This is my first Hindi poem 😀 And it doesn’t make sense. To me at least. But I like that I composed a poem that rhymes in my mother tongue, without any help and it reads amazing. I’ve translated it to English for those of you who don’t know Hindi. I really would like feedback, especially from all my Hindi-reading readers. How was it? Did you get the essence of the poem? Do you think I should do more poetry in Hindi? For my English readers, how was the translation poem? Like it? Love it? Good. Hate it? I don’t really care 😛 So here it goes:
Yeh mera dil thakka aur main tukdo mein pada,
Main Pucho toh yeh kahe tune kitna saha.
Dil ki madhoshiyan jo thi ab tak
Voh bhule apna zaahir karne ke haq.
Koi puche isse zara, kitna yeh tarse,
Aasun gire, jaise neele aasman se barse.
Apne lafz yeh apne mein rakhe
Kyunki isne sirf dukh sune sabke.
Sab sunn ke ab yeh choor ho gaya hai
Zindagi ek geet tha, hai, ab bina lay.
Thak gaya hai, yeh masoom dil
Akele rahi, koi sahara na mil.
Chalte rahna hai par kyunki koi aur raasta nahi hai
Zindagi ke khiladi, mera dil hai or main
Akela- akela karna hai yeh rasta tai
Zindagi ek geet hai, gaye usne sahit lay.
Der lagi lekin, par kar jayega,
Main jukh jayun, mera dil nahi haar maan payega.
Kyunki mera dil thakka ho, aur main tukdon mein pade
Main pucho toh kahe ki paar karenge pahad chote bade.
My heart is tired, and I, broken, lay down
Ask my heart and it says how much have I suffered.
The whispers of my heart have ceased,
They have forgotten their right to make themselves heard.
Someone ask my heart how much it is suffering.
The tears fall continuously like ran from the blue sky.
It keeps itself unheard, keeping its pain to itself.
As he always listened to the problems of others.
I, my heart, we’re broken from all the sadness.
Life, once a merry song, is now tuneless.
My innocent heart is exhausted.
It’s alone, lonely, there’s no one his companion.
But it has to keep moving, can’t stop. There’s no other way.
Life’s a game and my heart and I are the only players.
Life’s a song, sing a little tune.
It’ll take time but it’ll succeed.
I may surrender; my heart will never accept defeat.
Because I may be broken and my heart tired,
If I ask, it’ll say we’ll cross mountains both small and big.
Everybody is aware of the December 16, 2012 Delhi gang rape, forever marked as the Black Day in Indian history.
A girl is far more responsible for rape than a boy.
It is what Mukesh Singh, one of the main accused said in the BBC Documentary, ‘India’s Daughter’. What is her crime Mukesh? That she was out alone in the city at night? That she went to a movie with an unknown stranger? Well, then it’s a pity she didn’t have defending lawyer AP Singh, a well educated man, for a father. Because he’d have taught her the correct lesson by putting petrol on her and setting her alight in front of the entire family. I think that he should have done that to Jyoti’s pyre because, come on, going on a date with a stranger equates engaging in premarital activities.
Also, I thank heaven that Jyoti died, because as a woman, we have no place in the society according to the second defending lawyer ML Sharma. Our culture is the best. In our culture there is no place for a woman. What about your mother, Mr. Sharma? Wasn’t she the one expelled you out of her vagina? Probably the reason you have that stupid mouth? She must be really ashamed of you. As for you Mukesh Singh, can you exactly tell me what Jyoti had done that day? Had she provoked you in some way of talked badly to you or did she step into hell the minute she entered your bus? The bus that you now allegedly drove. It’s not as if you were pulled into the news because you drove the bus. I don’t think that you’d have missed the chance of teaching her a lesson. But then, you didn’t expect people to create a mountain of a molehill. After all, it’s just a rape. They happen every day. So what if you pulled her entrails? So what if you raped her? You were teaching her a lesson only. She was a bad girl. She had to bear the consequences of her crime.
The thinking of these people disgusts me. I didn’t know that being a woman in India means I immediately put sex in his eyes. A man sees his mother, his sister, his friends, he is horny. What are women? Walking porn? Aren’t we human beings? Or are we just objects for men to put right? To have their way? To do what a man wants, to fulfill his needs?
Pity those who see women as a commodity. Praise those who see women as people who can make a difference in society.
I have the answer the question Jyoti’s father asked. What is the meaning of a woman? To think in patriarchal terms because that’s what people understand, a woman is a human being who doesn’t have a penis. But she has equal rights as a man. No man has any right to teach any woman any lesson. She’s the only one who has monopoly on her body. She’s a birth giver, the mother of the planet, of all human beings. She the backbone of the society. Jyoti died but what has come from her death? The juvenile comes out in December. The rest, instead of being bludgeoned to death have been kept alive for two years now, that too by a fast track court? Besides, what has the government done to increase the safety of millions of women like her? The documentary, that was a good chance identify the problem has been banned. Leslee Udwin had to leave India, because she gave the hope of a better future by presenting facts.
The question I ask is: Does this darkness have a name? This cruelty, this hatred, how did it find us? Did it steal into our lives or did we seek it out and embrace it? What happened to us that we now send our children into the world like we send young men to war, hoping for their safe return, but knowing that some would be lost along the way. How did people become monsters? That they show no remorse, no regret at what they did. Blaming her innocent soul for this. They’re not sorry. But the world is sorry for them. The devils they’ve become. And we hope they die.
I am truly ashamed of the country I live in today, along with thousands of others. And that’s sad.
Early morning madness. Men drinking cups of tea while laughing raucously. Small children running helter-skelter. Women scolding them and then laughing it off. Inside the room, the atmosphere of silence prevailed as the girl stared at her made up face in the mirror. “Didi, you’d have to wear you lehenga now, if you want to reach the parlor at time.”
“Diya, don’t forget your big gold necklace, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers nervously. Her heart beats faster as she steps gingerly into the perfect red lehenga. She feels a thrill of excitement as she looks at herself in the mirror. Ajay will be star struck.
The afternoon sun shines magnificently above them as they rush their way on the rickshaw to the nearest court. She sobs quietly in his shirt and he pats her head soothingly. He knew that that it was her only option and that it hurt her. Her parents would never agree to her marrying a lowly office clerk.
“It’ll be all right, Ganga. Don’t cry, please, it’ll be all right,” he murmurs quietly in her hair.
She whispers back, “Don’t worry, Krishna. I won’t let his men get to us, our happiness, and our marriage.”
“I know you won’t. I trust you.”
“No sir, not my daughter,” she cries as she clings to his leg mercilessly.
“A deal was a deal. Five years ago, you promised, didn’t you?” he shook his leg. Not hearing a reply, grabbing her hair, he yelled, “DIDN’T YOU?”
“Yes sir,” she screamed. “But sir, she’s my daughter. My only daughter, you can’t just marry-“
“I can do. You didn’t pay you money, did you?” he said, suddenly quiet. “So, now you have TO LET HER GO.”
He wrenches his leg free from her grip as his men tackle her daughter, who was too little, too scared to understand what was happening. She lies on the ground begging, crying as they drag her daughter, her dreams shattering, and her hopes drowning. Only the flat truth before her, she’d never see her beloved daughter again.
The veranda air was silent and somber. The woman’s sob were disguised with quick motions. She hardly notices the quiet whispering as she efficiently removes her jewelry and puts it in the box, never to be used again. She hands her a grey gown and lifts her up. She carries her across the veranda, to reach the door that just escapes the morning sunlight. She pushes her inside, and shuts the door just as the banging starts.
“He was my husband mother. I can’t do this mom, please,” she shrieks from inside.
She replies, wiping her tears and turns back, “He was my son.”
Class XI. Maths Test. 10 questions. Sixty Minutes. May seem enough to some, but not me. Okay, I’m sorry to have been so irregular, but I couldn’t find inspiration “around the corner”. Also, my UT’S. Have been very busy. My maths test was last Friday. It went horrible. So I composed this poem to unleash my fury and hence the title.
Maths, my dear,
You have become my fear.
You name is so small.
But the paper compromises it all.
Ten big questions, brandished like swords,
Makes us remember all our Lords.
Your one hour time limit,
Feels a little too bit.
Seeing the paper made me feel,
You are easy, it was surreal.
Thought I and I began to write,
But I was up against time in this fight.
I wrote and wrote but it never came to end,
The swords pierced me, I couldn’t defend.
Ultimately, lost I,
I cannot defy.
I put up a good fight,
But my mom was right.
I need to write faster.
Else the results will be a disaster.
So finally I lost some tears,
And it was because of you my dear.
For all the curious ones, I scored 13. Yeah, on 25. Shame on me. Hell, disaster!