CHEWING IRON FLAKES : THE TRIALS, DEBTS, AND TRIUMPH OF STAGING YALAMBAR DRAMA-PRAVEEN PUMA

In this expanded personal memoir, written in August 2o, 2006, I reflect on the arduous six-year journey of bringing Shrawan Mukarung’s seminal play, YALAMBAR, to the stage. From confronting institutional condescension and severe financial hardship to staging a 101-member production that sparked public controversy, I offer a raw, firsthand account of the economic, physical, and psychological costs of bringing Indigenous mythology to Nepal’s national stage.

I. THE QUEST FOR THE TEXT AND INSTITUTIONAL HUMILIATION
I am a student of theatre arts. Staging theatre is not merely my profession or a passing enthusiasm; it is my intrinsic duty, my personal philosophy, and my ultimate spiritual calling. While I had directed and produced various dramatic works throughout my career, I was haunted by a persistent, unfulfilled ache: I had never staged a drama grounded in Mundhum—the sacred oral scriptures, worldview, and cosmic myths of the Kirat people. Directing a play rooted in my ancestors’ soil and collective grief had been a profound ambition since my youth, yet for years it remained a distant, elusive shadow.

In the year 2000, I shared this burning inner dream with pilot and filmmaker J.B. Rai. He suggested that Shrawan Mukarung’s play YALAMBAR (published in 1996 / 2053 BS) held the precise cultural and Mundhum-based myths I sought. The title alone echoed like an ancestral call across centuries, triggering an exhaustive, desperate search for the manuscript. My pursuit led me through publishing houses, into the homes of the author, and across the doorsteps of his extended relatives. Every single attempt proved entirely futile. Weeks dissolved into months, and months into years, consuming precious time, eroding my youth, and wearing down my physical body. Yet, despite the sheer exhaustion, I refused to let the fire inside me die.

In my relentless quest to locate the text, I walked endlessly through the streets of Kathmandu, visiting the Central Library of Tribhuvan University, the Central Library of the Ministry of Education and Sports, the library of the Royal Nepal Academy, and the Madan Puraskar Pustakalaya in Patan, alongside more than two dozen other libraries across the valley. The play remained utterly elusive, as if erased from existence by a quiet, deliberate conspiracy of silence. When I formally inquired about Shrawan Mukarung’s YALAMBAR, library personnel did not simply answer me—they looked at me with sardonic skepticism and institutional condescension, asking with a dismissive, mocking smirk:
“Does Shrawan Mukarung even write plays?”

That mockingly posed remark felt like a rusty knife driven directly into my chest. It was not merely a personal insult directed at my dignity, but a systemic denigration of an Indigenous author and an entire marginalized history. Overcome with intense emotional distress, my face flushed red, my temples throbbed with hot, furious blood, and my fundamental self-respect was severely wounded. I stood in those grand institutional halls feeling the terrifying, icy weight of being an outsider in my own land’s cultural strongholds—a second-class citizen begging for his own culture’s voice. Yet, driven by that very sense of indignity, trauma, and deep-seated hurt, I formed an unshakeable, almost tragic resolve: I would stage this play at any cost, even if it destroyed my body and bankrupted my soul. But constrained by the absolute unavailability of the manuscript, two full years (2000–2002) vanished in silent, bitter frustration.

II. MORAL DILEMMA, ECONOMIC HARDSHIP, AND OBTAINING THE MANUSCRIPT
One evening in 2002, I encountered a female vocalist. During our conversation, she casually disclosed that she possessed a personal copy of YALAMBAR. It felt like discovering a divine icon after years of weeping before empty, indifferent stones. I desperately begged her for the text, and she promised to give it to me. Overjoyed at the prospect of finally securing YALAMBAR after years of fruitless searching, my feet barely touched the ground as I walked alongside her, believing my tragedy was ending.

At her insistence, I accompanied her to her residence. Upon arrival, the premises were completely deserted and ominously quiet. Unexpectedly, without a word of warning, she collapsed into my lap. I was instantly thrust into a profound moral dilemma and psychological panic. Fear, confusion, and horror seized my heart. Uncertain of her intentions and terrified of compromising my life’s sacred mission in a single compromised second, I panicked and fled the room into the dark street, leaving without the manuscript, crying in silent despair under the night sky.

That disturbing encounter severely dampened my spirit. Exhausted, heartbroken, and questioning my own fate, I tried to abandon YALAMBAR. I shifted my focus toward my own original playwriting and shared this painful retreat with J.B. Rai. He offered a subtle, sorrowful smile, followed by a crestfallen, somber expression. Appearing deeply affected by my despair, he embraced me warmly, reached into his worn bag, and extracted a thick sheaf of yellowed paper.

During those grueling years of artistic struggle, I lived in the deepest depths of urban poverty. I was surviving on a single meager meal per day, existing in a perpetual state of physical and economic starvation. My digestive system was devastated; persistent hunger had induced severe, chronic gastritis—an agonizing physical condition where acidic fires burned through my stomach daily. Yet, out of pride and survival, I kept this torment hidden, forcing myself to smile and pretend I was fully nourished while my insides writhed in pain.

My companions from dominant Indo-Aryan backgrounds frequently invited me out to tea stalls and eateries. After eating, they would applaud my talent, flatter my intelligence, and then artfully manipulate the situation so that I was forced to pay the entire bill. Whenever I lacked the money to cover their tabs, they subjected me to public embarrassment, cold laughter, and cruel mockery. On the days when I was visibly penniless, they would sneak off to eat lavishly without inviting me, leaving me alone in empty rehearsal spaces with my burning stomach. I maintained a calm, indifferent exterior, but my heart wept over their patronizing cruelty. They viewed me as naive, simple, and easily exploited—a tragic plight shared by so many marginalized artists fighting for survival in an elitist world.

Expecting food or a few coins from J.B. Rai’s bag that day to quiet my raging hunger, I was overwhelmed with raw, uncontrollable tears when he retrieved and presented the actual original manuscript of YALAMBAR. In that supreme moment of artistic jubilation, my physical hunger vanished completely into the air. The tragic struggle had finally yielded its weapon.

III. TEXTUAL ANALYSIS, RESEARCH, AND REPEATED FESTIVAL REJECTIONS
I read the text immediately in his presence, my hands trembling violently as I turned the pages. The play was a dark, formidable beast. It exhibited strong elements of absurd, blending concrete and abstract dimensions to critique contemporary social reality. It aligned heavily with experimental dramatic traditions, dense with ancient Mundumic symbolism and cosmic agony. Its complex metaphors, layered imagery, sub-scenes, poetical dialogues, and mythical characters rendered its theatrical adaptation as extraordinarily painful as “chewing iron flakes.” To simplify and adapt it for stage presentation without diluting its ancestral soul, I spent years conducting rigorous research, starving my body while feeding my mind.

Distinguished scholars Satya Mohan Joshi and Prachanda Malla directed me to examine the historical sculptures at Indra Chowk in Kathmandu. Day after day, on an empty stomach, I meticulously studied the iconography at Indra Chowk, searching the cold stone faces for the exact representation of YALAMBAR I envisioned. I found nothing that matched the fierce, tragic king of my dreams. Still, I refused to lose heart, persevering in my research despite my failing health and empty pockets.

As time progressed, the Royal Nepal Academy continued its annual hosting of the prestigious National Theatre Festival. I submitted YALAMBAR for three consecutive years—2002, 2003, and 2004—yet every single year, it was heartlessly rejected by the selection panel. Three years of door-slamming; three years of being told our stories, our myths, and our pain did not belong on the national stage.

I sought clarification off the record from a theatre colleague who had served on the selection committee for those three years. Requesting anonymity, he looked at me with genuine pity and stated:
“Puma, your directorial execution is top-tier, and you won the apex award last year. But why do you keep pushing YALAMBAR? This play is completely unstageable. Do not take it to heart, but pick another play instead.”

His dismissive response left me stunned, bleeding internally with a deep sense of existential injustice. While YALAMBAR was fundamentally a closet drama and presented severe staging hurdles—even prominent directors like feeler over smart theatre person had previously attempted to produce it but abandoned the effort, lacking the courage to face its difficulty—it pained my soul that a work representing Indigenous cosmology was dismissed so casually by institutional gatekeepers. Though terrified, alarmed, and disheartened, I remained undeterred. I swore to bring the play to the competitive platform of the National Theatre Festival, even if I had to bleed for every scene.

IV. DRAMATURGICAL ADAPTATION AND CASTING COMPLICATIONS
I immediately arranged a consultation with the playwright, Shrawan Mukarung. Staging the complete textual script would require over three hours of continuous performance, which was pragmatically and economically impossible for our starved production group. The playwright acknowledged this logistical reality.

With the playwright’s verbal consent, I undertook a radical dramaturgical revision. I locked myself away in cold rooms, condensing and re-editing the script at his residence in Baluwatar, stripping away non-essential elements without losing its tragic, core thematic message. This adapted version was engineered strictly from a performance-oriented perspective—a demanding, sleepless process that required immense mental labor. Upon viewing the revised script, the playwright formally endorsed it as production-ready.

However, preparing the text was merely the initial step; molding actors to embody these complex, mythical, and tortured characters proved excruciatingly difficult. The production demanded rare discipline and physical intensity, prompting a grueling two-year talent search. While secondary roles were eventually filled, finding an actor capable of carrying the tragic weight of the title role of YALAMBAR remained an absolute impasse.

Desperate, I spent what little money I had left placing newspaper advertisements for three months. Numerous non-indigenous actors applied, yet I struggled to find Indigenous actors possessing genuine artistic dedication and a connection to the myth. The few candidates who appeared demonstrated a superficial, “tourist-like” commitment without true passion, bringing my plans to the brink of total collapse.

I brought this crisis back to J.B. Rai, who proposed casting the prominent film star Dhiren Shakya for the lead role. We met Shakya at Zenith Movie P. Ltd in Kamaladi, Nepal. Upon hearing our plea, he agreed to portray YALAMBAR. We celebrated with tea, weeping with joy that our nightmare was over. Shortly thereafter, however, Shakya informed us that his wife had summoned him to Japan, rendering him unable to perform. Within a week, he departed the country, leaving the production stranded in crisis once again.

Forced to resume the exhausting search, I felt my physical and emotional reserves running completely dry. Out of desperation, I asked J.B. Rai to assume the lead role. He initially accepted, but later declined due to domestic disapproval from his family. I was backed into a corner, facing a devastating moral choice:
1. Scrap the production of YALAMBAR entirely, accepting defeat and embarrassment; or
2. Assume the lead role myself and risk complete physical collapse.
At this dark juncture, my attention turned to my co-actor Dipendra Rai, who had been growing his hair for two full years specifically in the hope of performing in YALAMBAR. Moved by his quiet devotion, I cast him in the title role and finalized the rest of the ensemble, building a fragile sanctuary of art out of absolute chaos.

V. DUAL FESTIVAL SELECTIONS, RESTRUCTURING, AND THE REGIONAL STAGING IN POKHARA
In 2006, against all odds, I submitted the production to two major bodies: the Regional Theatre Festival 2006 in Pokhara, organized by the Cultural Corporation, Government of Nepal and the competitive National Theatre Festival 2006 in Kathmandu, organized by the Royal Nepal Academy, Government of Nepal. Miraculously, the play was selected for both festivals simultaneously. For a brief moment, light broke through our tragic shadow.

Initially, I rehearsed the actors strictly according to the written script, but this rigid approach proved stiff for the cast and artistically unsatisfying. I promptly altered my directorial strategy, using YALAMBAR as a flexible foundation while integrating rich cultural rituals, movement, and music. While the full conceptual performance spanned three hours, festival regulations imposed a brutal 30-minute time limit.

Fearing that drastically cutting the performance would mutilate its core thematic essence, I invited the playwright to observe a rehearsal and guide my cuts. Although he accepted the invitation, he failed to attend. Whether his absence was due to prior commitments or an implicit trust in my directorial vision, I was left entirely alone to make the agonizing cuts.

Constrained by time and resources, extensive rehearsals were impossible. We worked on empty stomachs in cold, rented spaces. For the Regional Theatre Festival in Pokhara, severe financial distress forced me to deploy a reduced 11-member ensemble rather than the full 101-member cast I envisioned. The Cultural Corporation covered minimal travel expenses for only 6 individuals; I was forced to fund the remaining expenditures out of my own impoverished pocket, taking on personal debts that terrified my soul.

We arrived in Pokhara on June 9, 2006 with casting team members Praveen Puma, Pallav Mukarung, Pavita Rai, Dipendra Rai, Dhan Raj Rai, Milan Rai, and staged YALAMBAR on June 10,2006. Prepared for harsh criticism, I was overwhelmed when the performance resonated deeply with the audience, earning thunderous applause and a consolation award from the jury award-2006.

Following the performance, lead actress Pavita Rai collapsed backstage and wept uncontrollably, her body trembling with profuse tears. When we rushed to comfort her and asked what was wrong, she could offer no explanation; she had become so completely consumed by the grief, tragedy, and ancient pain of her character that she could not escape the emotion. On June 11, 2006, feeling a duty to give my exhausted team a moment of peace, I spent my last coins organizing an excursion around Pokhara and reserved a boat on Phewa Lake.

While we were in the middle of Phewa Lake, nature turned hostile. A violent storm and heavy downpour struck us without warning. Waves battered our small boat, and panic set in. Fighting the wind, the boatman managed to navigate us to the nearest shore—which turned out to be an unrecognized, eerie cremation ground. The cast spent two agonizing hours trapped in that place of death, shivering, soaked to the bone, and exposed to freezing rain. It felt as though tragedy followed our troupe wherever we stepped. We returned to Kathmandu on June 13, 2006, bearing official accolades, but carrying deeper physical scars.

VI. THE NATIONAL THEATRE FESTIVAL AND THE 101-MEMBER ENSEMBLE
Meanwhile, the National Theatre Festival in Kathmandu—originally scheduled for April 16, 2006—had been postponed to June 27, 2006 due to massive political instability and street protests. We used the delay to prepare for the ultimate test. In stark contrast to the 11-member cast used in Pokhara, I mobilized the complete, monumental 101-member ensemble for the national stage.

This 101-member troupe was a living army of the marginalized, including:
Praveen Puma, Dipendra Rai, Pavita Rai, Pallav Mukarung, Dhanraj Rai, Devendra Rai, Padamkumari Rai, Januka Rai, Bindra Rai, Rajmuni Rai, Sushma Rai, Diwa Rai, Kapil Rai, Sukaraj Rai, Nandakala Rai, Jituka Rai, Dipen Rai, Jaya Rai, Chhidur Rai, Roshan Rai, Purna Rai, Parshuram Rai, Saroj Rai, Devindra Rai, Kamala Rai, Ekraj Rai, Chandra Bahadur Rai, Diwana Rai, Milan Rai, Raju Sharma, Manila Rai, Santosh Rai, Samjhana Rai, Sagar Rai, Nabina Rai, Milanchandra Rai, Januka Rai, Sabita Rai, Nirmala Rai, Raju Rai, Raju & Rai, Indra Rai, Usha Rai, Bhupraj Rai, Praveen Kirati, Kumar Limbu, Dikshya Limbu, Rachana Maharjan, Bhimsen Dura, Rit Bahadur Magar, Devina Shah, Sanna Kanga, Prabodh Thapa, T.B. Karki, Vivek Moktan, Narayan Pariyar, and Gokul Khotange, alongside dozens of dedicated performers.

Feeding, housing, transporting, and coordinating an ensemble of 101 passionate, impoverished performers on a single stage was an unprecedented nightmare and an immense triumph. I was fighting logisticians, bankers, and critics simultaneously, running on zero sleep and sheer willpower to execute a historic artistic moment.

VII. AUDIENCE DISCONNECT, PHYSICAL ASSAULT, AND CRITICAL EVALUATION
When the curtains rose at the Royal Nepal Academy, the performance split the audience into chaotic halves. Certain audiences had anticipated a straightforward, conventional historical play chronicling the life of King YALAMBAR. Others, familiar with the text, expected a literal, word-for-word recitation of Mukarung’s poetry. Both groups were bewildered by my experimental directorial approach, which favored abstract ritual, movement, and Indigenous symbolism over linear storytelling. I deliberately left this artistic tension unresolved, intending to provoke deep questions about identity and form.

However, instead of intellectual debate, the aftermath dissolved into raw hostility. Aggressive individuals, angered by what they perceived as a distortion, made violent verbal threats and attempted a physical assault on me outside the venue. I narrowly escaped physical harm through the intervention of friends, but my spirit was battered. I stood accused of ruining a work I had bled six years to protect.

Yet, amid the violence, the artistic truth of the performances was undeniable:
• Dipendra Rai gave everything he possessed to the title role of YALAMBAR, carrying the weight of an ancient king with raw power despite minor vocal strain.
• Pavita Rai’s portrayal of YALAMBAR’s lover was hauntingly tragic; her immersion was so terrifyingly absolute that she wept hysterically for 30 minutes after the curtain fell, requiring gentle, steady intervention to bring her back from her character’s darkness.
• Padamkumari Rai, playing the old woman, demonstrated heroic integrity. Despite falling severely ill during rehearsals, she dragged her sick body to every single show without complaint.
• Dhanraj Rai’s compelling portrayal of the Sage captured the crowd so completely that a film producer in the audience offered him a movie contract on the spot.
• Child actor Pallav Mukarung became the darling of the festival, with strangers following him through the academy grounds shouting, “Look, it’s the young YALAMBAR!”
Every single member of that 101-person family poured their hunger, pain, and hope into the stage floorboards.

VIII. RETALIATION, FINANCIAL DEBT, AND PEER RECOGNITION
In the days following the show, conservative critics tore into the production, publishing venomous reviews claiming the play had been butchered. They could not understand the experimental syntax that synthesized ancient Kirat ritual with modern theatre. The hostility in Kathmandu grew so intense and dangerous that I was forced to flee my room and go into hiding for nearly a month to protect my life. Living in secret, isolated and terrified, I suffered profound psychological trauma, wondering why the pursuit of Indigenous art brought such severe punishment.

In those dark, silent rooming houses, I swore a bitter oath: I would never again direct another author’s play using my own personal financial resources.

Yet, true masters of the craft saw what we had achieved. Distinguish theatre figures and head of the Royal Nepal Academy Harihar Sharma and distinguish theatre figures Shakuntala Gurung sought me out and embraced me warmly, saying:
“Presenting an extraordinarily complex play on a national platform by simplifying it through a structured cultural framework is a major directorial achievement.”

Concurring with their assessment, Distinguish theatre visionary and theorist Ashesh Malla publicly defended the work, noting:
“Had the stage performance merely replicated the printed book, there would be no distinction between the text and its production. The visual artifice and creative execution required of a director were fully evident in the staging of YALAMBAR.”
Their validation provided a cool bandage to my wounded heart, but it could not pay my bills. The production had left me with a staggering personal debt of NPR 80,000. For a broke, marginalized artist living meal-to-meal in 2006, an NPR 80,000 debt was an insurmountable, terrifying mountain of financial ruin. Loan sharks and creditors hounded my footsteps, turning every waking hour into a struggle for basic survival.

CONCLUSION
It is easy for well-fed critics to sit in comfortable theatre seats and write scathing condemnations. It is effortless to destroy work from afar. But bearing the practical, financial, physical, and emotional toll behind the curtain—enduring the starvation, the humiliation of rejection, the terror of mob anger, and the crushing weight of debt—is an agonizing burden that very few understand.

If audiences could truly see the hunger, blood, tears, and loss that went into those 30 minutes on stage, their eyes would shed tears of deep empathy for the artist. Void of financial gain, stripped of security, forgotten by institutions, and burdened by ruinous debt, staging YALAMBAR was a tragic, painful sacrifice. Yet, it stands as an undeniable truth: we spoke our ancestors’ names on the national stage, and no amount of debt or hatred can ever erase that triumph.