali Congress or of that hero and builder of modern Nepal: B.P. Koirala. It would be interesting to know if B.P. read Shaha’s book. Alas, his memoirs do not say. In any case, the narrative of the Atmabrittanta perceptibly flags after Koirala’s arrest. The eight years in Sundarijal jail are quickly glossed over. The text ends with his release and exile to India.

The printed book could have done with an editorial epilogue on Koirala’s later life which, as always, was chockful of incident and controversy. Exiled once more to India, he prepared his comrades in the Nepali Congress for a fresh round of armed struggle. Thirty-five of his young followers perished in one encounter, wiped out by the Nepali army while taking shelter in a cave. In 1976, Koirala himself returned to his country, sensing perhaps that he had not long to live. He was immediately arrested, and made a remarkable speech at his trial where he defended armed rebellion. In these last years in Nepal, he also supervised a transition in his party’s leadership, before dying of cancer in July 1982.

B.P. Koirala came of age while in exile in India. He first went to prison fighting for the freedom of a country not his own. He struck close friendships with Indian politicians. Jayaprakash Narayan and Jawaharlal Nehru were to him like big brothers. But after his return to Nepal, India itself reappeared as Big Brother. As Home Minister and Prime Minister, writes Koirala, he had to fight against three forces: the royal palace, the land- holding elite, and India. Nehru might have been kind and polite, but his government deeply resented Koirala’s independent foreign policy. The Indian ambassador in Kathmandu “believed that he was even greater than the King”. One envoy, C.P.N. Singh, so readily threw his weight around that Koirala was constrained to tell a press conference in Benares that “the Indian ambassador wishes that our country be like his district board, and he regards himself as chairman of that district board”. Once, in New York, V. K. Krishna Menon asked Koirala, a sovereign Prime Minister himself, to accompany him to the airport to receive Nehru, a gesture that would tell all the world that Nepal wished to be seen as a client state of India. Naturally he declined, but the wound festered: 20 years later he mentioned the incident in his memoirs, as an example of how “they (the Indians) just did not understand clean diplomacy.”

B. P. Koirala’s Atmabrittanta was formally released in New Delhi in April 2001. Its themes are compelling anyway, but have been made more poignant by the recent happenings in the Kathmandu palace. The book now enjoys a more than ordinary resonance, speaking as it does of the remarkable hold of the monarchy in the popular imagination, of the fragility of Nepal’s democracy, of the endemic hostility towards India, and of the desperate inequality in the countryside. (The rise of the Maoists is a consequence of the failures of previous regimes to more effectively carry out the land reforms that Koirala had called for.) And the Prime Minister of Nepal at the time of this great tragedy was none other than the leader of the Biratnagar strikers of 1947, B.P’s younger brother Girija. Koirala’s memoirs should be read for its insights into Nepali politics. It should be read for what it tells us about India and Indians. It should be read as a moving testament of one who was caught, on the right side, in the great (and unfinished) battle of the modern world, that between autocracy and democracy. And it should be read for its literary qualities. For B.P. was one of his country’s finest writers as well as its most prominent political rebel. His works include six novels, two collections of short stories, and hundreds of essays. As the critic C.K. Lal points out, B.P. was a literary innovator, perhaps the first Nepali writer to sensitively portray women and to look towards local dialect rather than Sanskrit for his inspiration. “It is baffling,” writes Lal, “that no writer in Nepal to date has been able to reach the depth of mind of characters in a story the way B.P. did.”

As for the Atmabrittanta, even in this English version it sparkles. The book is rich in descriptions of scenes and people closely and penetratingly observed. I read, with a flash of self- recognition, these remarks on Kathmandu’s intellectuals: “They love to highlight unimportant matters … They are big on discussion, but do not give a paisa of support”. And again: “Whoever came (to India) from Kathmandu in those days used to arrive with a great air of mystery, as if they alone were carrying the heavy burden of revolution.”

The narrative glows with images both precise and illuminating. Here is Koirala on one of the many places he was obliged to call home: “The jailer led me to my place of incarceration. There was no light other than one smoky lantern with a weak flame. I was led into a cell, but I could not see anything. There was a bedstead made of wood so unseasoned that it looked like it would drip water; half the room had bluish algae on the walls. This much I could see. The ceiling was very low, and because it had been newly plastered the cement was still wet. The walls were cold and damp. They put my rug on the ground.”
Exile, jail, exile again; life underground and life as the Prime Minister of his people: only Nelson Mandela among modern statesmen could so completely have known the highs and the lows of politics. But even Mandela was not attacked by his fellow freedom fighters. This book has a fascinating account of a demonstration orchestrated against Koirala by his brother Matrika Prasad. He was due to speak at the town of Palpa. But the dissidents were determined to keep him out: “Murderer! Go back! was the slogan they used, but I insisted on entering the town. It was quite a climb to get up there, and the road was difficult. Along the road, they had tied bones and skeletons on bamboo poles, and had put up bamboo barriers across the path. They threw stones at us, tried to hit me from the trail-side, and also tried to splatter me with black paint … The copper and bronze gaagri put out for my arrival had all been damaged, as were the welcome arches”. His associates were suitably intimidated, but Koirala insisted on going ahead with the public meeting, working through the night to organise it. The meeting, in the end, was successful. In the crowd to hear Koirala speak was the wandering American ornithologist, S. Dillon Ripley.

B.P. provides a superb, if chilling, description of the lifestyle of those celebrated fighters for the world’s poor, the Chinese Communists. In Beijing, Mao Zedong and Chou En-Lai stayed in lakeside palaces in the former emperor’s grounds, their dwellings marked by great marble staircases and wall-to-wall carpeting. “The grandeur amidst which the Chinese leaders were living”, remarks Koirala, “could not have been matched by any ruler of a capitalist state”. The visitor was allowed to joy ride in Mao’s personal train, with its well-appointed bedroom and its porcelain bath-tub. Koirala, like China’s Chairman, spent his time watching the countryside from the living room, this a large hall with glass walls and a glass roof, with “a library, a table for playing cards, a chessboard, and waiters serving tea. Also, a sofa and revolving chairs.”

Reading B.P. Koirala’s memoirs, I was struck by the parallels between his life and Nehru’s. Both were democratic socialists who learnt much from Gandhi and a little from Marx. Both had fathers who were strong-minded and authoritative, self-made men who made a great deal of money and had a political orientation besides. The sons both became traitors to their class. Their own political choices exposed them to poverty and oppression. Nonetheless, both enjoyed the ceremony of power: the bowing and scraping at state visits and the meetings at the U.N.. Both were truly charismatic figures who towered over their colleagues. B.P’s description of the 1959 elections in this book recalls the role played by Nehru in the Indian elections of 1952. Victory for the party candidate was assured only after Koirala or Nehru had descended from the air to speak. Each constituency had, so to say, to be sanctified by a speech by the Great Leader. Their names got their party into power, but once in office, both were hemmed in by more cautious men on their own side. The programmes of economic and social justice that they were in principle committed to never seriously took effect. (Nehru might well have written, as Koirala does here, that “real and effective support I did not get from my own party”.) And in either case, politics became a kind of family business: Nehru’s daughter and grandson, and Koirala’s elder and younger brother, also held office as Prime Minister of their country.

To this already extensive list one must add: both Koirala and Nehru had developed literary sensibilities, their political obligations coming in the way of their secondary careers as writers. But there are some notable divergences as well. Koirala appears to have had a more satisfactory married life. His experience of jail was certainly more painful. And his experience of power was more fleeting. Nehru, writes this book’s translator wistfully, “survived and led India for 17 years after its independence. Fate would not extend a similar privilege to B.P. Koirala, and even as his co-equals settled down to enjoy the fruits of post-colonial India, B.P.’s fight for his people was just beginning. Ahead lay years more of imprisonment and in exile.”

One is tempted to say: politics’ loss has been literature’s gain. Nehru himself wrote a fine work of autobiography. It was published in 1936, when he had years in jail ahead of him. That book is persuasive because it is the testament of a rebel. Nehru did not write at all of his years in office: perhaps because he was too busy, or perhaps because he knew that any such account would necessarily have to be evasive and euphemistic. Now had B.P. Koirala been Prime Minister from (say) 1952 to 1967 Nepal might today have been a more contented society. But we would then have been denied these extraordinary memoirs, this nearly unique combination of political candour and literary elegance.

(I am deeply grateful to C. K. Lal for his help and advice in the writing of this article.)

Ramachandra Guha is a writer and historian based in Bangalore. His books include Environmentalism: A Global History; Savaging the Civilised: Verrier Elwin, His Tribals and India and An Anthropologist Among Marxists and Other Essays. He is also the editor of the newly released Picador Book of Cricket. E-mail him at ramguha@vsnl.com

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