Laxmi Prasad Devkota

Born                                       November 12, 1909

                                                       in Kathmandu, Nepal 

Died

 September 14, 1959

Laxmi Prasad Devkota is a Nepali poet. Devkota is considered the greatest poet of Nepali language—he has been given the title of "Maha Kavi" ("The Great Poet") of Nepali language. Devkota was born into a Brahman family as the third son of Pandit Til Madhav and Amar Rajya Laxmi Devi. He was born in Dilli Bazar, Kathmandu on the day of Dipawali, the Festival of Lights, which is a celebration of Laxmi, the Goddess of Wealth. His name literally means a gift "Prasad" from the goddess of wealth "Laxmi". His family was never financially well-off.

Devkota studied science at Tri Chandra College in Kathmandu. After completing the intermediate level studies at Tri Chandra College, he enrolled in Humanities and that was when he began to read English poetry. In 1931, Devkota went to Patna on scholarship hoping to study English for his Master’s degree. But because seats were not available as expected, he enrolled for the Bachelor of Law degree instead. After he received the degree, he returned back home and started to live the family life. Despite taking tuition classes to supplement his earning, sometimes for fourteen hours a day, financial problems never left him.

Devkota lost both of his parents and his very young daughter within a span of two years during mid 1930's. He fell into a depression and became a chain smoker. In 1939, his brothers put him into a mental hospital in Ranchi, India for five months. He makes references to his experience in the lunatic asylum in his famous free-verse poem पागल ("The Lunatic"). After he returned to Nepal, he worked as a part of Nepal Bhasanuwad Parishad, a state organization that acted as a censorship board, and also taught at Tribhuwan University. He wrote several of his epic poetry during this time. In late 40's, dissatisfied with the Rana regime, he went into a self-imposed exile in Benaras, India, where he edited Yugbani, an opposition journal.

After the autocratic Rana regime was overthrown in 1950, he returned to Nepal and helped publish Indreni, a bilingual literary journal. Although he was constantly in severe financial hardships, he was getting wide recognition as an important figure in Nepali literature. He was appointed the Minister of Education by the first democratically elected government of Nepal in 1957. However, in 1958, he was diagnosed with cancer, and a year later, he passed away.

Laxmi Prasad Devkota was primarily a humanist who occasionally wrote from an atheistic point of view too. Given this reality, some critics have tried to line him up with Marxism or other similar politically leftist ideologies. Apparently in one of his last poems to a friend, he said "Aakhir Shree Krishna rahecha eka" ("After all, Lord Krishna seems to be the Only One"). However, there has been much intellectual skepticism about this last statement.

Devkota contributed to Nepali literature by bringing the Sanskrit tradition to its end and by starting modern romantic movement in the country. Devkota was the first to begin writing epics in Nepali literature. Nepali poetry soared to new heights with Devkota's groundbreaking and innovative use of language.

Departing from the Sanskrit tradition that dominated Nepali literary scene, he wrote मुनामदन i.e. Muna Madan (1930), a long narrative poem in popular "jhyaure" folk meter. The book received immediate recognition from the Ranas who ruled Nepal at that time. It tells the story of Madan who departs from his wife Muna to Tibet to make money. The poem deals with the themes of the hardships of journey away from home, grief of separation, longing and death.

Friends, If you like this post, kindly react or comment below the Post and do Share your Response...Thanks for Reading :)

In the Canvas of Time

Sharmila Khadka Dahal

Dear storywriter Diwakar Nepali! I was that unlucky woman, who had to be separated before saturated with your words of thanks. You might have forgotten the moment and the day, but how can I forget them?

If possible, I wish that moment be a ray of sunlight, which I could get every morning. I wish that moment be a warm quilt, which I could wrap around me during the cold nights. I wish that moment be a cool fragrance, which I could breathe in the summer. I wish the moment be a canvas, where our stories could be written, but this is also not possible.

                                                                               

A bus heading for Jogbani from Biratnagar―that day I was going to Jogbani as usual. It was not possible to get a seat as I got into the bus in the middle of its journey. It might rather be possible to win a lottery in noodles, but to get a seat riding the bus in the middle of the journey is like winning the lottery of hundreds of millions. A man suddenly rose from his seat, beside which I was standing, and got off. I really won the lottery. Another man was still there. I had not noticed him properly. The man was wearing French-styled hat and was in his fifties. I was about to sit beside him when he said, “Please, be seated here.” I found closeness in his words. Then I looked at him head to heels. I must have seen him somewhere, heard or read him somewhere.

“Where are you going?”

I reply him analytically. “Jogbani.”

“Thank God! I am also going to Jogbani, came from Kathmandu and I do not know well about the road. It would be good if you helped me.”
This unknown stranger was urging me for a help. What do I say to him in the present situation? What kind of person he could be? The word “Yes” slipped through my mouth while I was pondering.

“Would you tell me where do you live here?”
“Tintolia.” How could a man of Kathmnandu know Tintolia?

“Where do you work then?”
“I am a librarian in a campus.”

“I am Diwakar Nepali and came from Kathmandu. I need to buy some goods. Would you mind helping me, sister?”

I am delighted as soon as I heard the name ‘Diwakar Nepali’. Oh! I am speaking with my favorite author from so close. I had never imagined it in my life. The time was morning. The sunlight was struggling with fog in its attempt to come out. The bus was running with its intermittent stops on the way. However, I was unmindful about when the bus used to stop unnecessarily in some places. Instead, my heart was flying high wearing the feathers of happiness. I am having this chance to hear my favorite author today. My heart pounds faster and in such moments, I usually remember God. I feel myself a bit inconvenient. He might have noticed a little impatience in me.
“Okay thanks, don’t worry if you have inconvenience. I myself will buy the things for me and return.”
I say with restlessness, “No….No….It’s not like that. I will surely help you. You are from Kathmandu, a new person is cheated here.” I cannot tell him the truth that I wanted to spend maximum time with him. I was being unable to tell him that he was my beloved storywriter. He might not have behaved with me in a normal way if only I told him that. Exposing him open, I wanted to read him, wanted to see him scattered into each word. I had been getting the image of his strange behavior by reading his stories, but now I was trying to study him at physical level. That is why I was giving him my identity as a stranger, not as an avid reader of his stories.

I start making an interim plan. After the completing to purchase things in Jogbani, I will take him in a rickshaw. He will be with me about half an hour on the way back. At that time, I will tell him everything about myself. Then I will take his mobile number and e-mail address too.

How my interest in literature increased―it does have a story. Near my house, there used to live a wholesaler of Hindi magazines. Before marriage, I would have enough time and used to read Grihashova, Manorama, Kadambini, Sarita, among others. Those days, only a few Nepali magazines were in the market. The stories published in those magazines aroused a deep interest for stories in me. I used to be an avid reader of the stories of Prem Chand, Rabindranath Tagore, Satya Jit Ray. The wholesaler also would give me books to read as much as I wanted. I was settled in Biratnagar after my marriage. After marriage, I got a job as a librarian in a campus. There used to be frequent leisure times in the library, and discussions and interactions about the books helped to grow my interest in stories or fictions. I started to read the books of stories or fiction written by national and international writers. In the course of reading, author Diwakar’s story impressed me a lot. Thereafter, I started to read his each story. His stories analyze the man-woman relationship in such a way that the readers would forget themselves whether they are males or females. In his artistically written stories, the reader would forget whether they are living in past or future. These characteristic features of stories had fascinated me. His new stories would often come on the websites. I would read them. Then the stories would be published in the magazines. But, the same stories published on magazines would be stale to me.

There would have been interactions about his stories in the library. We generally talked about books. We felt proud if we could tell the names of Nepali or foreign writers after reading something. To be frank, I would feel proud to take the names of foreign writers such as Maupassant, Kafka, Leo Tolstoy, Knut Hamsun, Ernest Hemingway, Tasalima Nasarin, Samarset Mom etc. as if I was an expert of English literature. Thus, I would spend time reading books while many other women spent their time watching serials. Sometimes, I wished I could write stories. Once, a strong interest of writing stories came upon my mind. For a number of days’ brainstorming, I had given birth to a plot of a story. It was a holiday, when I sat to write the story. No sooner had I started writing, my daughter came to me saying she was hungry. As I was heating milk to feed her, son came to ask for money to buy a bunch of robber band chungi to play with. I had no change in my purse. So, I sent him with a hundred-rupee note, telling him to return the money after buying. Daughter also insisted to go with him and went. After a few minute, both returned with handful of things of that one hundred rupees note. Looking at the things, I started to scold them. The milk had already boiled over. When I sat to write after a while, a neighboring sister came to ask for cement. How should I say that I had no cement, while actually I had? I just came to know that she needed only five kilos and she further said that she did not get a the little amount of cement from a broken sack. Then, I went to the shop to weigh the five kilos of cement. Finally, after ducking and diving in these spasmodic chores, I sat to write the story. Alas, I was again disturbed by a friend’s phone call – “Give me the digital camera you have for one day, okay?” I could not say “No.” “Also charge the camera if you have the charger.” Oh! How shamelessly she could ask the camera and again asked me to do her work. It is also an art. I searched the camera, and also charged its battery for her.

I hardly completed the story while giving an eye towards the children. My story was published in the campus memorial. I myself started to talk about my story thinking that at least someone would praise, however no one said it was good. Then, my interest with the story writing had faded away, but how nicely Diwakar writes stories, which touch every reader’s heart. It seems as though his stories are capable of giving a complete picture of a society. His stories are imbued with patriotism and a pain of being ‘I.’ Female sufferings related to sexuality are exposed in such a way that it seems whole society has been reflected in the stories. The sexual pains of females, which the society has been neglecting so far, or let’s say the society has added fuel to flame by baseless accusations and allegations on the females, while the society has been turning its deaf eyes over them. But, Diwakar has exposed them nicely in his stories like a doctor does in his operation.

“Jogbani, Jogbani!” a boy spoke at the top of his voice. My dearest author was beside me. He was lost in thought. We had not interacted up to now.

“Brother…let’s go on rickshaw; we can reach sooner.”
“Ok,” he agreed.

We rode on a rickshaw. Oh! My beloved storywriter is sitting being stuck with me. How great he is! I came to know that he has his last name ‘Nepali.’ Otherwise, his family name was Upadhdhyaya. I had read this in his interview. We all are Nepalese. All Nepalese have one caste, which is Nepali. In fact, in this time when our society is rampant with the mist of communalism, this kind of feeling and notion can give a moral to the society. Besides, he had set an example by marrying a girl from the cast, which was supposed to be lower than his cast. He might not have realized that how closely I know him. Between us was no space. We were packed so tightly that even a small gust of wind could not pass through the space between us. The sunrays had a partial victory over the hazy weather. I wished that that time would stop, because after a moment we would no more be anonymous to each other. I was hurrying to say that I was really an avid reader of his stories. He might be happy to get his readers even in such a distance. I was eager see the change in his facial expression at that moment.

“I just came to know that cold is as same as in Kathmandu, isn’t it, sister…?”

How lovely are his words, how sweet they are!

“Yes, brother…the atmosphere is cold when here is cold wave.”

I felt like kissing his hands. How enchanting the words of his stories were, sweeter than rasbari, how romantic the dialogues were, strong enough to arouse a feeling of shyness. The meanings were so amorous, far greater than the sexual satisfaction.

My hairs would touch his cheek. I wish I had been a hair. He might not have been interested to read my mental state, otherwise, he might have already understood the state mind of any ordinary woman like me. It was not difficult for a writer who could make millions of his readers follow his ideas with the magic of his pen. Probably he wanted to fix himself like an ordinary person, otherwise, he could have stripped me off or sifted through me or could see me unveiling, by now. But he was not interested to do all the things. The first major reason behind this could be that new place, where he had come all the way from Kathmandu, and the next could be the moody nature commonly found in writers.

I asked the rickshaw puller to stop a little farther because there in the corner was a wholesale shop of kurta salwar for women. He might have loved his wife dearly, but he might not have been getting the same love from his wife. I have read that the litterateurs cannot satisfy their consorts. Therefore, he is going to take the kurta salwar for his wife.

“Which color does the sister-in-law like, brother?”

“She likes pink, but I love blue color, sister? See…all the deep things are blue. How blue is the color of the sky….how blue is the color of the ocean…” He spilled himself a little and I drank it lifting on my hands. That was a storywriter dwelling inside him – Yes, how long can a man stop or obstruct the huge store within him? But, he managed to control within himself. Thus, he was able to be a great and popular storywriter. I was waiting for a time when we would be returning to Jogbani in a rickshaw after purchasing the goods. He purchased two sets of kurta salwar.

“What other good things are found here in cheap price, sister…?”
“Biscuits, clothes and utensils are found in cheap price, brother.”

“Let it be…it will be difficult to carry a heavy load; let’s buy only some biscuits…and that would be enough.”

I decided not to buy anything because I can come to Jogbani the next time also. But, I might not again meet author Diwakar.

However, I had to buy pantie and bra – how should I buy in front of him? If I take him with me to buy them, what will he think? But those clothe items were quite essential for me.

“Brother, would you mind staying here for some time? I will come back soon buying something for me and then we go together.”

“Well, all right. Go and buy the things for you as well. Sorry if I have been disturbing you?”

How fast he had understood the feeling of my heart. Why could not he understand the feelings of an ordinary woman like me while he understands the psychology of many characters?

“No. No. Your presence is not disturbing me. It’s my good luck to meet the person like you…” My God! The reality had nearly slipped away from my mouth. Yes, it’s true that man is nothing in himself. How hard one tries to keep oneself in self-restraint, there is something else to guide. I was lost in the thought about how I would express my feelings to him in the rickshaw. So, I entered into the other shop to buy pantie and bra, but that took a long time when I could not find the bra with the number to match my size. I rushed back to my dear author, but to my surprise, he was not there. I was nervous. I felt like deserted. Where might have he gone? New person! New place! Might he have gone missing? Or, might the merchants are hard selling their goods to my best author? Did I say something to pinch to his heart? It is said that authors are highly emotional.

Now I regretted for not asking his mobile number. My dreams of returning to Biratnagar in a rickshaw and having a lunch together with him shattered. I was perplexed and puzzled for a long time when I could not decide what to do and how to find the writer Diwakar amidst the sea of people. Then, I bought a few more things for me and waited for a long time at Jogbani bus-stand, but could not see him again. The bus I rode was pack with passengers, but I felt vacuous and felt like losing something. I felt like leaving my own shadow somewhere behind me. The thing I had been sitting beside him in the rickshaw and purchasing goods with him constantly came into my mind. How unlucky I was. I lost the opportunity of understanding my favorite storywriter from very close. If I had not gone to buy the pantie and bra, I could have talked and talked about the moment in a speed of 90 kilometers per hour to my friends. But everything came to a standstill. I was empty and alone.

Dear Diwakar, I was that unfortunate woman whom you had abandoned in Jogbani, knowingly or unknowingly. I even had got no opportunity to introduce myself to you. I think it is now meaningless to introduce myself to you. Did sister-in-law like the kurta salwar? I guess she might not be angry knowing that I had liked you so much. I am only an example; he has thousands of fans and admirers across the country. If the mountain hid its beauty, no one might have been enchanted with it. If the flowers did not spread its beauty and fragrance, no one might have given importance to the flowers. If humans had not worshipped the God, its existence would already have been faded. No shepherd girls in the thousands of number would run after lord Krishna. Thousands of fans would not have shoved each other to take autographs from their favorite singers. Rainbow appears when rain stops, but there was no certainty that it appears in each rainfall. Life is like the seven colors a rainbow. Who knows when or where the happiness is drawn in the canvas of life?  

Friends, If you like this post, kindly react or comment below the Post and do Share your Response...Thanks for Reading :)

Muna Madan in English

Poetic Novel : Muna Madan in English

                                                                 लक्ष्मीप्रसाद देवकोटा

[Muna]
Fire,
a fire burns in my mind.
Don’t leave, my life,
don’t leave.
Brightness of eyes,
my star of night,
don’t take your light.
Tear open this chest of mine
perhaps the pictures
in my heart,
when you see them,
will change your mind.
Give me poison
to drink instead.
See? My pain
falls with my tears,
but tears do not speak,
thoughts stay within the mind.
Love, even my tears
fail to speak.

[Madan]
Darling Muna,
don’t speak like this,
I will be returning.
For twenty days
I will stay in Lhasa,
I will travel twenty days
on the road.
Smile at me,
for if you would smile
I could raise myself
to Lord Indra’s Heaven.
My intentions
are to achieve or to die,
do not put a barrier of tears
upon my roads.
The cranes return
with the sun.
It will be a great day,
the day of our meeting.

[Muna]
My Rama, my Krishna:
the sun at night,
smiles as you prepare your flight,
how shall I combine these?
Don’t leave me here.
I sparkle beside you,
without you I am stone.
Take me with you,
hold my hands,
we will face jungles,
mountains, cliffs,
and murderers.

[Madan]
Muna, my Muna,
look at mother, look at her,
the oil that feeds that lamp
is about to dry.
Both of us can’t leave her,
stay, care for her.
Her eyes that have seen
three twenty winters
shine as she looks
upon your face.

[Muna]
Pale hair, brittle body,
a mother’s love
could not tie your feet.
Shadows of her affection call
but cannot hold you back.
What will you gain
in that land
as precious as her love?
Bags of gold,
they are the dirt of hands,
the soup of nettles,
our vegetables,
a peace in mind
are better. Stay,
satisfy your thoughts.

[Madan]
But what do I do?
– a gulp of milk
for my mother’s throat,
– her dreams to build a resthouse
and taps for her people,
– on your delicate hands
pretty bangles,
– a strong foundation for a home
made insecure by loans
these wishes sing in my mind,
their voices are in my mind.
The music moves my feet Muna.
There is God above
and I have a heart.
I will cross those angry floods.
I mean well, but if things go wrong,
at least I will have died
with a song.

[Muna]
You tighten the knot
inside my heart.
Do not return then,
I will draw an unforgettable
picture of your face
for remembrance.
The maidens of Lhasa dance,
they seem as if they are carved of gold,
their voices laugh like the streams
as they play on barren hills and fields.
Leave, my love,
darkening the home and the city,
even tears do not have strength.
Maybe in darkness,
memories will gleam
or flash like lightning.
And sorrow shower
upon my clothes.

[Narrator, describing Madan’s journey]
Naked earth, cloud mists,
climbs are hot, flowers poison,
poles with flags are death.
There, see monasteries
and Lamas with shaven heads.
One day the roof of gold
against the skies
beneath the Potala Palace,
Lhasa smiled.
Yak skin walls,
angels on cloth.
Young Bhotenis white as bones,
passers by bowing
before gurus with sunken eyes.

[Narrator, describing Muna at home]
Pearls fell. Pearls fell
when Muna smiled.
But now she wilts.
In sleep, tears wet her face,
her days are long,
her nights are long,
her time is sad.
In her voice, hear,
there is a soft tearful drizzle.
After the end of light,
even a flickering lamp is bright.
Women came with stories,
men showed they cared,
When you see a rose, brother,
do not touch it.
Do not with lust, spoil it.
A wondrous being
is a jewel of God
do not try and corrupt it.

[Muna]
Go to the worms of the city
and tell them your words.
Make the moon fall,
make mountains rise,
I will wait for his feet
and my Heaven,
God has created
four beautiful days,
that is life,
don’t throw mud
to spoil them.

[Narrator, describing Madan’s journey]
Smooth pebble gold,
new country, fresh light,
the smell of musk.
Madan stayed, six months passed
before memories came like water:
ill mother, Muna’s eyes large with weeping.
At night he was unable to sleep.
Hiding a heavy bag of gold in clothes,
gathering the musk,
he met up with a few friends
and left for home.

[Muna]
What a nightmare!
A buffalo dragged me down!
I fell in mud, mother,
the darkest buffalo dragged me down.

[Madan’s mother]
Come, darling,
don’t shiver with fear,
I will take all the ill
that comes to you
upon my head,
don’t shake.

[Muna]
My eyelids quiver,
my heart is pain,
a shadow of evil
has come into our home.
Perhaps he has no time,
perhaps he hopes to come soon,
paths lead through high mountains
maybe this is why he has not come.

[Narrator]
Madan falls ill with cholera on the road home.

[Madan]
Don’t leave! Don’t leave me
to the crows and vultures!
My friends, I will not die yet.
I will stand,
my throat is dry,
my chest is burning,
wipe these tears from my eyes,
I still have breath.

[Madan’s companions]
We have no medication
and no one’s here.
Stay! Each of us
has to leave someday,
God will give you salvation.

[Narrator]
Madan wakes and leans on his elbows,
his friends have left, the day drowns in red,
wind sleeps, birds are quiet, it is cold, he falls.

[Madan]
What is this fire?
Does the forest burn?
Is this fire going to kill the dead?
Is it a robber or a thief?
Is it a demon?

Madan decides to call for help.

[Tibetan]
Who cries?…
Your friends are bad.
My house is some miles away,
you will not die. I will carry you there,
you’ll be all right.

[Madan]
Tibetan brother, you are a god,
your words are wonderful.
I have been told,
I am a man of lineage
and noble caste.
I hold your feet with respect, brother,
I am holding your feet.
A man’s greatness
is determined by his heart
not by the caste
and the lineage he brings.

[Narrator]
The Tibetan carries him to his house, rests him on wool, gives him water and kindness, searches for herbs, crushes them, and makes him drink. He gives Madan yak milk and makes him strong. At Madan’s home tangerines are in flower, thoughts are soft and sad.

[Muna]
You have forgotten me.
Tell me, how could you forget?
Which hateful god took you?
I cannot see, hills are covered by curtains.
The image I see of you is empty.
Your voice is tells me stories of happiness
in my sleep. I have no wings to fly with.
I cannot search for my love.
Why have you left our wealth
and stayed in that city.
Are you ill? Do your eyes fill up with tears
when you think of me?
Dust don’t touch, thorn don’t hurt.

[Narrator]
Madan wants to thank the Tibetan by giving him some of his gold, but the Tibetan refuses material rewards.

[Tibetan]
What will I do with yellow gold?
My children can neither eat this gold
nor will it give them warmth.
My wife is dead, she is in Heaven,
the clouds are her decoration,
her jewels and gold.

Madan weeps.

[Tibetan]
Chance blessed and I have helped.
I will not barter goodness for wealth.
Ask you mother, if you will,
to pray for my children.

[Narrator]
Madan’s mother sees a clear face
and calls, the air responds,
the breeze touches her.
No tears in eyes, only a peace
a softness of the evening
reflected on that pond.
She reaches out to Muna.

[Madan’s mother]
My darling, it is time to leave,
to cross the river, don’t weep.
Everyone walks this way,
the rich and those who suffer poverty.
Earth has to meet the earth.
This flood of unhappiness,
stand against it, do not fall.
I saw the world flower,
I saw it wilt,
and I have known God.
The seeds we plant here
will grow in Heaven.
What you have given, love,
you will get back
when you leave this place.
Look at me, I take all
I have done with me.
The gold that you found in sleep,
I will take with me.
I want to leave now,
but is Madan not coming?
I want to see him before
shutting my eyes to this world
in case I die before I see him, tell him,
the old woman asked him not to weep.

[Muna]
I will clean and shine
the memories of you with tears,
mother, don’t worry,
nothing has happened yet.

[Narrator]
Madan’s mother begins to shake,
her voice fades,
she feels for Muna’s hands at times
and when she holds them,
she asks in a faraway voice,
“Where is my son?”
A great wind shakes the branches,
a crow screams, travelers stare at the peaks.

Madan’s head is on his palms,
his arms rest upon his knees,
the crow screams.
Madan looks at the crow.

[Madan]
Did you see my city?
My house is clean in that valley.
Go to my mother, she has white hair,
go to Muna, she is bright.
Tell them that I am well,
tell them not to worry about me,
trees on the lawn must be ripe with fruit,
go, eat, and tell them my story.

[Narrator]
There is strange screaming in the city tonight.
wet eyes, dimmed lamps, strong winds,
dogs cry, no moon.
Rumor of Madan’s death
has reached home.
See tears drip from leaves
and a young broken tree.
The old woman’s breath struggles.
Muna has fallen.

[Madan]
Why did I come, mother?
What did I come to see?
My mother, you have torn my chest.
Look at my face, mother, look at me.
I have come. I have sinned. Look at me.
Why do you look afar when I am close,
look at me. See me cry. Comfort me.
Don’t leave, come back,
don’t you recognize me?
I could not even
take care of you mother.
What is this peace
that has spread across your face,
speak to me. How could I hurt
that gentle heart of yours
I have brought bags of gold, mother,
I put them at your feet,
we will make the resthouse
and the taps, mother,
where you point.
Come back, don’t look there,
don’t point towards the skies.

[Narrator]
Madan goes to his sister when he cannot find Muna.

[Madan]
Tell me, sister, tell me, where is my Muna?
My mother is dying, but I do not see her.

[Madan’s sister]
Your Muna went to her parents in sorrow,
when you left and did not come back.

[Madan]
She left my mother alone?
How could she leave her alone when I was gone?

[Madan’s sister]
Muna went away from us
when she was ill herself.
She shone like a diamond
among the daughters,
she left because she was unwell.

[Madan]
How is Muna, who has been to see her?
She must ask for water,
who has given my Muna water to drink?

[Madan’s sister]
She does not need water, she is cured and healed,
she does not need your herbs.
And my love, I would have met her
but I could not find a road to take me
to her parents’ home.

[Madan]
If she is healed why hasn’t she returned,
why hasn’t she come back?

[Madan’s sister]
She searches for roads but there are no roads
to lead her back from her parents’ home.

[Madan]
This is strange, what do you mean?

[Madan’s sister]
She is over the clouds,
in that city heavy with light.

[Madan]
My sister, tell me Muna is here.
Tell me she is upon this earth.
Tell me when she will be back.

[Madan’s sister]
She lives across the river.
On the other side.
But she laughs with the flowers,
dances with water,
blinks with the stars,
speaks with the blackbird,
and her eyes, they shine.
She weeps with the dew
and when she is sad,
you will see the mist sinking.
My brother, Muna is not dead,
the birds have made songs of her,
hear them sing.

[Madan]
Muna isn’t dead, tell me she lives.
Tell me she is at her parents’ home.
The roots of my hopes,
the wings of my mind,
tell me Muna is here.
Tell me when she will be back!

[Madan’s sister]
She is not here, on this side of earth.
She lives where sorrow does not stain.
Across imagination
she picks flowers of happiness
in the gardens of Heavens.

[Madan]
Cruel sister. Your words are death.
Letting the buds of hope open, bloom
and sway before my eyes. Making ears
swallow gulps of poison.
Muna, O Muna, you were the temple of worship
and the chains of life.
Life, why did you leave?

My sister, let me look upon my Muna
call her, sister, let me see her for a little while.
O Muna, my Muna, come down to me,
my queen, let me gaze upon you for a little time.

[Madan’s sister]
My brother, my dear brother, take heart,
this dirty life has to leave.
In the end, the wind will take the fistful of ashes,
this blossom of meat has to fall and wilt.

[Madan]
My sister, remember, “My chest wants to explode,”
she said. “What will we do with gold?”
“It is better to eat nettles and satisfy our souls,” she said.
God, how could you create her
and then ruin what you have made.
How could you make this flower
and then drag her down like this?
You gave me this flower,
how could you destroy her like this?
My sister, when I first saw her,
when I first saw Muna’s face
I never thought that Muna could die,
sister, I thought she would never die.
How could the fire take her?
Where can I find her,
hold her to my chest?
Give me her ashes, sister,
I want to rub her ashes on my chest.
Mother, Muna, I will not stay here.
I will not stay here sister,
I will not stay.

Do not look upon this earth Muna
I am also coming.
With tokens of tears,
with the jewels of love
that you left behind.

(श्रोत:- अन्तर्जाल)

Friends, If you like this post, kindly react or comment below the Post and do Share your Response...Thanks for Reading :)