Life as it ain't

"I'm not really from outer space. I'm just mentally divergent."

Archive for the ‘My Own Fiction’ Category

Poem Translations – Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara

Posted by Ronak M Soni on November 2, 2012

The poems are by Javed Akhtar, from the movie Zindagi na Milegi Dobara, and the translations are by me.

Pighle Neelam Sa

Transliteration:

Pighle neelam sa behta ye sama,
neeli neeli si khamoshiyan,
na kahin hai zameen na kahin aasmaan.

Sarsaraati hui tehniyaan, pattiyaan,
keh raheen hai bas ek tum ho yahan.

Bas main hoon,
meri saansein hain aur meri dhadkanein,
aisi gehraiyaan, aisi tanhaiyaan,
aur main… sirf main.
Apne hone par mujhko yakeen aa gaya.

Translation:

This moment flows like a molten sapphire -
Blue silences sahit -
               nowhere is the ground, nor is anywhere the sky:

The rustling leaves, the whispering branches
        tell me, only you are here

                              - only I am,
        and my breathing and my heart's beating.

Such abysses, such shadows,
                     and me... o, just me!

I have learnt to believe in my own existence.

Zinda Ho Tum

Transliteration:

Dilon me tum apni betabiyaan leke chal rahe ho, to zinda ho tum.
Nazar me khwaabon ki bijliyaan leke chal rahe ho, to zinda ho tum.

Hawa ke jhokon ke jaise aazad rehna seekho,
Tum ek dariya ke jaise lehron mein behna seekho,
Har ek lamhe se tum milo khule apni baahein,
Har ek pal ek naya sama dekhe nigahein.

Jo apni aankhon mein hairaniaan leke chal rahe ho, to zinda ho tum.
Dilon mein tum apni betabian leke chal rahe ho, to zinda ho tum.

Translation:

If you are holding your discontents in your heart,
                            then you are alive.
If you are keeping the lights of your dreams in your sights,
                            Then you are alive.

Learn from the gusts of wind to be free,
and Learn from the river to flow with the waves,
Meet every moment with open arms,
and Every second you'll see before you a new world.

If you are holding your worries in your eyes,
                            then you are alive.
If you are holding your discontents in your heart,
                            then you are alive.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Poetry, Translation | Tagged: , , | Leave a Comment »

The Tragedy is That

Posted by Ronak M Soni on October 10, 2011

I am he,
Who has, most,
To live with me.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Poetry | 1 Comment »

Chhoti Chhoti Chitrayi Yaadein (My First Attempt at Translation)

Posted by Ronak M Soni on March 12, 2011

This is from the very pleasing movie Udaan, directed by Vikramaditya Motwane. The poem itself was written by Amitabh Bhattacharya


Transliteration:
Chhoti-chhoti chitrayi yaadein… bichhi hui hain lamho ki lawn par,
Nange paer unpe chalte-chalte itni door aa gaye hain,
ki ab bhool gaye hai joote kahaan utare the

Edi komal thi jab aaye the,
thodi si nazuk hai abhi bhi.. aur nazuk hi rahegi
In khatti-meethi yaadon ki shararat jab tak inhe gudgudati rahegi..
Sach.. Bhool gaye hain joote kahan utaare the
par lagta hai ab unki zaroorat nahi…

Translation:
All the little shreds of memories that are scattered on this lawn of stolen moments:
My feet have walked on them for so long
That they’ve forgotten where we left our shoes.

My soles were soft when we came,
And they are somewhat vulnerable still;
And indeed they will stay that way
For as long as the pranks and games of these bittersweet memories go on
Tickling them.

It is true,
We’ve forgotten where we left our shoes,
But now it seems that we don’t really need them.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Poetry, Translation | Tagged: , | 5 Comments »

Why post-modernists have better sex (and other such post-post-modernist felonies)

Posted by Ronak M Soni on July 1, 2010

[Health Warning] I won’t say why it’s here though, just so that curiosity can kill you, CAT!

“Mwuha hahaha,” he’d said, as if all his actions had been just “evil,” not really evil.

Here we had a young man — a boy even — who wished to be taken seriously. What do you suggest we do with him? Hah, yes, a good suggestion, sir, and very good you whispered it to me! And what do you, sir, suggest? Yes, you, you brainless victim of modernity who purports to be a reader!

Mwuha hahaha. Mwuha HAHAHA! “Mwuha hahaha” was the scourge of the earth, “mwuha hahaha” was why post-modernists had better sex…

“You are a post-modernist, fuck-ass,” said he, coming in.

Me? No I’m a post-post-modernist!

At this point, I suggest we zoom out of the (deliberately engrossing) dialogue and have a look at our movement-ridden [prot]agonist. Well, here he is, a smile across his face, his arms spread and his eyes closed, what with the fright that would show otherwise.

“Reverse reverse psychology is still a type of reverse psychology.”

Post- is not a negatory suffix, you … YOU!

“Yea, you guys deserve to be called non-nodernists anyway.”

Seriously, you need to right now stop fucking around with ‘n’s and ‘m’s.

“What? Dostoevsky did it!”

No, he nicknamed …

“I can hear your thoughts, you lifeless turd.”

Only when I articulate them.

Right? Right?

He smiled, “.”

But how is it possible to hear what is not in words?

Again, let us zoom out, and look at the face of a man contemplating the idea of perfect communication… while I go out for a coffee.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Prose | Tagged: , | 4 Comments »

Poems of Limerence

Posted by Ronak M Soni on December 16, 2009

No one probably knows what limerence is so here is the wikipedia article. I’m only dealing with a narrow band of limerence, as it is possible that the other symptoms do not manifest.

Limerence

Desire without love.
Depression, and euphoria.

Depression, about us,
from life.

Euphoria, about us,
from dreams.

what went around

He followed me around.
I’ve
followed her around.

I got angry.
She
got angry.

Two months in,
It burst out.

Life Without Limerence

Purposeless bliss.
A lack of euphoria,
But bliss yet.
She was all that mattered.
So,
Now,
Nothing does.
I’m a zombie,
Tied to life
Solely by responsibility.

I’ll do what I like,
For me
– And only me –
Without calculations
Or games.
My feelings will be independent of her,
My thoughts free of her –
Not devoid, but
Free of her.
My happiest moments will be mine,
Truly
Mine alone.
My saddest moments will be mine too,
Truly
Mine alone.
Hopefully, now I’ll love,
Not limer.
Hopefully, now I’ll love,
Something other than her.

She enters,
My eyes are drawn.
Life without limerence:
Purposeless bliss,
Yet for me to experience.
(It’s declining, not gone.)
She hates me,
But we talk more.
I enjoy the politics.
I enjoy antagonizing her.
Life is fun.
I can’t help but laugh.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Poetry | Tagged: , | 9 Comments »

Too good of a much thing

Posted by Ronak M Soni on November 23, 2009

All constructive criticism/clicking on thumbs will be appreciated.

Why
Is it so maniacally important to you
That I exist?

Don’t you know
Shouldn’t you know –
That humour lies in the breaking of expectations?

Posted in My Own Fiction, Poetry | Tagged: , | 10 Comments »

The King of the Log

Posted by Ronak M Soni on November 3, 2009

Sorry that this is under poetry, but I like to think of this as a prose poem.

Yet again, all constructive criticism/clicking on thumbs will be appreciated.

I stopped. It had been a long run. Now came the hard part. I had woken up at five in the morning and gone for a ten kilometer run. Now, my eyelids drooped, the film of adhesive between my eyelids getting to work.
I heard the wet sand crunching under my shoes, the calls of early morning birds. The wind blowing my hair into my face, I stumbled over a root: my lids had drooped to below my irises.
The lovely, cool wind slipped under my t-shirt and raised every little hair, leaving with the sweat that stuck it to my body. I pulled my eyes open against the dark, magnetic pull.
The sleepy feel of debris under my eyes – that patched inoffensive film of it that called for sleep – weighed my head down, bent my back, buckled my knees, pushed me all the way down.
I got up, sweaty as well as dirty. Jolted awake, the tears came to my eyes, dissolving up the adhesive, the debris, blotting my sight. I rapidly blinked to clear my eyes. And smiled: we primates tend to rule.
For, in front of me, on a log, sat a monkey, his right knee next to his face, his forearm hanging off it, and his other hand feeding himself; for, in front of me, on a log, sat its king.

I stopped. It had been a long run. Now came the hard part. I had woken up at five in the morning and gone for a ten kilometer run. Now, my eyelids drooped, the film of adhesive between my eyelids getting to work.
I heard the wet sand crunching under my shoes, the calls of early morning birds. The wind blowing my hair into my face, I stumbledover a root: my lids had drooped to below my ires.
The lovely, cool wind slipped under my t-shirt and raised every little hair, leaving with the sweat that stuck each one to my body. I pulled my eyes open against the dark, magnetic pull.
The sleepy feel of debris under my eyes – that patched inoffensive film of it that called for sleep – weighed my head down, bent my back, buckled my knees, pushed me all the way down.
I got up, sweaty as well as dirty. Jolted awake, the tears came to my eyes, dissolving up the adhesive, the debris, blotting my sight. I rapidly blinked to clear my eyes. And smiled: us primates tend to rule.
For, in front of me, on a log, sat a monkey, his right knee next to his face, his forearm hanging off it, and his other hand feeding himself; for, in front of me, on his kingdom, sat the king of the log.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Prose | Tagged: , , | 5 Comments »

Child’s Play

Posted by Ronak M Soni on October 21, 2009

This is one of my poems. All constructive criticism – why you like it and why you don’t – will be appreciated (I personally hate this poem, but I’m repeatedly told that it is my best piece of work and that’s why I decided that this would be the first one I posted). At the very least, please click on one of those little thumbs at the bottom of the post. Thanks.

They scatter as I approach –
Half in fright, half in mischief -,
Unheeding,
Untamable,
And lovely:
Lovely in their antics,
Lovely in their wildness,
Lovely utterly in their true, utter, love,
And lovely in my need:
To catch them,
To tame them,
To use them in my Grand Plans,
To mould them . . .
Into works of art –
Plans established, and great,
Bits and pieces come, and lovely too,
But little else true -,
Poems and adults.

For words are like children,
And I’m bad with children.

Posted in My Own Fiction, Poetry | Tagged: , | 1 Comment »