Translating Glances and Looks
I have always maintained that you can have certain thoughts only in certain languages. There is a texture and a flavor to each language, that makes articulated thoughts distinct; even though the thought may be the same. Over the last few years, I have been fortunate to have read quite a few anthologies of translated poems and works of fiction, and I realized the importance of translations to bring new thoughts to this universal tradition of telling. As an example, this line from a hymn written by a 15th century saint in Tamil:
“To speak of desires is as good as coming close.”
Or this obscure black magic practised by a travelling gypsy somewhere in the pages of Doctor Zhivago:
“Now, with that knife I can cut away the footprint of any man, and I can sew it with a silk thread to your skirt, and that man — whoever he is, Kolchak, or Strelnikov, or any new Tsar they set up — will follow you step by step wherever you go.”
Or from a poem by me, written, what seems an age and a lifetime ago:
“रात की रोशनी ले कर हम आये थे,
तेरे कुछ सियाह कागज़ो पे,
चराग जलाने थे।”
“I had come with the brightness of night;
To light lamps,
on some dark pages that you had.”
And as I sit and think, I realize how influential translations in giving me fodder for things that I later wrote in languages completely different. I guess, the only way I can put it is that while there are universal emotions, their expressions are always unique. There will always be one more way of calling the sky, blue; the snow, white; the ocean; endless; the shore; distant; the moon, beautiful; her, unadjectived. There are infinite metaphors still left to be made about every single thing, and over the years, I have realized that translations have given me a perspective view I never had before.
And translations, do not quite stop there. They transcend.
And I think,
Of translating glances, and looks, and actions.
Of translating smiles, and laughs, and grins.
Of translating teary, weary, sleepless eyes.
For today, I am doing a translation of what purportedly is Mirza Asadulla Khan Ghalib’s first ghazal, written when he was 17. There is a reference to this in the novel Dozakhnaama, a remarkable read for those of you haven’t. The verity of this claim is questionable, and the text was got from one internet site by sheer luck, This ghazal, manages a mesmerizing allegory between the poet’s heart and a kite that he is flying. The last couplet is in persian, while the rest I believe is Urdu. The translation is attempted by me, and therefore there will be glaring errors in it(obviously!). But stay with it, point it out, and we’ll get it fixed. I did not get to read this poem for a long time after I came to know that Ghalib had written one on kites. And hence, it is quite dear to me. I hope you enjoy it as well.
I will try and do a translation every week of a poem I like, and I will try to keep them as diverse as I can. If you have a poem you like, in a language you love, and you would like to do a translation, do let me know.
Here’s to infinite metaphors.
Here’s to translations.
The Original [Devanagari Script]
एक दिन मसला-ए-पतंग-ए-कागज़ी,
ले के दिल सर रिश्ता-ए-आज़दगी ।
खुद ब खुद कुछ हम से कनियाने लगा,
इस क़द्र बिगड़ा क सर खाने लगा ।
मैने कहा, आई दिल, हवा-ए-दिलबराँ,
बस के तेरे हक़ में कहती है ज़बान ।
पैच में इन के ना आना ज़ीनहार,
ये नहीं है गे किसू के यार ए घार ।
गोरे पिंडे पर ना कर इन के नज़र,
खींच लेते हैं ये डोरे डाल कर ।
अब तो मिल जायेगी तेरी इन से सांत,
लेकिन आख्हिर को पड़ेगी ऐसी गाँठ ।
सख़्त मुश्किल होगा सुलझाना तुझे,
क़हर है दिल इन से उलझाना तुझे ।
ये जो महफ़िल में बढ़ाते है तुझे,
भूल मत इस पर, उड़ाते है तुझे ।
एक दिन तुझ को लड़ा देंगे कहीं,
मुफ़्त मे ना-हक़ कटा देंगे कहीं ।
दिल ने सुन कर, काँप कर, खा पैच-ओ-ताब,
घोते मे जेया कर दिया काटकर जवाब ।
रिश्ता-ए-दूर गर्दनम अफ़गनदा दोस्त,
मी बुराद हर जेया क खातिर खाक ए दोस्त ।
The Translation
Of one day, this tale of a paper kite,
Taking with it, my heart, the relation of freedom.
By itself, it started getting irritated and skulked,
Such a way it got agitated, it started eating my head.
I said, O heart, this wind is a dear,
This language speaks only in your favor.
Do not fall into their traps, their kindness,
For they will not be anyone’s friends.
Do not be tempted with beautiful faces,
They will draw it in, into webs by smart moves.
Then for a time you will fly together,
However, eventually, the relationship will knot.
Very difficult it will be, to unravel this,
It will be a torment, this knotted affair for you.
These people who egg you on in concerts,
Don’t get mis-leaded, they are flying you up.
One day they will get you caught up somewhere,
For nothing, without right, they will get you cut.
Hearing this, my heart, the kite, taking a breath and rest,
It plunged down, cut itself, and replied thus.
This relation of a far, dust-specked, lost friend,
Like a sawdust filling for the ashes of my friend.
And I end with words of Carlos Ruiz Zafon, one of my favorite contemporary authors, whom I chanced upon, quite by accident:
“…that as long as we are being remembered, we remain alive.”
