एक पहाड़ी का घर, अपना और अपने परिवार का घर बनने से पहले, भगवान और मेहमान का घर होता है।
A mountaineer’s house, before being his home and the home of his family, is the home of God and of guests.
A mountaineer’s house, before being his home and the home of his family, is the home of God and of guests.
'एक अल्बानियाई का घर भगवान और मेहमान का निवास स्थान होता है।' भगवान और मेहमान का, समझे। इसलिए अपने मालिक का घर होने से पहले, यह किसी मेहमान का घर होता है। एक अल्बानियाई के जीवन में मेहमान सर्वोच्च नैतिक मूल्य रखता है, जो खून के रिश्तों से भी ज्यादा अहम होता है। कोई उस इंसान को तो माफ कर सकता है जो उसके पिता या बेटे का खून बहाए, लेकिन मेहमान का खून बहाने वाले को कभी माफ नहीं किया जा सकता।
An Albanian’s house is the dwelling of God and the guest.’ Of God and the guest, you see. So before it is the house of its master, it is the house of one’s guest. The guest, in an Albanian’s life, represents the supreme ethical category, more important than blood relations. One may pardon the man who spills the blood of one’s father or of one’s son, but never the blood of a guest.
An Albanian’s house is the dwelling of God and the guest.’ Of God and the guest, you see. So before it is the house of its master, it is the house of one’s guest. The guest, in an Albanian’s life, represents the supreme ethical category, more important than blood relations. One may pardon the man who spills the blood of one’s father or of one’s son, but never the blood of a guest.
और सब कुछ बदल जाता, बिल्कुल बदल जाता।
And everything would be different, different.
And everything would be different, different.
क्या किसी देश के लोग उसके जहाजों से बेहतर हो सकते हैं?
Can a country's people be better than its planes?
Can a country's people be better than its planes?
क्या किसी साम्राज्य को ऐसे हिलाया जा सकता है जैसे वह कोई घर हो?
Can one move an empire as if it were a house?
Can one move an empire as if it were a house?
तानाशाही और सच्ची साहित्य-साधना एक साथ नहीं चल सकते... लेखक तानाशाही का जन्मजात दुश्मन होता है।
Dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible... The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship.
Dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible... The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship.
उसे सताने लगा था यह शक कि वह सही दिशा में नहीं जा रहा है। आखिरकार उसे पूरा यकीन हो गया कि वह गलत दिशा के अलावा और कहीं नहीं जाएगा, अपने जीवन के बचे-खुचे चंद दिनों के आखिरी दम तक—वह अभागा, ख्यालों में खोया मुसाफिर, जिसका अप्रैल बीच में ही अधूरा छूट जाने वाला था।
His suspicion that he was not going in the right direction tortmented him more and more. At last he had the conviction that he would never go anywhere but in the wrong direction, to the very end of the handful of days that was left to him, unhappy moonstruck pilgrim, whose April was to be cut off short.
His suspicion that he was not going in the right direction tortmented him more and more. At last he had the conviction that he would never go anywhere but in the wrong direction, to the very end of the handful of days that was left to him, unhappy moonstruck pilgrim, whose April was to be cut off short.
मेरी समझ में नहीं आता था कि लोग हवाई अड्डे जैसी खूबसूरत चीज़ को नापसंद कैसे कर सकते हैं। लेकिन हाल ही में मुझे यह यकीन हो गया था कि आम तौर पर लोग काफी उबाऊ होते हैं। वे घंटों इस बात पर रोना रोते रहते थे कि गुजारा करना कितना मुश्किल है, उन पर कितना कर्ज है, खाने-पीने की चीज़ों के दाम क्या हैं, और ऐसी ही दूसरी चिंताएं; लेकिन जैसे ही कोई ज्यादा शानदार या दिलचस्प विषय छिड़ता, वे जैसे बहरे हो जाते थे।
I could not understand how people could not like something as beautiful as the aerodrome. But I had lately become convinced that in general people were pretty boring. They liked to moan for hours on end about how hard it was to make ends meet, about the money they owed, the price of food, and other similar worries, but the minute some more brilliant or attractive subject come up, they were struck deaf.
I could not understand how people could not like something as beautiful as the aerodrome. But I had lately become convinced that in general people were pretty boring. They liked to moan for hours on end about how hard it was to make ends meet, about the money they owed, the price of food, and other similar worries, but the minute some more brilliant or attractive subject come up, they were struck deaf.
जब एक नया पुल बनता है, तो किसी जानवर की बलि देनी पड़ती है; ऐसे में, एक पूरी नई दुनिया बनाने के लिए किस चीज़ की बलि देनी होगी?
If an animal has to be sacrificed when a new bridge is built, what will it take to build a whole new world?
If an animal has to be sacrificed when a new bridge is built, what will it take to build a whole new world?
मेरे सामने तीन विकल्प थे: अपने उसूलों पर टिके रहना, जिसका मतलब मौत था; पूरी तरह चुप रहना, जिसका मतलब एक और तरह की मौत था; या फिर कीमत चुकाना, घूस देना। मैंने 'द लॉन्ग विंटर' लिखकर तीसरा रास्ता चुना।
I had three choices: to conform to my own beliefs, which meant death; complete silence, which meant another kind of death; to pay a tribute, a bribe. I chose the third solution by writing The Long Winter.
I had three choices: to conform to my own beliefs, which meant death; complete silence, which meant another kind of death; to pay a tribute, a bribe. I chose the third solution by writing The Long Winter.
हमारे शहर में बहार (वसंत) आसमान से आती थी, ज़मीन से नहीं, जिस पर पत्थरों का राज था और जो मौसम के बदलने को नहीं जानती थी। मौसम के बदलने का अंदाज़ बस बादलों के कम होने, परिंदों के दिखने और कभी-कभार दिखने वाले इंद्रधनुष से ही लगाया जा सकता था।
In our city spring came from the sky, not from the soil, which was ruled by stone that recognizes no seasonal change. The change of the season could be glimpsed in the thinning of clouds, the appearance of the birds and the occasional rainbow.
In our city spring came from the sky, not from the soil, which was ruled by stone that recognizes no seasonal change. The change of the season could be glimpsed in the thinning of clouds, the appearance of the birds and the occasional rainbow.
यह तो बस एक ऐसी बात थी जो जुबान पर घूमती रहती थी लेकिन कभी पूरी तरह गले के नीचे नहीं उतरती थी।
It was only a phrase that went from mouth to mouth and was never quite swallowed.
It was only a phrase that went from mouth to mouth and was never quite swallowed.
उसके मन में एक भी विचार ठीक से आकार नहीं ले पाया: क्योंकि आज का दिन बीते हुए कल जैसा ही लगना इस बात का सबसे बड़ा सबूत था कि यह भी एक और बेकार दिन साबित होगा, एक ऐसा दिन जिसे वह बिना जिए ही बिता देना पसंद करती। एक पल के लिए उसे लगा कि इस दुनिया में किसी के भी1 लिए ऐसा दिन किसी काम का नहीं है, फिर उसने तुरंत अपना विचार बदल लिया जब उसे एहसास हुआ कि हज़ारों औरतें—सप्ताह भर की कड़ी मेहनत के बाद, या परिवार में किसी झगड़े के बाद, या महज़ जुकाम हो जाने के बाद—सिर्फ इस बात पर उससे ईर्ष्या करतीं कि उसे आराम से सुकून से लेटने की फुर्सत तो मिली है।
Not a single thought managed to take shape in her mind: for the likeness of this day to the last seemed to her the clearest proof that it would be another quite useless day, a day she would gladly have done without. For a moment she thought that a day like this would be pointless for anyone on earth, then abruptly changed her mind as she realised that thousands of women, after a hard week's work, or a family quarrel, or even just after catching a cold, would envy her just for having the leisure to rest in comfort.
Not a single thought managed to take shape in her mind: for the likeness of this day to the last seemed to her the clearest proof that it would be another quite useless day, a day she would gladly have done without. For a moment she thought that a day like this would be pointless for anyone on earth, then abruptly changed her mind as she realised that thousands of women, after a hard week's work, or a family quarrel, or even just after catching a cold, would envy her just for having the leisure to rest in comfort.
चमकते हुए साज़ ऐसे विलाप कर रहे थे मानो लिली के फूलों की तरह उनके मुँह खुले हों।
Shiny musical instruments wailed, their mouths open like lilies.
Shiny musical instruments wailed, their mouths open like lilies.
दिन भारी और चिपचिपे थे। सब एक जैसे, एक-दूसरे से बिल्कुल मिलते-जुले। जल्द ही वे अपनी आखिरी बची-खुची पहचान यानी अपने नामों के आवरण से भी आज़ाद होने वाले थे: सोमवार, मंगलवार, गुरुवार।
The days were heavy and sticky. All identical, one the same as the other. Soon they would even get rid of their one remaining distinction, the shell of their names: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday.
The days were heavy and sticky. All identical, one the same as the other. Soon they would even get rid of their one remaining distinction, the shell of their names: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday.
लेखक हमेशा किसी न किसी हद तक निर्वासन (प्रवास) में होता है, वह चाहे जहाँ भी हो, क्योंकि वह किसी तरह से बाहर होता है, दूसरों से अलग-थलग; उनके बीच हमेशा एक दूरी बनी रहती है।
The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others; there is always a distance.
The writer is always to some extent in exile, wherever he is, because he is somehow outside, separated from others; there is always a distance.
सच कहें तो, यह उन गिने-चुने मामलों में से एक था जिसमें उसने उसे यह नहीं बताया था कि वह क्या सोच रही है। आमतौर पर, उसके मन में जो भी विचार आते, वह उसे बता देती थी, और वास्तव में उसे कभी बुरा भी नहीं लगता था अगर उसके मुँह से कोई ऐसी बात निकल जाती जिससे उसे ठेस पहुच सकती थी, क्योंकि आखिरकार ईमानदारी की यही कीमत चुकानी पड़ती है।
To tell the truth, this was one of the few cases in which she had not told him just what she was thinking. Usually, she let him know whatever thoughts happened to come to her, and indeed he never took it amiss if she let slip a word that might pain him, because when all was said and done that was the price one paid for sincerity.
To tell the truth, this was one of the few cases in which she had not told him just what she was thinking. Usually, she let him know whatever thoughts happened to come to her, and indeed he never took it amiss if she let slip a word that might pain him, because when all was said and done that was the price one paid for sincerity.
दुनिया में ऐसा कौन है जिसने किसी अपने को याद न किया हो, जिसने कभी यह न कहा हो कि काश वह सिर्फ एक बार, सिर्फ एक बार और वापस लौट आए...? इस हकीकत के बावजूद कि ऐसा कभी नहीं हो सकता, कभी भी नहीं। यकीनन यह हमारी नश्वर दुनिया की सबसे दुखद बात है, और इसका यह दर्द आखिरी अंत तक कोहरे की एक चादर की तरह मानव जीवन को ढकता रहेगा।
Who in the world has not yearned for a loved one, has never said, If only he or she could come back just once, just one more time...? Despite the fact that it can never happen, never ever. Surely this is the saddest thing about our mortal world, and its sadness will go on shrouding human life like a blanket of fog until its final extinction.
Who in the world has not yearned for a loved one, has never said, If only he or she could come back just once, just one more time...? Despite the fact that it can never happen, never ever. Surely this is the saddest thing about our mortal world, and its sadness will go on shrouding human life like a blanket of fog until its final extinction.
सर्दियों ने शहर पर पहले कभी न देखी गई हवा और बारिश की बौछार कर दी। बादल हर दिशा में दौड़-दौड़ कर अपना गरज, ओले और बारिश बरसा रहे थे। क्षितिज कोहरे में पूरी तरह घुट चुका था।
Winter hurled more wind and rain at the city than it ever had before. Clouds dashed about in all directions emptying their thunder, hail and rain. The horizon was choked in fog.
Winter hurled more wind and rain at the city than it ever had before. Clouds dashed about in all directions emptying their thunder, hail and rain. The horizon was choked in fog.