To be or not to be - Shakespeare's Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Act III, scene I

[Ravi Kopra]

poochtaa to main ye hoon -
kuch karoon ya na karoon
kya ye dharm ki baat hai k
kismet k jootay khaata rahoon
ya apni talwaar nikal kar
duniya k dukhon ko khatam karoon
ya mar jaaoon, so jaaoon
diniya se chala jaaon
so kar sub dil daard
aur jaan k dukhon
ko khatam kar daloon -
jo moujhay khaatay jaatay hain.
mar jaaon, so jaaoon
shaayad kisi sapnay main.

lakin ye shak hai mujhay
k saonay kaisy hon gay
jab hum ye jism chor jaaen gay
aur aaram main par jaaen gay
isi baat se to hi hum
zindgi bataana chatay hain
halan k lambi umr main
hamesha dukh hi dukh hain
jo har samay hamain
dubaayey rakhtay hain
aur hum magroor logon
se baizziti laitay rehtay hain
mohabbat k dukh main
maray rehtay hain
aur kannon ka intzaar
kartay rehtay hain
daftaron main hamari koee nahin sunta
aur hum bhalay manas log unka
bakwaas suntay rehtay hain

agar koee apnay aap ko
ek tez churra maar kar mar
khudkashi kar laita hai
to kaun fir uskee dukhi
jaan k jaanay k baad
duniya k bakwaas sehta hai

lakin marnay k baad kyaa hoga
kis jahaan main koee jaaeyaga
jahaan se kabhi laut na aayen gay
is k dar se hum kuhdkasi ka
sab honsla chor daitay hain
aur dukh main jeetay rehtay hain
unjaan jagah main na jaanay
ki baat karna chor daitay hain.
is tarah hamari khudi hi
hum ko darpok bannayey rakhti hai
aur apnay hi khaayalon main doobay
hamesha dhukee rehtay hain.
jo bhi hum duniya main
bhayankur baat karnay walay hotain hain
aisay lehmay main kuch nahin kartay
aur karam kya hai bhool jaatay hain.

-tr. Ravi Kopra

***

To be or not to be

Shakespeare's Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Act III, scene I,


To be or not to be, that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life,
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitchand moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.