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.]
पडोसी के बरामदे में वो पीली बल्ब..
शाम को पहाड़ी हवा में ऐसे झूमती है..
जैसे, मानो मदहोश हो शाम के इश्क में...
ठीक जब सुबह के 6 बजते हैं
तो आकाशवाणी की आवाज़ खिड़की से झांकती है....
हल वाले पूरण चाचा भी खेत जाते है उस वक़्त...
तो आकाशवाणी की आवाज़ खिड़की से झांकती है....
हल वाले पूरण चाचा भी खेत जाते है उस वक़्त...
फर्श की दरारों में अपनी उम्र छुपाये...
दीवारों पे सीलन सजाये....
कमरे के कोने में मकड़ों का एक शहर है..
बाहर नर्म घास पे एक गिलहरी आती है हर दोपहर..
एक मोर की टोली भी अक्सर गुजरती है....
बाहर नर्म घास पे एक गिलहरी आती है हर दोपहर..
एक मोर की टोली भी अक्सर गुजरती है....
दो महीने के लिए आया हूँ यहाँ..
रेशमी सुकून में खोने....
शायद एक किताब भी लिखूं....
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.
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.