Verse: The tale of a traitor

Happy Friday!!

On World Hindi Day, I wanted to share something about my fondness for writing verse in Hindi. I rummaged through old notes, journals and such to be inspired. And then I

this, written in 2011.

For reasons unknown, I find it easier to compose verse in Hindi. Perhaps it was too many ghazals when I was younger. Perhaps it is my lingering fondness for my Hindi teacher in grade school, Usha Chand.... anyway .. Cheers!

Nandita

PS: The translation on Google was hilarious, so I have taken the liberty of translating it myself, albeit coarsely, at the end of the verse. If you can read both languages, you may not enjoy the translation as much, so skip it.

~~~

एक गद्दार की कहानी

एक दिन मेरे मैखानेके आँगनसे गुज़ारा एक प्यासा. थोडासा बौखलायासा कुछ ठुकराया हुआ और उदास - बस ज़रासा.

कटेहेरे पर बैठा, खूब रोया हमने रुसवा न किया - बुलाया, बैठाया, गले लगाया . . . हमने सुनी, की, उसे दुनियाने 'गद्दार', 'बेवफा' क्यों केहेलाया!

जाम पर जाम पिए उसने रोकर आंसू फिरसे जिए उसने हमने कहा, आज आखरी जाa छलकाना कल क्या होगा - है हम ही को आजमाना!

फिर भी रहा हमारा प्यासा अब भी उदास, बेहेकहुआ ज़रासा.

निद्रा से जब नाते टूटे प्यासा यहीं था, जगाये ना उसे..

क्या कहानी उसने कही थी! उसके शब्दोंसे पानी मदिरा बनी थी उसके नशेका अब भी होश पर काबू था - कहानी नहीं कही, कोई जादू था! ऐसे नशे मैं, हम तो आपनाही मैखान छोड़ गए कोई शराबी, कोई प्यासा, उसकी बातोंमें आकर गद्दार बना मैं भी - बस ज़रासा. ~ नंदिता, २०११

The story of a traitor

One day,

The thirsty one crossed

the courtyard of my tavern.

A little lost, a little dejected

A little sad,

but only just.

He sat at the threshold and cried

I couldn't just turn him away.

I called, gave him a better seat,

embraced him.

I heard his tale,

why the world had deemed him

a traitor, a cheater.

Cups upon cups of wine he drank

cried, reliving wounds through his tears.

I asked: let this be your last glass

For we have to live through tomorrow.

Yet remained our thirty friend, thirsty,

sad, and drunk, just a little.

When my ties to slumber broke

The thirsty drunk was still there,

asleep.

I could not wake him.

What a tale he had spun,

his words turning water to wine.

Still trapped in his intoxication,

he remained.

It was not a tale,

but a spell he cast on me.

Intoxicated, and spellbound by it,

I walked away from my own tavern,

one drunk, another thirsty,

convinced by his tale of betrayal,

I too became a traitor,

but only just.

Nandita, 2011.

AUTHOR

Nandita Godbole

Once a botanist & landscape architect.

Now a personal chef & author, an artist, graphic designer, blogger & poet. 

 

Loves freshly brewed chai, the crisp salty ocean breeze, watching monsoon rains & walking barefoot through cold mountain streams. 

 

Believes in the strength, positivity of the human spirit. Is spiritual but not a fanatic. 

 

Mom of one. Two, if she counts her husband.

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