Hindi literature is dead. At least none of my acquaintances seem to be too enthused on reading a good Hindi novel. The Hindi section in the Crosswords and Landmarks of the World have shrunk to a small neglected shelf; often stacked with Hindi translations of bestsellers such as 'Who moved my cheese' (मेरा चीज़ किसने हटाया ).
The closest one gets to Hindi Literature now is those x-grade thriller pocket books that you get at Andheri station or the unimpressive, superfluous poetry by our generations' poets which often is a result of the upheaval in their love-life.
What could be a bigger mockery of the language and its rich literature in the land of Mahadevi, Premchand, Dinkar and Neeraj.
Off late, I have been reading essays by Mahadevi Verma(remeber the stories of "Sona Hirni" and "Gaura Gaay" by this writer we read in our school). Though, at times her, choice of words is something that would get me to take out a Hindi-to English dictionary, that does not stop me from just going on with the flow of her stories.
I have read English translations of works of Tagore, but I wonder why has there not been a translation of Mahadevi's essays. Her portrayal of life around her is so real and so much in the context even today, almost 50 years after she wrote these essays. Then be it her pets in "Mera Parivar" or her memoirs of people in "Smriti Ki Rekhayein" and "Atit Ke Chalchitra", each story is equally unique and moving (disturbing, rather).
If Chetan Bhagat can sell a million copies of his stupid stories; then Mahadeviji definitely has a much better potential. But who is listening? Hindi literature is passé. Hindi literature is dead.
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