For a paper on Shakespere I recreated Othello's last speech using Ghalib's poetry. The deviation from the plot here is that he kills himself without knowing the truth about Desdemona and Cassio; in his sorrow, he wants her back. At the end, it is still unclear if he thinks Desdemona innocent or not. Along with verses in Urdu, I have also put in parts of the text from Othello. These parts are in English and Italicized; the changes in voice in these are in regular font. Its quite fun.
I am a moor; I was
always the Moor.
My story bears no
audience, yet I still narrate it once more to lament over how I was tricked.
Happiness is a mirage; a distant dream in the hot desert of sorrows. Just when
you think you’ve reached the green, oasis of joy, the blistering heat snatches
it away from you. Such is life. Such are the times. How can one love and live,
at the same time?
Bas
ki dushwar hai har kaam ka aasaan hona,
Aadmi
ko bhi mayasar nahi insaan hona
(Although it's difficult for
every task to be easy,
Even for a man, it's not easy
to become humane)
My tale is one of deception
and how this wicked, treacherous world makes it so hard for man to be human. I
loved; I loved and I lost. I lost because of treachery; no I lost because of my
own jealousy. Or was it treachery? My mind deceived me; tricked me the bastard.
Could she ever do what they say? They said she cheated her father of twenty
years. Could she cast aside our sacred vows that easily?
Jee
dhondhta hai phir wohi fursat ke, raat din;
Bethien
rahien tasavur-janan kiye hue
(My soul still seeks those
nights and days of leisure,
When we would idle away,
picturing the beloved in our head)
Desdemona and I used
to lie on grassy slopes, looking up at the sky while I enticed her with my
tales of travels far away. I could see her cringe at every mention of an
adversity and see her fair, lovely face light up at the mention of conquests. I
could guide her eyes to go from wide, smiling surprise to misty empathy in
seconds. She lived vicariously through me. I was the Marco Polo and she my
Kublai and for her I painted the invisible cities; their people, their
mysteries; their stories. For me, I took delight in changing contours of her
beautiful face and knowing I was in charge of her emotions, even if it were for
just those few hours.
Manzar
ek bulandi par aur hum bana sakte
Arsh
se idhar hoga kaas ki makaan apna
(We would have been able to
make a viewing-site on an excellent height;
If only our house were on this
side of the sky)
It seems so long ago that the night breeze rushed
past our faces as I caressed her lovely hair and told her of my dreams for us;
for us to go beyond this world and soar the skies with happiness. We were to
settle in Cyprus, you know; move to the beautiful city of Cyprus and have a new
home. She wanted to see the marvels of the East I had I’d so often told her
about; the painters with their paraphernalia, the Chinese traders with their
reams of silk, the buzz of this port city where the East and West came
together.
Tere
wade par jiye hum toh ye jaan jhooth jana,
Ki
khushi se mar na jaate, agar itbaar hota
(If we lived on your promise,
then know this-- we knew [it to be] false,
For would we not have died of
happiness, if we had had trust (in it)?)
When she told me she wanted to marry me, did I
not bring forth crowds to cheer at our wedding? Did I not do all but part the
Red Sea for that vow of fidelity from you?
Did I not once tell you that if it were now to die, 'Twere now to be most happy? Why then did
that damned handkerchief make its way into someone else’s bed?
Why then could you not promise me serenity? This
tinkering seed of doubt that Iago has sown in my head is still not uprooted. I
can feel it grow its parasitic tentacles deep into me. I know it shall be the
death of me. You were too good to be true.
Mohabbat
mein nahi hai farq jeene aur marne ka,
Usi
ko dekh kar jeete hain kis kaafir pe dam nikle
(In love, there's no
difference of living and dying
Having seen only her, we live-that
infidel over whom we breathe our last)
Now, I sit here; the
dagger in my hand raised to my chest over the body of my beloved. The wife I
choked to death with my own hands. Reality goes by you at unfathomable speed
sometimes. How could I let this happen? My Desdemona; my beautiful Desdemona. I
was misled. Will my tears wake her up?
That whiter skin of hers than snow now lay lifeless before me, and my beloved,
there is no way I can again thy former
light restore. It wasn’t Iago; it was me who did this to her. Tis true that
her love left me in a trance; morning and night would go just looking for the
beloved. Oh, you beautiful, my lady fair of face.
Was I wrong to love
this Venetian; this kaafir of mine? They didn’t want me, I was the treacherous
moor who had entered into their city and now stolen their girl from amidst
them. In their eyes, I was the other. Truth be told, I still do not know if she
was faithless or I. At the end, which one of us emerges the infidel?
Zikr
us pari wash ka aur phir bayan apna
Ban
gaya rakeeb aakhir tha raazdaan apna
(The mention of that
Fairy-faced one; and then-- my description
He who was my confidant,
became my rival; finally)
I be damned, I should have never professed of my
love to her so publicly. Oh who wouldn’t be jealous; who wouldn’t want her.
That must have been it. He wanted her. I described her beauty; her fair skin,
her rosy lips, her dark eyes. It was me. I let her slip through my hands. That
is the cause and that is the reason; Cassio and Iago, both wanted her. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.
Dard
e dil likhunkab tak jaon un ko dikhlaon,
Unglian
figaar apni khaama khooncha apna
(How long would I write the
pain of the heart? I might go and show to her
My wounded fingers, my
blood-dripping reed-pen)
I cannot but write about us; this epic of ours
breaks my heart as I pen it down. Do you not see the blood flow down my hands;
trickle down the paper leaving beads? But our tale needs to be told. A tale of
how I, like the base Judean, threw a
pearl away richer than all my tribe.
Qaid-e-hayat
o ranj o gham Asal mein dono ek hain,
maut
se pehle aadmi gham se najaat payen kyun
(The prison of life, and the
bondage of grief-- in essence both are one,
Before death, why would a
person find release from grief?)
I killed my own wife
for her infidelity. I killed my own wife on the pretext of what a possible
adversary told me. From here on, I will either live life knowing I killed my
unfaithful wife, or my one true love; neither of which will justify the agony
this act brings with it. This life is not meant to be lived happy. I loved and
I lost. I think it is time I free myself from these miserable shackles of human
existence.
Hue
mar ke hum jo ruswa hue kyun na gark e darya,
Na
kahin janazah uthta na kahin mazaar hota
(If disgrace after death was
to be my fate, I should have met my end by drowning,
It would have spared me a funeral and no
headstone would have marked my grave)
But Alas! Even the
decision of death seems to have taken its revenge on me. Fate, you tricky
bastard; I see the sly game you played there. Oh how I wish I escape the misery
of a funeral. I wish to have plunged into the rivers and drowned. With a strong
wave, I’d have been forgotten. No processions to glorify me; no whispers to
malign. But they must know that, I loved
not wisely, but too well. Not easily jealous, but being wrought, perplexed in
the extreme.
But Oh, my soul’s joy! I once told you that if after every tempest come such calms, may
the winds blow till they have wakened death. I crave the tempest and the
calm after now, let me come to you and let us now be together.
Come,
Desdemona, Once more, we’ll meet at Cyprus
