A Room of One's Own

I enter Parijat’s Room (a Room of One's Own, Feminist Memory Project, Photo Kathmandu 2018) for the second time in three hours. I scan the room, leaving not even an inch unfolded. During the first visit when I remained in the room for just a while, I saw this amazing installation that reminded me of Van Gogh’s “The Bedroom”. 

As I enter this homage to an almost mythic figure, I take all the time in the world as I leisurely go through everything at display. I feel, to some extent, the aura of the woman who had spent her days in the room. What Parijat had achieved from within this room was unprecedented. Or, at least that was what we were lead to believe as secondary school students. Nonetheless, Parijat was a legend. She had won the Madan Puraskar, the epitome of Nepali Literature for Sirish Ko Phool which was also translated to English. The translation- The Blue Mimosa was even included in the curriculum of University of Maryland, USA. This captured my imagination more then even the Madan Puraskar. It had been won by many before her, but to be studied in the states was something else entirely. 

My eyes immediately fall on what appears to be a manuscript. The manuscript of Anido Pahad Sangai is kept neatly on top of the wooden drawer which is covered by a knitted table cloth. Above the drawer, hung on the wall, is a certificate awarded to Parijat for the best manuscript (Baisalu Bartaman). Beside the drawer are a pair of clutches, a reminder of Parijat’s struggle with rheumatism. Just as I’m about to shift my focus onto the bookshelf housing Parijat’s personal collection, I see something else towards the corner of my eye.

 As I turn left, I see a huge flex printed photograph which appears to be out of place in this re-creation. However, as I take a closer look, I see Parijat in the midst of a sea of men. Men of all ages, including a couple of women are paying their undivided attention. The mass seem to be in awe of her. The mass listening with such reverence to Parijat, who is in the center of the crowd, highlighte the personality that was Parijat and the authority she commanded. This was some thirty years ago. 

I then move towards the bookshelf on the windowsill, to the right side of the clutches. In the underside of the shelf are some large envelopes and a few booklets. Above it are what really has me intrigued— “What books might have Parijat read?”. Because to find out what she read is to get an insight to what and how she thought, what made her and who she was, to an extent. As such I’m thrilled to see the personal collection of one of Nepal’s greats. What I she is very far from what I had expected. I expected to see the classics of the by the Devkotas of Nepali literature. However, what I see is Rushdie and Ishiguro and Chekov and Achebe and Dickinson and Sartre and Lessing and Doyle and Engels and Reich and Morrison. I also see books on Napoleon and Lenin( the setup also showcases a painting of Lenin and a medallion with imprint of his face). But then considering Parijat’s body of work which went further than any preceding works by Nepali writers, her collection just confirms the obvious.

Just in front of the shelf are a couch and a tea table where her friends must have sat on as they talked about all things big and small. Next to it is a small bedside table. It has on it a notepad, a small rectangular mirror, a steel glass, a red telephone, a radio and an empty bottle of a brand new Red Label( which most probably is a stand-in). On the floor, between the tables and the bed is a small rectangular rug. A pair of dusty shoes are arranged neatly on it. The dark brown plastic shoes, more than anything else in the room, even more than the clutches and the books, add life and reality and Parijat to the room. There is the bed she slept on and, yet, the shoes, for whatever reason, makes me feel Parijat more than anything else. I believe the ordinary plastic shoes made me realize that despite all the tales of her greatness, Parijat was afterall a person just like the rest of us.

There is an in-wall shelf by the bed which contains several memorabilia and gifts and decorative and some books on women and child rights. The books along with a few other things stand out— a Lenin medallion, a “world’s best mom” figurine ( which is a mystery considering Parijat didn’t have any kids) and a porcelain plate with Parijat’s photo printed on. Below the shelf are two small stools and beside it in the corner in a writing table— THE TABLE and a chair. On the wall  is a big mirror where Parijat must have looked lost in imagination as she mulled over things to write. On the table, which I so desperately wanted to use, the artists have very consciously placed an open notebook with a pen on it. What I see in the loose yellowed pages of the notebook is unanticipated to say the least—

“By due and heat

My journey of sand

Walked throughout the age

But where is the shade?

Where is my destined oasis?

Where is the oasis that I should show you?”