How translation reconstructs global literature

By Amar Qawi If, someday, the entire sky were covered in darkness—without a moon, without stars, without even the faintest sparkle—would a lover whose heart glows like moonlight still be able to live beneath such a sky? That day, I sat on the rooftop of my house searching for the moon. But fate had something else in store. Instead of appearing in the heavens, the moon descended into the street below to grant me a glimpse after twenty-one long days. I did not dwell much on that radiance because something similar had happened to me earlier, on the fifteenth of July. Therefore, I took it as nothing more than an unfulfilled dream rather than believing that the moon belonged to me. In truth, even considering someone as one’s possession is itself a form of poverty. Since childhood, society has taught us that air, fire, and water are the necessities of life. Yet I feel sorry for those teachers who remain unaware of a deeper truth: human beings do not survive by air, fire, and water alone. Love, inspiration, and moonlight are equally essential for the soul to remain alive. A person may survive in this highly technical age amidst bombs and weapons, but without the sight of the beloved, the soul can never truly live. Just as air, fire, and water are essential to human existence, so too is the vision of the beloved. The truth is, I was not sitting on the rooftop in search of the moon in the sky. I was waiting for that moon from whom my moonbird-like heart had been separated for what felt like centuries. And yet, even when I found that moon, it was only within my dreams. Twenty-one days after the fifteenth of July, as I walked through that familiar street, she passed by me just as a shadow silently slips along a wall in the darkness. She is my shadow, and I am her reflection. She is my reflection, and I am her moonbird. She is the full moon to me. Whenever she shines like the full moon, my heart, like a restless chakor bird, longs to fly toward her and kiss her beauty. But alas, those delicate butterfly-like wings eventually grow weary from endless flights inspired by love. When I saw her in that street after twenty-one days, the fallen Taj Mahal of my imagination began to rebuild itself. The shy poet hidden within me blossomed with the spirit of Sheikh Ayaz’s immortal lines: “O moon! Who has stolen your sleep? Surely the chakor birds have enchanted you.” Just as Sheikh Ayaz expressed, something similar happened to me. When I first met her, I had no intention of falling in love. Yet I vividly remember that when we parted, dryness had settled upon our lips while tears embraced our eyes. It was as though the Urdu poet had written about our separation: “When we parted, my poem remained within her eyes— A poem that had never yet been recited to anyone.” When she passed beside me after twenty-one days, my eyes swore by the little golden nose ornament she wore and silently recalled the beautiful verse of Shah Abdul Latif: “Who says, my beloved, that you should walk gently? Place your feet upon my eyelashes without hesitation. Leave behind all fear of causing pain, For your passage itself is my greatest joy.” When even her tongue could not gather the courage to speak to me, my own eyes, too, denied themselves the permission of truly beholding her after those twenty-one days. Love is not dependent upon union; it longs for the meeting of souls. Therefore, for a lover like me, a glimpse after twenty-one days carries no real meaning if the beloved merely passes by like a silent shadow in the darkness. In the end, I wish to encourage the young people of our society who lose their dreams and their future while chasing someone who does not value their love. As an Urdu poet beautifully said: “If you have changed, then so be it. If not you, then someone else. And if not someone else, then another.” Thus, that glimpse after twenty-one days holds no value for me if it is wrapped in deception, falsehood, and unfaithfulness. To me, that meeting means nothing if pride and arrogance overshadow love. She merely appeared in the street and passed by like a shadow. Yet even today, I continue to wait for her, because my heart still loves that moon-like beloved with the devotion of a chakor bird. Even after twenty-one days, she remains steadfast in her pride. Still, the beloved’s pride is a matter of honor for the lover, for the beloved herself is both the lover’s pride and the most precious treasure he possesses. He can be reached at alikareemshaikh123@gmail.com