Joyce's 'ekla chalo'

Sweet and Sour

They run as follows:

“Looks here, Cranly, he said, you have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church; and I will try to express myself in the same mode of life or art as freely as I can, asking for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use — silence, exile and cunning.”

Cranly seized his arm and stared at him around so as to lead him back towards Leeson Park. He laughed almost slyly and pressed Stephan’s arm with an elder’s affection. “Cunning indeed!” he said: “You poor poet, you!”

“And you made me confess to you Stephan said, thrilled by his touch, as I have confessed to you so many things, have I not?”
“Yes my child,” Cranly said still gently.

“You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone, to be spurned for another, or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a big mistake, a life-long mistake, and perhaps as long as eternity too.”

Debut translation

I was rummaging through old notebooks and scraps of papers I had preserved when I came across my first attempt to translate Urdu poetry into English. It was with the help of Manzur Qadir, my closest friend during my seven years in Lahore (1940-47). We happened to be travelling in the same Polish Lines Batory which plied from Southampton to Karachi and Bombay. Most of the passengers were either Pakistanis or Indians.
Manzur and I spent our days on the deck. He took out his favourite verses from the Diwan of Allama Iqbal and explained what they meant. I chose one to try my hand at translating it and showed it to Manzur to check it for accuracy.
To the Creator did Beauty one day complain
Why made Ye of stuff what doth wane?
“The world is like a Hall of Mirrors,” answered He.
A tale told to pass the long night of eternity
Since of changeable hues we are made.
It is essence of beauty that it must fade
The moon overheard, she was not far
It spread in the skies to the Morning Star
The Star told the Dawn, the Dawn to the dew extended
The secret of heavens thus to the earth descended
Tears filled the eyes of the flower on hearing what he had said
The bud, little heart burst with grief and bled
Grief fled the garden in loud lament
Youth that had come to sport, in sorrow went.

Ramblings

We have controlled population growth and checked the price rise
Which are now touching the lower skies.
Amit Shah is innocent and his very look shows
That he cannot kill a couple of flies,
The Parliament functions normally
And away from all business shies,
Ms Mamata Bannerjee is a great railway minister
Who from the maidan in Kolkatta cries
“You the people of Delhi, Mumbai and Chennai
Very safe in my hands your life lies
But let me first, with some help from Naxalites
To the chief ministership of Bengal rise.”
Bhishm Pitamah of the country, K Karunanidhi
Will see to it before he dies
That for seven generations in his family
Every child a minister’s chair occupies
And true to the maxim that there is lull before the storm
Rather dormant Behn Mayawati lies.
So I can say on oath
That in political morality and service to the people
Our netas have touched the point of highest growth.
(Contributed by Kuldip Salil, Delhi)

Four Hs of life

Identify the 4 Hs where a person spends his time at one stage or other in life?
Ans: Home, hostel, hotel and hospital.

(Contributed by KJS Ahluwalia, Amritsar)