- Nepal has lost its “People’s Poet,” Durgalal Shrestha, who died on 16 August 2026 at the age of 93.
- Shrestha has left behind a legacy of poetry, songs and children’s literature that has strengthened Nepal Bhasa and Nepali as living languages.
- Ashford has drawn on Shrestha’s life to argue that Kenya’s indigenous languages need creative, contemporary use rather than mere historical preservation.
The death of a great poet is never simply the death of an individual. It is the departure of a voice that carried the memories, anxieties, hopes and dreams of generations. When poet Durgalal Shrestha died on the night of 16 August 2026, aged 93, Nepal lost not merely a literary figure, but one of the most distinctive voices through which a people heard themselves. His passing is therefore a cultural loss that extends beyond literature. It is the loss of a man who spent much of his life demonstrating that language can be a powerful instrument of identity, dignity, resistance and belonging.
Shrestha was widely known as Nepal’s “People’s Poet,” or Janakavi. His contribution to Nepalese literature extended across poetry, songs and children’s literature, with significant work in both Nepal Bhasa and Nepali. Yet his importance cannot be measured simply by the number of poems he wrote or the recognition he received. His greatest achievement was perhaps his ability to make language feel alive. He showed that a mother tongue was not something to be hidden in private spaces or remembered only by older generations. It could be a language of literature, music, education, childhood, social commentary and public expression.
The story of Shrestha is particularly important because language is never merely a tool for communication. It carries history, culture, humour, memory, worldview and identity. When communities lose confidence in their languages, they risk losing part of their cultural inheritance. The Nepali Times tribute, “A Goodbye Note to the People’s Poet,” recalls how Shrestha demonstrated that it was possible to “live with your language” at a time when Newa people could experience pressure to abandon their mother tongue in favour of dominant languages. His life consequently became an affirmation that linguistic identity should not be regarded as an obstacle to modernity.
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This lesson has relevance far beyond Nepal. Across Africa, indigenous languages have often had to compete with colonial and dominant national languages for space in education, government, business and public life. In Kenya, English and Kiswahili occupy powerful positions, while numerous indigenous languages remain central to family life, culture and community identity. A Kenyan child may become highly proficient in English at school and Kiswahili in public life, yet the deepest expressions of affection, humour, grief and belonging may still be found in the language spoken by grandparents. The challenge is therefore not to reject English or Kiswahili, but to ensure that the rise of dominant languages does not make indigenous languages appear inferior.
Shrestha’s legacy provides an important answer to this challenge. He demonstrated that a mother tongue could become a vehicle for serious artistic expression and intellectual engagement. He did not simply preserve an existing linguistic tradition; he expanded its possibilities. Through poetry and song, he helped create spaces where the language could participate in contemporary life. This distinction is important because a language does not survive simply because dictionaries preserve its vocabulary. It survives when people continue to use it creatively and naturally.
His work for children was especially significant. His songs allowed younger generations to encounter their language through joy and imagination. In the 1990s, the album Chulichiya Chan Chan brought together Newa songs for children, with Shrestha writing the songs and musicians contributing the musical arrangements. Some of these songs were later used in schools. This was a powerful contribution because children often inherit language through pleasure. They sing before they understand grammar. They repeat phrases before they understand their cultural significance. They fall in love with words before they realise that they are carrying history.
This is an important lesson for educators and policymakers everywhere. If indigenous languages are presented only as examination subjects or as symbols of an old culture, young people may regard them as irrelevant. But if children can read stories, sing songs, watch films, perform drama and create digital content in their mother tongues, those languages become part of their present and future. Shrestha understood that cultural preservation requires creativity rather than nostalgia.
His relationship with music also demonstrates the power of collaboration. The Nepali Times tribute recalls his work with musician Nhyoo Bajracharya, in which words and music sometimes emerged together. This partnership illustrates how poetry can move beyond the printed page. When poetry becomes song, it reaches audiences who may never attend a literary event or read a poetry collection. It becomes part of everyday life. People carry songs into their homes, journeys, celebrations and memories. Through music, literature becomes communal.
Translation was another important dimension of Shrestha’s legacy. The tribute recalls the translation of hundreds of his short poems into English. Translation is often misunderstood as merely changing words from one language into another. In reality, it is an act of cultural bridge-building. It allows people outside a linguistic community to encounter its imagination, experiences and worldview. A poem written in a relatively small language can travel across borders when another writer takes the responsibility of carrying its meaning into another linguistic world.
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For countries such as Kenya, this is a particularly valuable lesson. African literature has often travelled globally through English and French, but the continent’s linguistic wealth is much greater than the languages inherited from colonial rule. Translating literature from Kikuyu, Luo, Kamba, Luhya, Kisii, Maasai and other African languages into Kiswahili, English and other world languages can broaden the reach of indigenous voices. At the same time, translating works from dominant languages into indigenous languages can strengthen local literary ecosystems. Cultural exchange should operate in both directions.
There is also something deeply moving about the personal memories surrounding Shrestha’s final days. The Nepali Times account describes a final visit by Pratibha Tuladhar and her emotional farewell to the poet. Such moments remind us that literary inheritance is often deeply personal. A great writer may influence thousands of people, but the transmission of that influence frequently happens through individual relationships: a teacher introducing a poem to a student, a parent singing a song to a child, a reader discovering a book at a formative moment, or a young writer finding courage in the work of an older generation.
In an age dominated by social media, artificial intelligence, short-form entertainment and rapidly changing cultural tastes, it may be tempting to believe that traditional literature is losing its relevance. Shrestha’s life suggests the opposite. Technology changes the way people consume stories, but it does not eliminate the human need to belong, remember and express ourselves. In fact, the digital age creates new opportunities for endangered and minority languages. Poems can be digitised, songs recorded, stories published online, dictionaries developed and educational materials shared with audiences far beyond their original communities.
The challenge is to ensure that indigenous languages do not become merely subjects of historical preservation. They must remain languages of creation. Young people must be encouraged to write them, speak them, sing them and use them in contemporary contexts. Schools can play a central role by making space for indigenous literature and oral traditions. Publishers can invest in books written in local languages. Musicians and filmmakers can bring those languages into popular culture. Digital creators can demonstrate that a mother tongue belongs not only to yesterday but also to tomorrow.
The most fitting memorial to a people’s poet, therefore, is not simply a statue, a street named after him or an annual literary ceremony. It is a generation of young people who continue to speak their mother tongue without embarrassment, create new literature in it and discover that their language is capable of carrying both the ordinary and the extraordinary. A language survives when people use it creatively, confidently and continuously.
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Durgalal Shrestha’s death closes a remarkable chapter in Nepal’s cultural history, but it does not have to close the story he spent his life writing. His poems, songs and commitment to linguistic dignity provide a lasting challenge to communities everywhere: do not allow the languages that carry your memories to disappear through neglect. Protect them not by keeping them frozen in the past, but by allowing them to evolve.
A poet truly belongs to the people when the people recognise themselves in his words. Shrestha achieved that rare distinction. His physical voice may now be silent, but the languages he strengthened continue to speak. They speak in homes, schools, songs, memories and new generations. And perhaps that is the most enduring form of immortality that a people’s poet can receive.
By Ashford Kimani
Ashford is a teacher of English and Literature and comments on education and social affairs.
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