Saran Rai -- Translated in English

  Hechakuppa A Kirati Folktale Retold by: Saran Rai The orphan Hechakuppa was raised by his two elder sisters, Tayama and Khiyama. Seeing that they had no parents, a demoness named Chaklungdhima from Chaklungdhi devoured all the grain from their fields and granary, leaving them starving. To feed their younger brother, Tayama and Khiyama brought wild roots, tubers, and edible plants from the forest, such as khokli sakki (wild yam) and giththa bhyakur (a type of root). When Chaklungdhima discovered this, she sank the khokli sakki deep into the underworld and sprinkled poison ( khakpa ) on the giththa bhyakur , making it bitter and inedible. Then the sisters began feeding Hechakuppa the sap of wild fruits ( aiselu ), but he couldn’t survive on that alone. One day, the sisters placed a clay pot ( buchukuluk ) over the fire to cook food and went to the forest to find more. Hechakuppa waited eagerly, thinking the food was cooking. After a long wait, disappointed and weak with hun...

  An Old Leaf             Saran Rai Patients are fighting for life in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) of a hospital. I have been under treatment in the unit for the past couple of days. My condition is slightly better in comparison to other patients. I can recognize the relatives and other well-wishers who have (come )gone to the hospital to visit me and read the atmosphere and things around. Some patients in the unconscious state are only breathing in the last stage of their life. In other words, they are at death's door and waiting for their death. Their relatives are also awaiting their end. I have seen my death near at hand. Does the world mean nothing? What must this life be dedicated to? After all, one day, everyone must leave this world. During our lifetime, we fall in disputes regarding possession of property, avarice, sin, love and illusion of the world and commit mistakes. What's their ultimate use? Some peopl...

  (Short Story) Happiness in Small Things By Saran Rai Every morning, when I inject insulin, I remember my late wife. The reason for remembering her is the insulin pen — the same pen she used for a year to take her insulin shots. After her passing, I couldn’t throw that pen away; I kept it safely. My wife had died of kidney failure caused by diabetes. I too have had diabetes for many years, so fearing that my kidneys might also fail, I began using the same pen she had used. Old age—no matter how much effort you make—makes you start forgetting small things. Yesterday, after taking insulin, I put the pen in the fridge without its cap. This morning, while injecting, I noticed the cap was missing. I searched the whole room—no cap. That pen, bought ten years ago for 1,200 rupees! Now I would have to buy another one. Thinking I might find the cap somewhere, I went outside, intending to check the pile of garbage my daughter-in-law had swept and thrown away. Right at the doorst...

  Crown   Saran  Rai  He became unsuccessful and fell into financial trouble. He had no job, no business, no farming. When hunger began to strike, he came up with an idea — to make a crown and place it on the head of the greatest person in society as an act of honor. “In this age of the republic, what’s the point of a crown?” people said. “It’s not to make someone a king,” he replied, “but to honor the greatest person in society in the best possible way.” Since it was a crown, of course it had to be expensive. Fearing that the reputation of their community would be tarnished, he collected many donations from everyone. The leaders, industrialists, businessmen, writers, social workers, and all other prominent people each thought of themselves as the greatest person in the community. They believed that they would be the ones to wear the crown. So everyone supported his plan. Some even began to flatter him for it. “If I get the crown, it will be easy to win the elec...

  A Share of Fate   Saran Rai  Seeing the loving elderly couple — the famous 85-year-old writer of Darjeeling and his 81-year-old wife — we too had once imagined, “If only we could live together happily until that age.” But as time passed, at 69, I now find myself taking my 64-year-old wife — who must undergo regular hemodialysis — to the hospital again and again, caring for her as her attendant. Dissatisfied with this share of life that has fallen to me, I look beside me and see a 30-year-old husband caring for his 24-year-old wife, who also needs continuous hemodialysis. Seeing this, my heart finds peace. I think — "The life I’ve been given… it’s still better than his." Everyone bears their own share of life…!

Here is the English translation of your story “प्याजी फूल” (“The Onion Flower”) — carefully translated to preserve its poetic tone and emotional depth: The Onion Flower   Saran Rai  The Onion Flower is not really the name of a flower. It’s called that because its root resembles that of an onion, and its petals are of the same purplish color as onions. Why am I talking about the Onion Flower ? Because my life story is intertwined with it. By coincidence—or perhaps by destiny—whenever I have needed a flower, it has always been this Onion Flower that’s been available to me. My first unspoken, abstract love was also expressed through an Onion Flower . Though that one-sided love could never be fulfilled, it was still my first attempt to show affection toward a girl—my first effort to express and receive love. My first desire to make someone my beloved was conveyed through that Onion Flower. That moment has never faded from my memory—it remains indelibly imprinted upon ...