Bhatti Waliye

I will pay you with my tears,
Roast my store of sorrows in your pan,
O tender of the fire.

Tender of the fire, you are a branch of frangipani,
Roast my store of sorrows

I am late already,
The shadows are fading.
The cattle have returned
From the forest.

The birds have raised their clamour,
O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Hurry, hurry
I have far to go,
To the place where
All my friends have gone.

I hear the road to that town is difficult
O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Why, when it is my turn,
Is your bale of kindling damp?
Why has your earthen wok
Turned flaccid?

What has gone wrong with your fire?
O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Just a handful is my measure
Let me go on my way,
Don’t leave them raw
Roast them a little more.

I beg you, bring an end to this trouble,
O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.
The wind has dropped
Wept its mournful cry.
The stars are emitting
A sweet heat.

O roast my store of sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

- Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Transl. Suman Kashyap

Image: Indian girl by =anotherwanderer