I miss hearing Hindi/Hindustani. The sound of it. The inability of walking up to my flatmates, sweet people all, and talking to them of Paash, or Faiz, or Nida Fazli, or Ghalib.
I found myself, on a rain soaked Sunday evening in Central Park, reciting poetry loud to the grass and the sky and the rain and the trees.
And doing arbit, not very good translations.
Like this one, of Faiz.
Not very good, I know. Particularly unhappy with the last line.
Last night your memory came to me
Like the spring quietly, in a desolation
Like a wind gentle in the desert dawn
Like relief from pain unasked for
A translation of
Raat yun dil mein teri khoi hui yaad aayi
Jaise veerane main chupke se bahaar aa jaye
Jaise sehraaon main haule se chale bad-e-naseem
Jaise beemaar ka be vajah karaar aa jaaye