Well, here I am. Standing beside the pyre, it's a cold, cold night. Someone to show me love, in a cold, cold night. And I'm here, waiting.
"Bollo Hori! Hori bol! E bollo Hori! Hori bol!"
Ashe ki amar priye? Seems unlikely. That's more like the one who died holding on to her bedpost for sheer life. Bedpost'ta bhenge gelo.
The pyre burns a bit brighter. Yet it's a cold, cold night. They hand me the Gita.
"Raam naam, satt hay. Raam naam, satt hay."
Is it she? No, no, no, they'd never bring her to me like this. This one, she died because the husband was a hunter. And what did he hunt? The warmth.
The pyre burns a bit more brighter. It still ain't warm enough. Another Gita. Kal giye bajaar'e bikri kore ashte hobe egulo.
" Dot dot dot dot Amaar Rahe, Amaar Rahe!"
Definitely not this one. This is the crazy, green monster. They have shot her. Finally.
I laught out silently. I have three Gitas with me now.
"Arre bol re saathi! Hori Bol! Aro Jor'e! Hori Bol!
Arre Daar gaya kya! Hori Bol! Arre Mar gaya kya! Hori Bol!
Arre Jo NAA bole, uspe bol! Hori Bol Hori Bol!"
Here she comes. The one who made me a Harishchandra. My beloved, for whom I build a pyre every night, and she breaks it down every morning.
In this cold, cold night, my heart prances for the expected warmth.
"Boss, Gita achhe ektao tomar kachhe?"
"Kine anoni?"
"Taka chhilo na."
"Bujhlam. Ta ekhoni ba keno chaichho? Body to chulli'te jabe ebar."
"Sheijonnei. Sharajibon onek boi puriyechhilo. Shesh ichhe chhilo, Gita'tao jaate porate paare."
The pyre, it becomes a flaming pyramid. And it travels high, high up, above the cloud. A stairway? To heaven? If you insist.
Warmth, I take it in. I wouldn't be building a pyre anymore in the morning. I wouldn't need to.
"Bollo Hori! Hori bol! E bollo Hori! Hori bol!"
Ashe ki amar priye? Seems unlikely. That's more like the one who died holding on to her bedpost for sheer life. Bedpost'ta bhenge gelo.
The pyre burns a bit brighter. Yet it's a cold, cold night. They hand me the Gita.
"Raam naam, satt hay. Raam naam, satt hay."
Is it she? No, no, no, they'd never bring her to me like this. This one, she died because the husband was a hunter. And what did he hunt? The warmth.
The pyre burns a bit more brighter. It still ain't warm enough. Another Gita. Kal giye bajaar'e bikri kore ashte hobe egulo.
" Dot dot dot dot Amaar Rahe, Amaar Rahe!"
Definitely not this one. This is the crazy, green monster. They have shot her. Finally.
I laught out silently. I have three Gitas with me now.
"Arre bol re saathi! Hori Bol! Aro Jor'e! Hori Bol!
Arre Daar gaya kya! Hori Bol! Arre Mar gaya kya! Hori Bol!
Arre Jo NAA bole, uspe bol! Hori Bol Hori Bol!"
Here she comes. The one who made me a Harishchandra. My beloved, for whom I build a pyre every night, and she breaks it down every morning.
In this cold, cold night, my heart prances for the expected warmth.
"Boss, Gita achhe ektao tomar kachhe?"
"Kine anoni?"
"Taka chhilo na."
"Bujhlam. Ta ekhoni ba keno chaichho? Body to chulli'te jabe ebar."
"Sheijonnei. Sharajibon onek boi puriyechhilo. Shesh ichhe chhilo, Gita'tao jaate porate paare."
The pyre, it becomes a flaming pyramid. And it travels high, high up, above the cloud. A stairway? To heaven? If you insist.
Warmth, I take it in. I wouldn't be building a pyre anymore in the morning. I wouldn't need to.
---------------------------------------------------
According to the Hindu rights of cremation, a dead body must be accompanied by a copy of the holy Bhagvad Gita. But this book is not burnt. Everyday, in the crematoriums, hundreds of Gitas are collected, and they are sold back into the market. This way, a single copy of a text helps many crossover to the next innings.
No comments:
Post a Comment