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A Poem for The Folded Earth

There was an interesting email recently, on The Folded Earth, from a reader who introduced himself as Ashirbad Raha. He included a poem he had written, in Hindi, which picks up themes and threads from the novel. Inter-language intertextuality!


 "...I penned this small piece of poetry (below) this morning dreaming of where Maya lives and with a dream that some day I too would go back to my parents, hills and my small town and write a book... This small poem is dedicated to your writing in The Folded Earth." 
ASHIRBAD RAHA


[THE HINDI ORIGINAL FOLLOWS. A ROUGH ENGLISH TRANSLATION IS FURTHER DOWN.]


เคชเคกोเคธी เค•े เคฌเคฐाเคฎเคฆे เคฎें เคตो เคชीเคฒी เคฌเคฒ्เคฌ..
เคถाเคฎ เค•ो เคชเคนाเฅœी เคนเคตा เคฎें เคเคธे เคूเคฎเคคी เคนै..
เคœैเคธे, เคฎाเคจो เคฎเคฆเคนोเคถ เคนो เคถाเคฎ เค•े เค‡เคถ्เค• เคฎें...

เค ीเค• เคœเคฌ เคธुเคฌเคน  เค•े 6 เคฌเคœเคคे เคนैं
เคคो เค†เค•ाเคถเคตाเคฃी เค•ी เค†เคตाเคœ़ เค–िเคก़เค•ी เคธे เคांเค•เคคी เคนै....
เคนเคฒ เคตाเคฒे เคชूเคฐเคฃ เคšाเคšा เคญी เค–ेเคค เคœाเคคे เคนै เค‰เคธ เคตเค•़्เคค...  

เค…ंเค—्เคฐेเคœो เค•े เฅ›เคฎाเคจे เค•ा เคนोเค—ा เคตो เค—ेเคธ्เคŸ เคนाเค‰เคธ...
เคซเคฐ्เคถ เค•ी เคฆเคฐाเคฐों เคฎें เค…เคชเคจी เค‰เคฎ्เคฐ เค›ुเคชाเคฏे...
เคฆीเคตाเคฐों เคชे เคธीเคฒเคจ เคธเคœाเคฏे....

เค•เคฎเคฐे เค•े เค•ोเคจे เคฎें เคฎเค•เคก़ों เค•ा เคเค• เคถเคนเคฐ เคนै..
เคฌाเคนเคฐ เคจเคฐ्เคฎ เค˜ाเคธ เคชे เคเค• เค—िเคฒเคนเคฐी เค†เคคी เคนै เคนเคฐ เคฆोเคชเคนเคฐ..
เคเค• เคฎोเคฐ เค•ी เคŸोเคฒी เคญी เค…เค•्เคธเคฐ เค—ुเคœเคฐเคคी เคนै....

เคฆो เคฎเคนीเคจे เค•े เคฒिเค เค†เคฏा เคนूँ เคฏเคนाँ..
เคฐेเคถเคฎी เคธुเค•ूเคจ เคฎें เค–ोเคจे....
เคถाเคฏเคฆ เคเค• เค•िเคคाเคฌ เคญी เคฒिเค–ूं....

TRANSLATION 
That yellow bulb in the neighbour's verandah
Dances every evening in the mountain breeze 
As if drunk with love for the evening.

At exactly six every morning
The sound of a radio through the window
And Puran Chacha leaves for the fields with his plough. 

This guest house must be from British times
Its age hidden in the cracks in its floor
Its decoration the damp on its walls
There is a city of spiders in the corner of the room
A squirrel appears every afternoon on the soft grass
A colony of peacocks walks past.

I am here for two months
Lost in the silken threads of dreaming. 

Maybe I will even write a book.



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