Note: This is a song which I loved to hear. Tried my hands at translating this song, a very difficult job and nowhere near the original. Please read the translation only if you are not conversant in Hindi.
Info of the song:
Lyricist :Rajendra Krishna
Singer :Talat Mehmood
Music Director :Madan mohan
Movie :Dekh Kabira Roya - 1957
Video:
Lyrics:
Hum se aaya na gaya, tum se bulaya na gaya
Faasla pyar me donon se mitaya na gaya.
Woh ghadi yaad hai, Jab tum se mulakaat hui,
Ek ishaara hua, do haath badhe, baat hui
Dekhte dekhte, din dhal gaya aur raat hui
Woh shama aaj talak dil se bhulaya na gaya
Kya khabar thi, ke mile hain toh bichadne ke liye
Kismatain apni banayi hai, bigadne ke liye
Pyar ka baagh lagaya tha, ujadne ke liye
Iss tarah ujda ke phir, humse basaya na gaya
Yaad rah jaati hai aur waqt gujar jaata hai
Phool khilta bhi hai, aur khil ke bikhar jaata hai
Sab chale jaate hain, kab dard-e-jigar jaata hai,
Daag jo tu ne diya, dil se mitaya na gaya.
Translation:
Not me to make an effort to return, not you to make the plead
The rift that so grew, could not be without an effort breached
Recall the time, when for the first time we met,
A glint, two hands touched and had our hearts did confabulate
But with time's passage, the sun had made way for the dark
The spark that had been ignited then, had left its lasting mark.
Who it was who knew that we had met only to part
Only to crush our destinies we had them so lovingly carved
The garden nurtured with our love was created just to be ruined
No amount of love can have these wrecks ever redeemed
Only the memories remain but time passes on,
The flower blooms and then wilts, after its moment under the sun.
Every one departs someday, but will these heartburns ever digress
The scar of the departed's pain is so difficult for my heart to efface.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
A Father's story
Note: The style of the story is the same as Crime and Punishment(My previous blog). Its not actually a sequel or something but part of the series.
Punishment:
My son was coming back in an coffin and all I could do was wait. I didnt even know what I was waiting for.. the dead body emblamed with some chemical for him to look presentable to us, his deep cuts sewed togather, his imposing height cut in half and he, all wrapped in some hospital post mortem clothes. What was I waiting for.. my son? but the person coming back with the half shut eyes, half open torn lips and the broken nose was not my son whom my heart longed for. But I kept on waiting. Maybe just waiting to kill all my hope with that one glance of the dead.
Sometimes I wished they never even told me that my son is no more.. an insolent son may be I could have accepted, a dead son was difficult to bear. The house was abuzz with friends whome I had last seen some years ago at some other funeral.. with relatives, whose display of sorrow, never stopped them from asking for some more tea and salt biscuits. All dressed in white, they were ready and presentable for the occasion. I kept on looking at my wife who was sitting at some corner sorrunded by ladies, some wailing, some wiping away their tears and some others silently stealing glances, looking around.
Who can fight destiny, a learned friend of mine opined. I stared at him with not a comment. The same friend, long long ago, had praised my luck and had predicted of me going places because of my glorious destiny, now my destiny was taking me to the graveyard to bury the dead. I had laughed then, I couldnt do the same now. I looked at my wife again, she was sitting quitely now.. she had maybe got tired of crying for her young son, the youth who would never be old.. a la peter pan. I remembered the day when we had all gone to the resturant, and saw that bald but sauve married man with kids. We all joked that my dapper son would turn up like him after some 10-15 years. Now there was no way of finding that out.
People were now getting impatient, they had expected the dead man back soon... they had better things to do than wait for the dead. Some had to catch the saas bahu serial where the heir to the viraani family was to be born... some other had an appointment at the pub and others just wanted to relax with a book. I envied them and looked at the blaring TV which was running some ads of some cola.I kept looking at it without anything being registered. I could instead see the small baby in my arms, mumbling something incomprehensible, cooing something, laughing the heavenly smile. I had tears then with happiness. I remembered the moment when I saw him for the first time, so small lying near my wife , with tiny hands, tiny fingers and feet. He tried to clutch my fingers and I had promised myself that I will always love and protect him. Maybe Today I had failed my promise.
There was a commotion downstairs, my son had arrived in an ambulance.. His dead eyes maybe wandered around clutching all the views he could see and filling his eyes with them. We folowed his ambulance to the graveyard racing with the settig sun. The trip was uneventful with desolate empty roads, and long trees providing a picturesqe twist to the landscape. I could see some kids playing in the hot sun and their watchful mothers looking from the shade of some tree. I stole a glance to look at my wife who had finally slept on my shoulders, her shut eyes were swollen and the dried tears had marked her still beautiful face. I not wishing to disturb her disturbed sleep looked ahead with my son flooding all my visions.
My shut eyes had him riding the bicycle, my open eyes could see the ambulance ahead with his body lying on the strecher. I closed my eyes again to look at my 8 year old son trying to cycle with me holding the seat tightly. I had released my hands from those and he had fallen down on the grass. I had picked him and had asked the crying child to be brave. He had stopped crying, but now I didnt have the same courage. I remembered the day when I had come home after a long stint abroad, he was a small kid of 4 and he had refused to call me father inspite of my proddings and bribing(with chocolates). I also cannot forget my delight when he had uttered those word so lovingly, that I had my knees going weak. He had uttered the same word, "dad" million of times there after but that voice, that utterance still echoes in my dreams. I could see him growing up again in front of my eyes. The shy lad walking unwillingly to the play school, the mischivious kid kneeling down in front of the principal, the willful teenager disobeying me to go for the movie and the chivalrous youth who still had his eyes low when he came semi drunk from some party. A gallant and sauve guy ,he was popular with girls and I was so proud of him. But now what? All I had of him were a handful of memories being played in front of my eyes, again and again and again. The car braked in front of the graveyard.
There some distance away in the midst of thousand other graves was the pit where I was supposed to bury my kid. My son climbed down from the ambulance, carried by friends and relatives alike, dressed in white hospital bandages. I didnt look at him, didnt want to obliterate my image of him, the smiling dimpled image with a torn unkind one. I held my wife with one hand and the lamp in the other and we walked down to the pit. My wife followed me, half dragged half carried by me with tears and wails. The place was bubbling with graves sprung everywhere, somekind of memorial to the dead, or maybe the living. These 6 foot long, 3 feet wide and 10 feet deep graves were the only reminder of these once existing life forms. I kept on reading those epitaphs etched on the black granite.. some had died young and some very old, some others were kids, some of them even had died without a name. I kept on looking for a damsel among those black stones for my son to atleast have a married dead life.
We had reached the pit and my son was laid on the earth.. dust to dust the priest had proclaimed. I looked down at him. He was adorned with flowers and garlands, a waste of those beautiful flowers i thought, laden on those who appreciates them least now. But then maybe the flowers were not for making the dead feel narcissious, maybe it is about those alive getting themselves to be used to their loved ones being dead. Its maybe just painting the picture of death with bright colors instead of the usual hue of black and grey. I knelt at my sons feet presenting a picture of desolation maybe, but did I care. I had dreamt of this moment before, dreaming of touching my sons feet, but always like Jacob bowing before Joseph, always like Suddhodhana washing the Buddha's feet but never as a old father burying his young son. I looked around, the friends and relatives were wiping their silent tears. Far away, in some other corner of the graveyard, there was a dog strewn over someone's grave, lying on the shade of the "krishnachuda" tree. He was looking at me with his doggy eyes, maybe surprised and disgruntled having being woken from his slumber by wailing banshees. He loked at me with his buttoned eyes and went back to sleep on the forsaken grave cluttered with the brilliant yellow krishnachudas. My son's sleep was undisturbed by wailings and tears. All his life, He, following what I had tought him, praying for the world's happiness, had forgotten to pray for himself. Maybe that is where I had failed him. I stared at my son's blissfully serene dead face, wiped away the wandering flies and wetted his clothed feet with my tears.
Crime:
Sometime in the middle of summer,1948 I was born. Or is it that some three decades later My son was born.
Punishment:
My son was coming back in an coffin and all I could do was wait. I didnt even know what I was waiting for.. the dead body emblamed with some chemical for him to look presentable to us, his deep cuts sewed togather, his imposing height cut in half and he, all wrapped in some hospital post mortem clothes. What was I waiting for.. my son? but the person coming back with the half shut eyes, half open torn lips and the broken nose was not my son whom my heart longed for. But I kept on waiting. Maybe just waiting to kill all my hope with that one glance of the dead.
Sometimes I wished they never even told me that my son is no more.. an insolent son may be I could have accepted, a dead son was difficult to bear. The house was abuzz with friends whome I had last seen some years ago at some other funeral.. with relatives, whose display of sorrow, never stopped them from asking for some more tea and salt biscuits. All dressed in white, they were ready and presentable for the occasion. I kept on looking at my wife who was sitting at some corner sorrunded by ladies, some wailing, some wiping away their tears and some others silently stealing glances, looking around.
Who can fight destiny, a learned friend of mine opined. I stared at him with not a comment. The same friend, long long ago, had praised my luck and had predicted of me going places because of my glorious destiny, now my destiny was taking me to the graveyard to bury the dead. I had laughed then, I couldnt do the same now. I looked at my wife again, she was sitting quitely now.. she had maybe got tired of crying for her young son, the youth who would never be old.. a la peter pan. I remembered the day when we had all gone to the resturant, and saw that bald but sauve married man with kids. We all joked that my dapper son would turn up like him after some 10-15 years. Now there was no way of finding that out.
People were now getting impatient, they had expected the dead man back soon... they had better things to do than wait for the dead. Some had to catch the saas bahu serial where the heir to the viraani family was to be born... some other had an appointment at the pub and others just wanted to relax with a book. I envied them and looked at the blaring TV which was running some ads of some cola.I kept looking at it without anything being registered. I could instead see the small baby in my arms, mumbling something incomprehensible, cooing something, laughing the heavenly smile. I had tears then with happiness. I remembered the moment when I saw him for the first time, so small lying near my wife , with tiny hands, tiny fingers and feet. He tried to clutch my fingers and I had promised myself that I will always love and protect him. Maybe Today I had failed my promise.
There was a commotion downstairs, my son had arrived in an ambulance.. His dead eyes maybe wandered around clutching all the views he could see and filling his eyes with them. We folowed his ambulance to the graveyard racing with the settig sun. The trip was uneventful with desolate empty roads, and long trees providing a picturesqe twist to the landscape. I could see some kids playing in the hot sun and their watchful mothers looking from the shade of some tree. I stole a glance to look at my wife who had finally slept on my shoulders, her shut eyes were swollen and the dried tears had marked her still beautiful face. I not wishing to disturb her disturbed sleep looked ahead with my son flooding all my visions.
My shut eyes had him riding the bicycle, my open eyes could see the ambulance ahead with his body lying on the strecher. I closed my eyes again to look at my 8 year old son trying to cycle with me holding the seat tightly. I had released my hands from those and he had fallen down on the grass. I had picked him and had asked the crying child to be brave. He had stopped crying, but now I didnt have the same courage. I remembered the day when I had come home after a long stint abroad, he was a small kid of 4 and he had refused to call me father inspite of my proddings and bribing(with chocolates). I also cannot forget my delight when he had uttered those word so lovingly, that I had my knees going weak. He had uttered the same word, "dad" million of times there after but that voice, that utterance still echoes in my dreams. I could see him growing up again in front of my eyes. The shy lad walking unwillingly to the play school, the mischivious kid kneeling down in front of the principal, the willful teenager disobeying me to go for the movie and the chivalrous youth who still had his eyes low when he came semi drunk from some party. A gallant and sauve guy ,he was popular with girls and I was so proud of him. But now what? All I had of him were a handful of memories being played in front of my eyes, again and again and again. The car braked in front of the graveyard.
There some distance away in the midst of thousand other graves was the pit where I was supposed to bury my kid. My son climbed down from the ambulance, carried by friends and relatives alike, dressed in white hospital bandages. I didnt look at him, didnt want to obliterate my image of him, the smiling dimpled image with a torn unkind one. I held my wife with one hand and the lamp in the other and we walked down to the pit. My wife followed me, half dragged half carried by me with tears and wails. The place was bubbling with graves sprung everywhere, somekind of memorial to the dead, or maybe the living. These 6 foot long, 3 feet wide and 10 feet deep graves were the only reminder of these once existing life forms. I kept on reading those epitaphs etched on the black granite.. some had died young and some very old, some others were kids, some of them even had died without a name. I kept on looking for a damsel among those black stones for my son to atleast have a married dead life.
We had reached the pit and my son was laid on the earth.. dust to dust the priest had proclaimed. I looked down at him. He was adorned with flowers and garlands, a waste of those beautiful flowers i thought, laden on those who appreciates them least now. But then maybe the flowers were not for making the dead feel narcissious, maybe it is about those alive getting themselves to be used to their loved ones being dead. Its maybe just painting the picture of death with bright colors instead of the usual hue of black and grey. I knelt at my sons feet presenting a picture of desolation maybe, but did I care. I had dreamt of this moment before, dreaming of touching my sons feet, but always like Jacob bowing before Joseph, always like Suddhodhana washing the Buddha's feet but never as a old father burying his young son. I looked around, the friends and relatives were wiping their silent tears. Far away, in some other corner of the graveyard, there was a dog strewn over someone's grave, lying on the shade of the "krishnachuda" tree. He was looking at me with his doggy eyes, maybe surprised and disgruntled having being woken from his slumber by wailing banshees. He loked at me with his buttoned eyes and went back to sleep on the forsaken grave cluttered with the brilliant yellow krishnachudas. My son's sleep was undisturbed by wailings and tears. All his life, He, following what I had tought him, praying for the world's happiness, had forgotten to pray for himself. Maybe that is where I had failed him. I stared at my son's blissfully serene dead face, wiped away the wandering flies and wetted his clothed feet with my tears.
Crime:
Sometime in the middle of summer,1948 I was born. Or is it that some three decades later My son was born.
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