Rebus (Chitr) , Jane Hirshfield In Hindi/Urdu Translation Poem by Ravi Kopra

hum jaisay bunay hotay hain
waisa kartay hain
laal mitti k putlay dukh bharay hota hain
kaalay, peecHay paD jaatay hain, ziddi hotay hain
putlay jo parwa ya la-parwa kartay hain
ya jin se dariya k neechee garaaeeoN ki ya mitti ki boo aati hai

har khyal zindgi ya
jis main tum jeetay ho ya jeenay main safal na ho paatay ho
har lafz ek khaana hai jisay tum khaatay ho ya mez pe choD jaatay ho
kuch shahed baDay kaDway hotay hain
jinay loi bhi marzi se nahin khaaey ga
lakin pukee mitti - mitti ka putla - khaata hai: thakaawat ka shaed, garoor ka shaed,
zulm ka shaed, khof bhara shaed

ye chitr - bemarzi aur ziddi
dariya ki gheraayi, meri apni guzr zindgi -
kab main is ko paD sakooN gi
saaf, saaf, dheeray dheeray bina kisi khawaish ya umeed k liyay?
samajhnay k liyay nahin, sirag darshan kliyay

paani main cheeni isay meetha banati hai
aur namak aur namkeen kar deta hai
hum apnay aap ko khud banatay hain
har ek, haan, har ek apne ko banata rehta hai
koi apne ko siDi banata hai, koi nihaee, koi ek pyaali.

siDi andheray main jhuk jaati hai
nihaee chotaiN khaatay chup chaap sehti hai
pyalli se sub pee laatay hain, khaali ho jaati hai

main kaisay samjooN is swaal ko
jo - puki mitti - mitti k putlay ne poocHa hai?

***

You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness going on after.
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.

Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live,
each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table.
There are honeys so bitter
no one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,
honey of cruelty, fear.

This rebus - slip and stubbornness,
bottom of river, my own consumed life -
when will I learn to read it
plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?
Not to understand it, only to see.

As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
Each yes, each one continues,
this one a ladder, that one an anvil or cup.

The ladder leans into its darkness.
The anvil leans into its silence.
The cup sits empty.

How can I enter this question the clay has asked?

-Jane Hirshfield