TRANSLATED FROM THE URDU BY HUZAIFA PANDIT

There is an Emptiness Somewhere

From the flower filled beds of wisest Mumbai
To Rajpath here, the journey
Has always placed highways
At my wandering feet.
Tall skyscrapers
Lush maidans
In double-faced queues
Rhyming couplets soaked in cheer
Tale bearers of civilization
Unrivalled means of transportation
Brave hearts with alert eyes
Overhead at every step for security.

I am the child of a far-flung village
But
Till now, destiny has only
Chosen only capitals for me.
And the organization I work for now
Makes it inevitable
That in a faraway land
Away from my country
Only capitals house me.
I am lucky and happily occupied.
Complaining about life
Is entirely wrong, unwarranted.
There is a God in heaven
Who knows the truth.

But this is also a truth
That I am such a masterpiece
Whose creator lives in a decrepit house in this city.
Returning to that house isn’t a possibility.

I often
Reflected on this
Everything conceivable was available to me
Yet why do I somewhere feel
Incomplete, empty?
The heart suffers from
Exile of an artist.

Also, read a book review of Unbound written by Sanjukta Dasgupta, reviewed by S. Vincent and published in The Antonym:

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