Sukanya, Alias Nilima: A Short Story of a Rebel Girl

Sharmila Khadka

Apr 24, 2020

Sukankya Urf Nilima (Sukanya, Alias Nilima), written by SHARMILA KHADKA and translated by RAM C. KHATRI, tells the story of a high-ranking government officer and a female fighter set in the Maoist war period in Nepal. The author presents the officer’s point of view and his stream of thought in the story. The officer is psychologically attached to the young girl who helps take care of him after he is maimed in an attack on the headquarters.

I feel the warmth of an exhale of breath next to me and I wake up. With difficulty my eyes open for a moment but, quickly, they close again. All my senses feel dull. I find myself so weak that I can hardly muster the energy to do anything. I, again, try to get a grip of my senses and open my eyes. Slowly, I try to take in my surroundings. I see a woman lying next to me. I lift my right hand, feeling its heaviness, and bring it to the woman’s mouth.

She is sleeping to my right, her plump chest against my own. I feel a ring on her nose. My body is numbed with pain. It feels like I am in somebody else’s.

I try to speak but my throat feels constricted. No words come. The connection between my heart and my mind is gone. My mind feels completely empty. My strength is gone. I am unable to think.

After a while, my mind jolts and quick images flash. The memories that come to me feel like deja vu- like something I have seen before in a film.

Where am I? Who am I sleeping next to? Did I ruin this woman’s future in a moment of weakness from the intoxication of a heavy drink? I have never ogled at any woman. But who is this mysterious woman sleeping with me?

A fuzzy picture of a small house nestled in a jungle comes to my mind. Birds chirp outside, signaling daybreak. My memory begins to come back. I have been posted as a district officer from Kathmandu to this remote district of Western Nepal.

I search my memory. Where was I yesterday? What was I doing? I stretch my memory as far as I can. All these images that came so quickly are fading just as fast. But, the memory is still there in my conscious state. It feels like thousands of sounds start to rattle in my head.

“Watch Out!…Fire!…Shoot!…Surrender!…We’ve captured the headquarters! Save the public houses!…Adhar! Pratik! Move!…Stay together in a group…”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Fire!”

Bang!

The sporadic blasts of the bombs rock the houses. The rattle of thousands of guns produces ear–numbing sounds. Cries, wails, and yells! A shower of bullets falls like hailstones on the rooftops of houses.

I am inside. A man was shouting, “Switch off the light!”

Shortly afterward, the light goes off. The electric transmitter must have been blown out. Another bomb hits. The blast shakes the ground. Darkness has enveloped the area like a black python devouring its prey. The flash of light and the crash of thunder come together instantaneously.

I am in the CDO quarter, preparing to go to bed. My god! What a deadly war. Never in my life have I witnessed death so closely. Nevertheless, I put my life under the sword of Damocles that hangs over my head. And yet, I find there is a great difference between the reality and my imagination of war.

I am nervous. I drag a telephone towards me. A bullet ricochets off the nearby window. I hide under the bed, trying to shrink myself as much as I can. I hear the phone ring and take the receiver cautiously.

The deputy superintendent of police speaks from the other end. “Sir, what shall I do? We’re warned to surrender,” the frantic words come through the telephone clearly.

“It’s your duty to provide security. Do what you can. We won’t survive now,” I say frantically.

“Let’s not surrender. I have heard that the army is being mobilized!”

“Do whatever you must!”

I hang up. Then, I hurry down to the floor of the building. The families of the peon and the other staff have holed themselves up under the bed downstairs. Battle cries are coming from outside constantly. I am restless.

I lay down on the floor to avoid the stray bullets coming through the air and walk across the room. Through all the wailing and crying, I can hear that someone is trying to break the compound gate. I am terrified. My mouth goes dry.

A cliff lies behind my quarters. There is silence below the cliff—no sound, no light. I forget my emotions and I enter a room in search of a rope. I do not see any. But, in a corner, I see a sari belonging to the peon’s wife. I grab it and I come out through the back door of my quarters. Outside, I can hear the rebels are trying to barge through the gate.

I hurry to tie one end of the sari to a tree and begin to slide down it along the cliff. As I begin descending, the sari comes untied from the tree. The sari wraps around me, and I fall. I bang with a thud on a narrow dirt pathway. I am injured. Bruises and wounds cover my body; I do not feel pain, just fear. I don’t see a house anywhere.

I walk down the pathway a little and in the far distance I can see a small house below another cliff. Again, I tie the sari on a tree with difficulty and slip down it. This time, the thorns growing from the cliff scratch my body. My mental anguish overshadows the physical pain I feel.

When I reach the bottom I drag myself to the house. I see a padlock hanging on its door. I clutch the lock and pull on it with all the strength I can muster. I am hardly in a condition to stand on my own. Good God! The padlock opens. I fling it off and enter the house. As far as I can see nobody is inside. I push the door closed and try to lock the door, but I find neither a crossbar nor a bolt. I collapse on the floor. After resting a moment, I make an effort to rise, but… what happens next…I can’t remember.

Now, I have fully regained my consciousness. Is this female body beside me dead or alive? I reach out again to touch her, but no one is there. Is her body an illusion or a ghost? Doubt and fear overcome me once again. I frantically look around the room.

The woman is lighting a lamp in the corner. She picks up the lamp and she sits beside me on a pirka. She turns her face away from my view. I cannot see her face clearly. I move my body and let out an audible sigh to attract her attention. She turns her gaze to me. I can read her face easily―it is clouded with a little shyness, a little fright, and a little patience.

Slowly, it occurs to me that her face is familiar. I look at her with surprise, ”You!”

“Yes, sir…I am Sukanya.”

Her tranquil face and the innocence way of looking lure me. Sukanya is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever known. But why is she here? I wonder.

“Sir, you might be wondering how I got here. We came last night to attack the headquarters. I slipped from my friends and entered my mother’s house while returning after the attack. I saw you lying on the floor. Initially, I thought it was my mother lying there. But when the torchlight illuminated your face, it was you.

“Too much blood had flown from your body. I rubbed some cream on you when you were unconscious. With much difficulty, I helped you sleep in the bed. Thinking that you might not regain consciousness due to the chilling cold, I slept with you to give you the warmth of my body…” she stammers while uttering the last sentence. Her face glows in shyness in the light of the tuki lamp.

A rumor had gone around my office was that she joined the Maoist fighters a year ago. Before that, she had come to my office to make a citizenship certificate and for official work. We got to know each other better when she finally came for the certificate.

“Sir, I have to make a citizenship certificate for myself. I am working for a health–related NGO. I will be tenured in my job once I get the certificate. Otherwise, after two months, I will have to quit the job,” she said.

“A father’s recognition is necessary to get the citizenship certificate. Is your father alive or not?” I would assume she was nineteen or twenty.

“Sir, my father is not with us. That’s why it is difficult to get the citizenship certificate. Can you tell me what else I can do? I am ready to do whatever it takes. I have heard that it is not difficult to get the citizenship certificate if you are willing to help me!”

My morality was alerted when this young country girl said she was ready to offer whatever it took. I asked, “What are you saying? What do you mean by whatever? Are you asking to get a citizenship certificate without the recognition of a father?” My words were filled with power and pride.

“It’s not that, sir! I do not mean that. I said that just because I had heard that the former CDO used to settle any difficult cases. Sir, I will have to quit my job if I do not get the citizenship certificate. My future will be ruined. I’m told that in Kathmandu, a mother’s citizenship certificate also works to get her daughter’s. So, I have come to request this favor of you,” she said politely.

This girl was obviously very smart and fearless and she did come equipped with some knowledge of the former CDO. I also thought it would not be right to argue much with her. I guessed her story: blinded by sexual desire, an officer like me might have seduced her young mother; then he must have disappeared, leaving her with a child. As a result, the future of this innocent girl has fallen in front of me.

She waited hopefully for my response.

“You must know that the law to make a citizenship certificate from a mother’s lineage has not been drafted in our country. Though once it is made, there will not be any problem to give you a certificate,” I said to her.

She gasped with sobs and her shoulders shook. I was bewildered.

In a soothing voice, she begged, “Sir, I heard that my father was also an officer like you! Sir, please provide me the citizenship certificate by saying that you are my father.”

Oh, how fearless this girl is. How can she talk like this before a CDO? And how could I be her father, even if people who see me think my age ten years older than it really is? It must be my bald head that has convinced her of my age, I thought but remained silent.

“How is this possible? Tell me. Can a CDO take the illegal way?” I tried to reconcile her argument with mine.

She came to my office two or three more times. She stopped coming when she realized that the possibility of getting the citizenship certificate had become more and more slim. Later, I came to learn that she had joined the Maoist cadre! My office staff warned me to be wary of her.

“Sir… what are you thinking? Now you have recognized me properly, haven’t you?” Her calm voice interrupts my train of thought. I am drawn back to the present.

This time she is different. She seems fearless, self–respecting, and rational. She has been here, overcoming the reality of death. No signs of horror show in her face. She has devoted her precious life to the burning fire of revolution. Why is such a beautiful girl wasting her life?

“Sir, you are thinking why and how I became a part of the Maoist cadre, aren’t you? I joined the Maoist not out of my own will. I wouldn’t have become a Maoist if I had got my citizenship certificate. I would have been tenured in my job and would have settled there properly, taking care of my old mother. But I had to quit my job and was compelled to stay at home. Then my friends started suggesting I join the Maoists. They said that our country required revolutionary fighters. So, I joined.”

“Aren’t you scared to play with bombs and bullets?” I asked her.

“Scared!” she exclaimed. “Our country requires the sacrifice of youths like us. Corrupt and hypocritical landowning exploiters should be rooted out. We cannot manage even one solid meal a day despite working day and night. We have nothing while they have a luxurious life. We have to make a prosperous new Nepal. For this, we need to revolt. Sir, the exploited class should be uplifted, according to Mao’s theory.” She seems to be repeating words she has heard from someone else.

I want to tell her the many weaknesses of her party, but the pain of my body does not let me. She seems to already be influenced deeply by her party policy.

My whole body aches. I breathe a sigh of pain, “Urgh.”

Then she says, “Sir, you look to be suffering from severe pain. I will get you a painkiller.”

She takes out medicine from a corner of the room and gives it to me with a glass of water.

I can’t move one of my legs. There are bruises all over my body. My body aches. I notice that she has applied medicine to me after cleaning my wounds.

My eyes are fixed on the blouse and sari in her bag. I translate my curiosity into words. “You have been to attack the headquarters, but you still have a blouse and sari?”

“If I wear my combat uniform all the time I put myself into risk from the government soldiers. So I often take these with me.”

I realize that this girl is smart. How quickly can she understand the thoughts in another’s mind? Why is she putting her life at risk for me? Who is she to me anyway? Why is she showing such generosity?

“Sir, I have studied psychology with the party and taken counseling training because I am able to read. So, I can easily guess what you are thinking. You might be wondering why I am taking such a risk to help you. We have humanity, even if we act cruel at the moment. We also have feelings. I can’t leave you alone in this condition. I have been taught that our life is meaningless, but that yours is not. You have many hopes that keep on following you, but in my case, I have no guarantee for my own life nor any value. Nor do I have hopes for a future. I came to know that my mother, too, had left me alone.” She looks thoughtful.

I am impatient hearing such things from a beautiful girl. A girl with such a beautiful body and this height of intelligence surprises me. If only she got the opportunity, she could keep the world under her authority.

But, the plight of the Nepali people is that many such beautiful, tender hands are playing with bombs and bullets. So many nubile girls like Sukanya are exchanging their dreams of a brighter future for revolution. They have stifled their happiness, desires, and future deep in their hearts for the revolution.

It is not yet broad daylight outside while we are talking. She makes a fire in the hearth in a corner and heats water over it. She brings maize from somewhere and starts to heat it in a handi. The corn kernels are popping loudly. In my mind, various positive and negative ideas burst like popcorn.

I learned many things about life from her company. We are human beings of two opposite sexes who follow two opposite ideals. I am one of the employees working on behalf of the government to provide security for the people; whereas, she is a guerilla, fighting to topple the government with a revolt. She challenges death; whereas, I am a coward who runs from it. I have many hopes, beliefs, and desires, which I have been fulfilling in this beautiful world, while she has been trading her future for bombs and bullets, leading a hopeless, miserable present.

My train of thought makes me emotional and agitated. My writing skills, which were dormant, become alert. Humanity staggers. I become serious and sensitive. I am determined to verbalize this unimaginable moment.

“Sir…” she breaks the silence, “I will send word so that some men will come to retrieve you. I myself could take you when night falls, but your health might worsen by that time. Therefore, I will make my way, telling someone to come care for you.”

She starts to pack her things while crunching on the maize. I also take a little bit of it. Soon, she scribbles something on a piece of paper and steals a glimpse of my face.

Becoming serious and sensitive, she says, “Sir, do not forget me if you see me somewhere. Remember me if you hear or read the name Nilima. I hope you recover soon. I will be on my way. After sometime, some men will come to take you. Do not tell anyone anything about me.”

Her words worry me and I begin to think twice. On the one hand, she is at risk. While on the other, my health is worsening.

I struggled to speak, “Do not go, Sukanya. Surrender! I will speak on your behalf.”

She says patiently, “Sir, it’s too late. All my roads of returning have been blocked. My soul will not get peace. Even if I surrender. It is against our policy. So, I must go. I do not fear death.”

She goes out, taking her weapon and I watch her go.