Autophony

More wood, more fire, More orgies! My power shall not stand Diminished in any way. The jewels in my crown, Those trophies of battle, That glory of being The Master of his men. The vile slavery of my serfs — shall I let go of it? More orgies, more food, More laurels to my power! Shall a mere tree come in my way? What shall I make my men do? Eat roots when they can have pheasant stew? That last tree shall give me wood, And they – those serving men – They shall chop it, and burn it. The cooking-men will stir the pots; The hunting-men shall find for me - Pheasants, and deer and turtles; The growing men shall bring me Wheat, and rice and cotton; The weaver-men, and the barber-men And the potter-men and other men, They shall all ply their trades. And I: I keep the peace among them, I throw them my table-scraps, And they shall be fed And be happy. They shall not murmur And swear oaths and secrets Or in any manner rise against me. No more wood be there to burn? What matter? We shall burn coal....

My parents - theirs are the hands that I hold to stand up. My school - what I am is because of my teachers. My doctor - he instills in me faith in human nature. My peers – they tell me what my place is. My friends - they are the sunshine that surrounds me. My dog - he has taught me compassion for all life. My city and community - they give me an identity. My country - its love of freedom gives me my voice. flowers and birds and butterflies - they fill my world with beauty. My creator – who gave me the gift of words. Words to sorrow in. Words to rejoice in. Words to say thanks in.

Build me a city", said Al-Mansour, "One the world has never seen before, Greater than the spread of Al-Cairo, A city to rival Mecca's glow, Humble the might of Damascus, Tell the world that kings are us! Here where mighty rivers meet A thousand foes shall taste defeat; Constantinople, Rome and Greece Shall make with us ignoble peace! With stone and mortar wright a song Make me a city grand and strong" A thousand plans were made and torn; The king poured out unvarnished scorn. "The tortuous history of mankind With this place should be entwined When in their thousands fools will die Make this city the reason why!" The architect in his confusion Struggled to match his master's vision. In his eyes then shone a gleam In burning sands he saw a dream Three mighty walls; a golden dome For the greatest, it shall be home! "Plough me a circle three miles wide Fill it with charcoal, wood and hide. Furrow another outside it And then plough yet one more pit. Whe...

आइए जनाब, बनारस में आपका स्वागत है। इसे अपना ही शहर समझिये, हम और आप ग़ैर थोडी हैं! गंगास्नान करियेगा, विश्वनाथजी के दर्शन करियेगा। अच्छा, आप यहां दहशत फैलाने आए हैं? लाखों की जानें लेने आए हैं? आप ही का तो शहर है, जो मन चाहे करें। हम कौन होते हैं रोकने वाले? आप बम डालेंगे? शौक से डालिये। बीसों मारे गए तो क्या हुआ? छोटे-बडे शहरों में ऐसी छोटी-मोटी बातें तो होती ही रहती हैं। आपने जो काम मुंबई और दिल्ली में किया, भला यहां क्यों करेंगे? अब बनारस और अयोध्या जैसी छोटी शहरों में आपको क्या नसीब होगा? फिर भी, यह हमारी ख़ुशकिस्मती है कि हम पर भी आपके नज़र पडे। आप कहते हैं कि काशी-अयोध्या हमारे देश की नीव हैं, हमारे देश के अस्तित्व का प्रतीक हैं? जी ज़रूर, सही कहते हैं आप। आप इस नीव को हिलाना चाहते हैं? जी, अब आप ग़लत बात कहते हैं। हज़ारों को मार लीजिये, क़ौमी दंगे करवाइए। जो चाहे करिएगा, यह सपना छोड दीजिये कि आप हमारी नीव हिला सकते हैं। सैंकडों सालों से सींचा हुआ नीव है यह। आपकी ही तरह बहुतों आए। तुर्की आए, मुग़ल आए, अंग्रेज़ आए। उनका भी हमने स्वागत ही किया। अतिथी देव जो ठहरा! उन्होंने भी यही कोशिश की क...

In all appearances, of course, I am a man full-grown. Then again, as they say appearances are deceptive. For in me there are at the same time: a child, a grown up and even an old man. The old man makes me think. Made old by the burden of experience and knowledge. (All still within the classroom yet). The grown up makes me ...um he makes me survive. Compete, contest, strive, to use a cliche: run in the rat race. But it is the child I like the most. He is the one that makes me want to live. Really live. To enjoy the rain, the flowers, the smell of wet earth. To watch and wonder at the industrious ants, the caterpillar, the rat even. He goes around tying rakhis for raksha bandhan. He'll send you an eclair (or better, a rose) in that first burst of youthful love. He's the one that will be optimistic about giving his heart and getting another in exchange. He is the one inside me, that really does all the living. The old man's cynicism, the grown up's ...er...grownupism - all...

Transcreating a piece from one language to another is not very easy, but it is a better thing to do than merely translate. The translator is but a linguist, loyal more to the medium than the message. It is the transcreator who adopts the spirit of the message, and moulds the new language of expression around it. Here's a Spanish hymn, and my attempt at a transcreation here:- No soy un visionario, No soy revolucionario. Pero soy un hombre simple, que espera un mejor mañana. Soño esperanza y canto este himno. Creo que el sol brillará y las tinieblas saldrán. Creo en rosas rojas y amor y de la paz. Soño esperanza y canto este himno. Creo que los humanos todos los seres humanos serán libres un día; libres, e iguales. Soño esperanza y canto este himno. I am not some big-hat thinker nor some eternal rebel. I'm just your regular guy wanting a better day tomorrow. I believe there'll be light again and the clouds will disperse. There will be red roses and love and all the happy thin...

It was the last tree standing On the prairie’s boundless ground Harassed by the winds and rain alike It stood alone, calm, strong Gently holding on to its last leaves. “More wood, more fire, More orgies! My power shall not stand Diminished in any way. The jewels in my crown, Those trophies of battle, That glory of being The Master of his men. The vile slavery of my serfs — shall I let go of it? More orgies, more food, More laurels to my power! “Shall a mere tree come in my way? What shall I make my men do? Eat roots when they can have pheasant stew? That last tree shall give me wood, And they – those serving men – They shall chop it, and burn it. The cooking-men will stir the pots; The hunting-men shall find for me - Pheasants, and deer and turtles; The growing men shall bring me Wheat, and rice and cotton; The weaver-men, and the barber-men And the potter-men and other men, They shall...