ललका पाग: THE RED HEADWEAR Translation of a Maithli Novel by Rajkamal Choudhary

ललका पाग:  THE  RED   HEADWEAR  (Collection of Stories by Rajkamal  Choudhary)
lalkapaag
There can be no confusion  in identifying a Maithil woman. They  are quite different from the womenfolk of other  provinces  and their attire…  During the   Maghi Purnima fair held  on the bank of Ganga at  Simaria ,Pahleja or Mahadeopur ghaat  a Maithil woman can be distinguished with a worn out clothen  bundle on their head and in a pitched   rhythmical voice   calling their companions with their typical names such as –    ‘O Munia’s Mother’ ,O Bisanpattiwali, or Hey Bahina,  Hey Paan,  Hey  Chaanan ,O   Mother  etc’
A  Maithil woman  chirning wheat in ‘Jaanta’, thrashing rice in ‘Dheki’ , making flattened rice (Chuda) in Ukhari, making  paste  of  rice on  ‘Silout’,and  singing  some new or old lyrics traditionally sung on these   occasions  .A  maithil woman  smearing the basil stand with cow-dung;  a Maithil woman  painting blood-red and white coloured leaves and flowers  with vermillion and rice-paste on Aripan …. And  Maithil woman  playing hide and sick, sama-Chakewa,and   Jatt—Jattin.
And Tripura  or  Tripur  alias Tiru  was a typical Maithil girl of this class.
Even before she had reached  the age of playing with the broad ‘shikha’ of  her  father, the learned  Pundit  left for the heavenly abode  and then , only three persons were left in the family— Tiru’s  weak and helpless mother, her elder brother  Jhingur Nath  and Tiru herself  along  with the  Koshi flood,  rampant Malaria ,  complaints  of the neighbors and many  other  things.
Within a few years, Tiru with a protruded belly caused by jaundice,with  lots of wounds and carbuncles on the body, eyes full of dirt and  filth,
wiping  her nostrils with  worn –out frock , wandering  from this orchard to that orchard,went under a sea-change and was metamorphosed into a soft ,fair-complexioned ,beautiful heroine of  Baanbhatta.,the great  Sanskrit poet.
When  Jhingurnath returned home , nearly eleven or ten years
after his father’s sad  demise, it was pitch-dark   evening.. Shyingly he asked a young girl drawing water from the well just close to his house, “ Is my mother there in the courtyard?”
“ Who are you?” inquired the girl drawing water from the well
 
“I’m  Jhingurnath ,son of late Pundit Tek Nath Jha.”,replied Jhingur Nath .The girl threw a look at him  and fixed her eyes on his face for a little while and then leaving her pitcher on the well  rushed to her courtyard—“ O mother, Bhaiji has come. He is there  at the well….”
Holding a big  leather suitcase under his left arm ,  Jhingurnath  slowly followed her towards  the courtyard.
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खिड़की के उस पार

                                                          खिड़की के उस पार
chand
 
मुझे दिन के उजाले से अधिक
रात के अँधेयारे रास आने लगे हैं
अब बादलों में ढका चाँद
चाँदनी की औपचारिक रोशनी से अधिक भाने लगा हैं
अपने बिस्तर में लेटा लेटा
खिड़की के उस पार
चाँद से आँख मिचोली खेलता हूँ
जो कभी
हँसता हैं मुझपे
कभी रोता हैं मेरे साथ
कभी उलाहने उपालाम्भो से
कर देता हैं सराबोर:
कुछ अपनी बदसूरती की दास्ताँ कहते कहते
कहीं किसी लैंप-पोस्ट या चारमीनार कि उचाईयों में छिप जाता हैं
जहाँ
क़ैद हैं मेरे सारे सपने
मेरे बीते दिनों के खट्टे-मीठे एहसास
और
वह मेरी असफ़लता बनकर मेरी आँखों में
आँख गराए रहता हैं.
बिस्तर में लेटे लेटे
मुझे कभी चाँद का
बदसूरत चेहरा नज़र आता हैं तो
कभी अपने गाँव की उग्रतारा
जो
ना जाने क्यूँ
मुझसे रूठी रहती हैं इनदिनों
घर के आँगन में
तुलसी चौरा पर
मेरी माँ नित्य दीये जलाती हैं
लेकिन माँ का दीप-दान
ग्रामदेवी तक पहूँच नहीं पाता हैं शायद
मैं सोच नहीं पाता
आखिर
क्या हैं मेरा वर्तमान
जो
अतीत कि लाठी पे टिक-टिक चलता रहता हैं
और
आमन्त्रित करता हैं
मेरे लंगड़े भविष्य को
जो
बादलों में डूबते उतराते चाँद कि
काली पट्टी में समां जाता हैं
निर्विकल्प
निह्सस्त्र
निराधार.!!!!
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Suryast (The Sunset)- Translation of a Maithli novel by Dr. MayaNand Mishra

SURYAST
———————
Nelson,the great grandfather  of Mery had served  the  company  veryfaithfully  and  obediently. Nelson was quite  an  ordinary  man— a  typical  middle  class man,  but a sharp and  shrewd  business  mind. He  used  to lift  bales  of clothes  in Lancashire  and kept  loitering in  the  streets  of  London.
 
suryast
London  was not so advanced  as  it  is  today. Londoners  used  to  sleep  on  hey-mattresses. Before  1757  London  breathed  on  the  heartbeats  of  agriculture sector.It was  like  a  cluster  of  suburbs. With  cloth-bundles  on  his  head , he  used  to  wander   in  the  London  streets everyday  and kept  a  close  watch  on the persons  returning  from  India. Not  only  a close watch,  but he  also  heard  with  rapt  attention  the  stories  of  plundering  India.He  put  his  ears where  he  listened  to  the  stories  of  valor  and  huge  wealth  of  the  mughal  emperors,  the  stories  of    aristocratic  tantrums of  the  Nawabs  and their  henchmen—- the  stories  of  the  luxuries  of  petty  kings  and  their  foolish  acts  of  showing  each other in a  bad humour………..
For Full extract Contact the Author or fill the contact form…………………..
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JAI HIND

tiranga


Yeh kiska Tiranga hei?
Yeh mera jhanda hei ya tera Jhanda hei
Hum ladenge apni taakat dikhane
Tumhe yeh bataane ki Mere paas tumse adhik laathiyaan hein,
Tumse adhik bandooken hein,
Isliye Jhanda mei hi fahraaunga Tumne agar koshish ki to bura hashra hoga tumhara
Lekin ek Mein saaf kar doon mere Dost Aur dushman
Mere desh ke logo
Mein sarhad per jaan nichhawar karne walon ki shahadat se bhi
Koi matlab nahi rakhunga.
Apni kaali kamaayi , thekedari aur gorakgdhandhe men rahunga mast
Lekin swatantrata divas per kisi aur ko jhanda fahraane nahi doonga
Kisi Ko nahi, tumhe bhi nahi,—
Yeh meri taakat aur raajneetik sarookh ka sawal hei.
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Koshi is mourning

kosi
The Koshi is mourning.
The death of thousands of her children
All young and old
Rich and poor
High and low
All her own children — whom she had loved , caressed ,hugged.
Koshi recalls the day —
Yes , August 18 it was in 2008.
But she can not remember the reason
Why she got so furious
So frenzied …..
Over her own beloved children !
She had thundered from the Himalya
Roared like a tigress
And breached the embankment near Kusaha —- the Nepalese land
And played her worst ever dance —
The Dance of Death ,which she
Had learnt from Lord Shiva ‘s Taandav.
Was there any insult caused to Koshi
By the mundane people?
Was she also carrying the corpse of her Paramour
On her shoulders?
And Koshi —- the mother Koshi turned into a demon
And devoured her own children
Men , women children when sleeping in deep slumber
Were inundated , alongwith their thatched roofs ,
People cried and asked — “O Mother Koshi !
What wrong have we committed ?
What is our sin?
Why this punishment ?”
But Koshi was deaf but not dumb .
She continued her dance and devoured ….
After one year
I can see the mother is mourning .
She mourns the death of her children .
But she is still looking blank into the sky
Lest she will strike again!
Will anyone tell when man will learn
The lessons of Nature?
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