Greetings

The sardar watchman, here

in our office,

greets us all in such chaste Arabic 

that one can't help but

trace the etymology of the words

'Assalam-u-alaikum'

to Gurmukhi.

Arabic

Urdu

Punjabi 

Kashmiri

Who knew

Peace would be gaurded 

by so many languages?

that it would be multilingual?

Progressives

The woman selling bangles

draped in a cheap cotton sari 

looked misplaced in their selfie,

clicked just outside the opulent restaurant,

was thence removed from the picture 

using the latest editing technology 

from an expensive phone.

This generation has set down their markers right:

from eradicating poverty and hunger

they prefer erasing people and 

unwanted tan.

That is some progress!

if only of the lowest kind!

A Human Forest

As Winter approaches,

the doors and windows

swell with coldness.

Father says,

the wood shivers

due to heightened moisture,

longs for the Forest,

wishes to retain

its original shape,

as when it was that certain 

type of Tree.

I can agree on this only:

they creak a lot when moved,

just like Humans in every season

sighing, aching and pining for what?

Who could say?

Grief is Memory's Souvenir

Remember that old mound

on which we used to 

burn bonfires as children? 

while ecstatically singing 

'Jum Jum Naar

Az Batwaar' -

in early celebrations 

of the upcoming Sunday,

and all those ones yet to come?

That mound, I hear, is no more:

is flattened and

on it rests a house.

They say a hearth 

stands exactly on

the same spot.

However,

on weekends now

nothing burns there

except happiness.

Life, Literature and History

In Anton Chekhov’s short story ‘The Kiss’, the character Ryabovich, an army officer, described as “most timid, the most modest”, loses his way in a General's house and is unexpectedly caressed, embraced and kissed in the dark by some “soft, fragrant, . . . feminine arms”. Ryabovich, is taken aback by this unanticipated kiss, and the event changes his character, if only for momentary period of time. 

Similarly in Roberto Bolano’s By Night in Chile, the narrator recounts the event of someone who’d gotten lost inside the house of Maria Canales, the aspiring writer, and his husband Jimmy Thompson, the American-agent working in Chile for the dictator General Pinochet. Taking a wrong turn, the guest finds himself in the basement of the house that happens to be a torture cell. On seeing this, the guest, retraces his steps and goes back to the literary party taking place on the upper floor. 

The trope of people, like these, like us, getting lost within the labyrinthine houses of those who wield power, in the traditional sense of the word, becomes a crucial point in trying to understand the paradoxes of narratives, where almost everyone gets lost or loses itself/oneself, in what we usually refer to as History. In other words, in the houses of the Generals, the agents, the bureaucrats, where History seems to be crafted, one usually finds oneself lost. No matter how innocent we think we are, no matter how far we think we are from the people who actually participate in politics, we are always already there, in their magnificent houses, finding a way perhaps to go back to the party, a literary gathering. The way we tend to visit malls, go to cinema, to restaurants, to prisons etc., - to give ourselves the idea that we aren’t those and somehow we are outside the machine. Our complicity is however, ingrained within all this. Perhaps, all the cultural attempts to escape these enclosures are performed by us so as not to think about the crime we have committed together or are still committing. The only difference that remains is that, some among us, like Ryabovich, aren’t able to state the momentous event as significantly, expressively and meaningfully as he has experienced it, while some like Maria Canales deduce a momentous novel out of it. There is then an incongruity between life as lived and life as literature. Being conscious about it, like Ryabovich, at the end of the story, who has a chance yet again to go the General’s house, but dissuades himself from it, is perhaps its only cure. Gazing at the abyss, as Albert Camus would refer it, is perhaps less important than decorating the abyss these days, claiming responsibility and thereby acknowledging complicity for our actions.

Mann Ke Darpan Mein (English Translation)

‘Mann Ke Darpan Mein’, remains in my opinion, the most criminally underrated Hindi song of the past two decades. Originally written, composed and sung by OM-The Fusion Band, the song is part of a movie directed by Naseerudin Shah titled Yun Hota Toh Kya Hota that came out in the year 2006. Here, are the complete lyrics of the song along with my English translation. The song captures the essence of Life itself composed of myriad things – dreams, hopes, joys, grief, sadness etc. and through these, remarks on the resilient nature of human being despite everything Life has to offer.

 

Mann Ke Darpan Mein Dekhe Hai Kitne Rang Jeevan Ke

Saat Surr Milke Jaise Sangeet Mein Dhale

Phool Chun Chun Ke Jaise Gulshan Koi Khile

Mann Ke Darpan Mein Dekhe Hai Kitne Rang Jeevan Ke

 

In the mirror of heart reflected, one sees so many colours of Life

The way seven surs merge into Music

The way different flowers bloom into a garden

In the mirror of heart reflected, one sees so many colours of Life

Pal Mein Baadal Hai, Pal Mein Kirnien Hai

Bhor Hai, Saanjh Hai Kabhi

Ek Pal Mann Niraash Hai, Aas Hai Kabhi

Pal Mein Muskaan, Pal Mein Hairaan

Pyar Hai, Bair Hai Kabhi

Log Apne Hai Ek Pal, Gair Hai Kabhi

Pal Yeh Kab Jaane Din Bane

Jaane Kaise Din Badle Saal Mein

Ungliyon Pe Gine Agar

Yun Toh Saal Bhi Guzre Hai Kayi

Pichhe Mudd Ke Jo Dekhe Ik Baar

Aaj Bhi Yaad Hai Sabhi

Yaadon Ke Saath Khwaabon Ke Silsile Chale

Beete Har Pal Ke Rang Har Khwaab Mein Mile

Mann Ke Darpan Mein Dekhe Hai Kitne Rang Jeevan Ke

 

In a trice clouds abound, in a moment rays,

dawn at times, dusk sometimes

One moment the heart is in dismay, in a moment hopeful

In no time a smile, in a snap surprised

Sometimes there’s love, at times animosity

People are yours a moment, sometimes strangers

When do these moments turn into days?

How do days turn into years?

If one counts on fingers

many years may seem to have passed 

when one reflects back, even once

everything, in entirety, is recollected

alongside memories, walk a caravan of dreams

each dream is hued with the colour of bygone moment

In the mirror of heart reflected, one sees so many colours of Life

 

Din Ladakpan Ke Manchalepan Ke

Kitne Maasoom they Sabhi

Ab Hai Afsoos Laut Ke Aayenge Nahi

Pal Do Pal Ke Hai Saare Ehsaas

Pal Do Pal Ki Hai Zindagi

Rishten Naaten Bhi Khel Hai Pal Do Pal Ke He

Behti Nadiyan Ki Dhaar Ke Jaisi

Har Khushi Aani Jaani Hai

Saansen Jab Tak Hai Chal Rahi

Dhadkanon Mein Jab Tak Rawaani Hai

Ek Roshan Diye Ke Lau Jaisi Zindagi Ki Kahaani Hai

Aandhiyon Mein Bhi Zindagi Ki Yeh Lau Jale

Saans Ki Lay Pe Umr Ki Dastaan Chale

The days of childhood, of playfulness!

how innocent they all were?

The regret now that they won’t return!

Ephemeral are all emotions

Transient is life 

Even relationships tend to be momentary games 

Like a wave of moving river

Each delight comes and goes

Till the breaths continue,

till there’s a flow in heartbeats

like a bright candle-flame is the story of Life

Even in hurricanes does this flame burn!

upon the tempo of breaths the story of life taps.  

 

Dwelling in Graveyard

(for Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn)

While she was 

profusely drowning 

the world in tears

within her tidy room,

she could somehow clearly notice,

the flowers outside it

fluttering like stupid flags.

Was Life still there, 

waving?

After all this?

How could it!

As she went outside 

with a firm belief and 

teeming anger

to root them all out,

she found herself providing succour,

helping a kitten, caught under a tin sheet.

While living in the graveyard, as someone puts it,

one cannot weep for everyone.