Tuesday 23 June 2020

O sweet black bee !!




Poet Jasimuddin, born in British India in 1903, was one of the most renowned poets of Bengal. He is more often referred as the Pastoral Poet. He was a profoundly learned man and devoted his life to research on rural ballads and songs of Bengal apart from his marvellous work of literature. His contributions towards identifying the origins of rural songs of Bengal and collecting and archiving those in a very systematic manner have truly presented us a wonderful treasure of country songs in current era. 
He himself directed music to many of his country songs, which have not been only popular to Bengali audience but also its different versions were also very popular in Indian subcontinent.
I am always amazed by the sweetness of the song, "Nisithe Jaio phulobone". The poet himself was the music director of the song, which was subsequently used in other languages in India by legendary S D Burman, the poet's friend. Here I have tried to translate the song.




O cute black bee! Come to my garden in night;

Lighting the moonlight

I shall stay awake, and  

Converse with dews through night

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.



If I fall asleep

If I run into dreams

Then you walk quietly, dear,

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.



Keep my branches unbroken

Keep my flowers unhurt

Keep the slumbering flowers in peace

Keep the footsteps silent in your walk

O sweet black bee! Come to my garden tonight.

Saturday 20 June 2020

Axioms in life !


Some two thousand four hundred years ago, in the city of Athens, the first democratic court of this world brought two charges against a septuagenarian man; one for corrupting the young generations with malice of thoughts and secondly for showing disrespect to the city Gods. The guilt was proved and the accused was sentenced to death. The man had brought the philosophy to the streets of the city…the scholars, peasants, artisans, masters, servants, pimps, ladies, noblemen and even the beggars used to listen to his words that simplified the purpose of life and living through it.
On the dock, he stood up and explained before the judges in the Athenian Agora, about the greatest fallibility of human life. “It is not my crime that convicts me, but the rumour and gossip that by whispering together you are persuading yourselves to convict me; to prove that I am guilty. By nature, rumour is very light to lift up, but heavy to carry and hard to put down and it doesn’t disappear once one indulges her in life.”
The city of Athens was in trouble to accommodate a new form of democracy and people were anxious to know about the new form of governance; these complexities had a confluent influence of both in risking the conviction of the man, who raised a few fundamental questions about life and expressed his thoughts to settle those too. A nation can take questions when it is stable with ideas and confident with knowledge, but it fears the same questions when it is split and vulnerable, both in ideas and knowledge. The time was wrong for the Greece and the world and the death of the man was not untimely, but unjust—as cruel as the thoughts so precisely killed some two millennia ahead.
The man was Socrates, the ancient Greek philosopher, who brought the fundamental questions of life on public discussions. It was not a disturbing note for to start even at that time, but as he always cautioned that “written words” had tremendous power to influence mind of people and it could be good or bad, but would have merciless impact to add virtue or vice to human soul, in days to ensue. It was that stage of early age of pursuing knowledge that took refuge to written scriptures instead of the earlier form of oral pool of knowledge.
His death did neither stop rumour to make more men as her slave nor did his ideas die as the democratic court had thought. It could only happen for a simple reason that his questioning on life was simple and everyone in the streets could connect to such questions. What is worth in living; what is beauty, what is honesty, why love is precious and so long “whats” and “whys” in the flow. And, in essence, it all spoke about a simple string that these were all the axioms in life along which the life prospers. These are the primary pillars upon which life rests. There is nothing to hide; the love, the hatred, the agony, the pleasure, the warring roar of people, the merciless torture of powerful, all so relevant and true, but nothing to hide, but to confine to a single objective, whatever harsher and harder it might be, to be award goodness to it. It is all to know yourself, the world being a mirror to know what you are, what is fear, what are your thoughts, what are your virtues and what are your vices. Explore your deceit and integrity, truth and lie, love and hate; all so within you and rectify. “The unexamined life is not worth living, what is the reason for living life, other than to love it”, he said.
The tragedy of life lies in defining the objective only. The source of happiness, if remain unidentified, makes the happiness illusive. Every facet of human expressions is role specific. The love for the children cannot be and should not be expressed in similar manner to the parents. Aiming life depends on identifying roles and shaping up goals to such roles in such a manner that it brings happiness to whatever one does to honour those goals and roles in life. And, there breeds the discontent.  I wanted to be a doctor, but have become a teacher; you wanted to an artist, but have become a technician. The dreams and destiny are pulling the life from two directions, sacrificing the happiness in between. Now, the essential questions that the great philosopher raised have become so relevant. Is it the happiness anyway affecting either of the faces; my dreaming to be a doctor and becoming a teacher. A little deeper thought takes us to a simple answer, “NO”, at the end. The dream of being a doctor and living a life of a doctor has nothing to interfere with not becoming it so long the principles of life are concerned. The principles are the axioms in life, which cannot be broken; we simply break ourselves against it.
It brings my soul to wail whenever I read the last part of the great epic, Ramayana. Mahakal has come to meet Rama and got Rama to promise that he would kill anyone interrupting their discussions. The beloved brother, Lakshmana, had to meet Rama and he knew that he should not enter as it would compel Rama to kill him, yet he had to. Lakshmana had to die as Rama had never desisted from adhering to his promises. Sages opined if Rama disowned Lakshmana that would be similar to killing him as Lakshmana would not live once being disowned by his revered brother. Lakshmana moved slowly, alone, toward river Sarayu. None accompanying, none bidding farewell. His feet were steady while his soul was delightful as he perceived his happiness has been fulfilled in that mortal life in company of such a wonderful experience of life; in love, hatred, faith and misfortune. Silently he dipped into the water never to reappear. What was a life for Rama to live through? He was to be king of the largest nation. He had to sacrifice it and he did it happily. He had acquired immense knowledge; had the purity of love in experience. He had to fight with a great man only to recover his wife, Sita, whom Ravana had abducted but never touched. Sita had to prove her chastity as the rumours in democracy put down Rama to oblige. Did Rama have any doubt over her chastity? The wisdom of Rama never justifies it that he had any doubt, yet he had to dishonour the respect that Sita deserved. The role specific departure in pursuit, perhaps, made him more unhappy than Lakshmana and Sita, who never deviated from the paths of happiness in defining roles and goals, at least in the epic. Rama too took the path of self-sacrifice. He was too moving slowly towards river Sarayu; but thousands of people accompanying—some crying in sorrow, some in pleasure of accompanying Rama. He too dipped into the water never to reappear, but was it full of delight for him as was for his beloved brother? Never know, if so; perhaps, not.
Almost contemporary to Socrates, lived a prince in the cradle of the Himalayas. He left his royal home to seek for the ultimate truth in life. His journey was strenuous, yet meaningful; it offered only enlightenment—the sacred truth of life. He professed four noble truths in life; the life is full of sufferings, craving is the source of sufferings, the cessation of suffering is the pursuit and the path of cessation leads to enlightenment. People raised questions, “What is worth in living when it is only full of sufferings?” The answer offered was much simpler than wheat people expected. Unless the life undergoes through sufferings, it cannot find it source, and unless one finds the source of sufferings, the cessation of sufferings can never happen and the path shall never lead to enlightenment. These are the axioms in life. One needs to experience pain to learn the meaning of pleasure and value it. The endless battles of cravings within mind shall end in valuing profound peace, if the battles are to secure the honest, righteous and principled choices of life. Love is material so long it breeds upon desire. The desire leads to own up the loveable. The possession leads to desire to control it. And the control over the loveable leads to death of love. The illusions in life are those passions that breed upon desire, whatever sacred and pure they might be. The joy in life is only attainable in compassion and peace. The selfless man was Siddhartha, the Buddha.
 I love my daughter. I want her to be disciplined, educated and joyous. In pursuit of such dreams, my love generates a sense of desire; the craving to see my daughter succeed in the way I perceive the world. I want to secure her in life; forfeiting her own wisdom, own values. I dictate but do not let her learnt what is truth as I fear that truth is hard and I never want her to face such harsh truth. That craving guides her to take a wrong path that never leads to anywhere, however fast she runs, whatever attainments she has, whichever tiers of successes she reaches. She learns to belief in wrong pedestals that my perceptions persuaded to have trust in. The bond—the sacred bond—has been shattered by me in pursuing my cravings in guise of my love. Such love is worse than hatred. It erases both the divinity of love and trust from her mind.
Wise men have so generously shared their wisdom. The history, the religion, the philosophy and the creative art are often touched by lights of their wisdom too. But, it all had fallen prey to our perceptions, our own manipulations and social voids. The essence of life has not succeeded to retain true meaning beyond those few people who felt it, valued it and lived it to the fullest.
Why should I be honest? The most common question wanders through the corridors of the life. Why should I love when someone ignores me? Why should I not fight to secure my possessions? So many questions. One wise man says, “Okay, you don’t be honest, if that pleases you. But, will you say it so to your children? Would you suggest them that they need not be honest, truthful, trustworthy, loving, caring, concerned? Tell me, if you agree.” There ends the tale. Yes, there is no answer as to why should one be honest. It is one of the axioms in life. Life evolves with some fundamental truths. Such truths hold life to secure itself as an opportunity to suffer, through sufferings learn the value in it, find true love that inspires life to offer itself in loving—to do, to be and to aid—and to explore the path that will lead to profound peace of mind—without any desire, any greed, any fear and any bond.
I want to be good and my goodness tells me to be compassionate, to be generous, to be faithful, to be helpful to others. The compassion if brings joy in mind is the true; if it tempts to raise desire to be recognized as generous even within the confine of own mind, it is illusion. It lacks the fundamental truth in its offering. You sincerely want to address many inconveniences of people around you; you are selfless and the people have no transactional relationships with you too. But you have neither adequate resource, enough strength and required access to reach them all. Does it generate discontent in your mind? One needs to value what is the circle of concerns; I may have concerns over many aspects of life. One needs to value the circle of influence also. I cannot do something or my resources do not permit me to do something. One can stretch the circle of influences by learning, assimilating, cooperating, and socializing; only if there is no craving for recognition in doing so. It is only to enhance own character strength, own assessment of pain and pleasure in life. So more stretched it is, closer it would be to the circle of concern; only if one wants to offer the life to merge both the circles in oneness; else the consequence would be disastrous. The discontent rises when they mismatch. The influence works where concerns do not reside and concerns breed where influence never dreams to reach. Mostly, we are victim of this mismatch. Our dreams are illusions; without any logic, any sincerity and any devotion. We dream whatever suits us; I want to be as smart as Mr X or as beautiful as Ms Y. The dreams have no meaning except generating a wild chase. The colour, race, caste, religion, gender and many other sources of inequality have been in the world only through generation of such misplaced perception and opportunism. There is neither pride nor glory in being a patriot if one fails to adhere to basic values of life. The efficiency without ethics help us reaching a wrong place faster. I wanted to be a doctor but become a teacher. What is frustrating in it? Did it anyway ruin my purpose of living; living a life with all fundamental values of life; any hindrance to even seek for the ultimate truth? I am denied a lift in my career; and blame my misfortune, the bias in the political system or the whims of the selection board. Does it really matter in interfering with the life’s pursuit? Have I ever thought in an unbiased manner that Mrs Z may really be more knowledgeable or has proven her acumen in the field that is primarily the job to be done on the lift in office? Or, even when the system chooses a less qualified person above me, do I think it is unjust as I am more qualified for the post in any unbiased assessment and I should seek the justice in appropriate office? Does it reflect my ambitions in life have hindered the goals of life to attained? Does this pain of betrayal have no other value except the betrayal of lack of justice? In any manner, does it interfere with my pursuit to seek for the truth in life—the happiness, the peace and the enlightenment? One needs to ponder sincerely.
Life has no shortcut. One has to undergo pain, yet seek for the divine truth through loving life, loving living, loving the pains and the pleasures, loving doing any act of goodness, loving to be honest, loving to be faithful, loving to be truthful, loving to be life in prosperity of love only. These are the axioms in life and they need never to be proved or challenged. Once one challenges honesty, integrity, love, peace, compassion, cooperation, appreciation, pain and pleasure, the basic foundation of life gets challenged. The life bears absolute nothingness once it deviates from such pillars of life. Whatever material successes it may seem to have attained are only tragic art of betrayal of life. It is the death in disguise of a life.

Thursday 18 June 2020

Now I am

Poet, Shamsur Rahaman, is one of my dearest poets of post-Tagore era. He is one of the most revered poets, not only in his own country, Bangladesh, but in every corner of the world, for his rich poetic creations saturated with righteousness, boldness and passion. His contributions to Bengali literature have brought a new dimension to the style and structure of Bengali poems and touched almost every aspect of human emotions.
Here is one of my favourite poem of Shamsur Rahaman, "Ekhon Ami", that I have attempted to transliterate.


I get startled, now and then,

Hearing someone’s going to somewhere,

In transience of a moment

The pool of my soul splashes,

“Going to where and why?”

Leaving numerous questions,

Like this or that, tremble upon

The lines over my lips and iris.



Hands sheath into the veil of

Those clouds, sodden in sorrows,

If ever I offer it to anyone;

The deepest core of my heart

Fervidly quivers, now and then;

I am easily startled now

Hearing someone’s going to somewhere.



My heart breaks, very often,

Seeing something is broken somewhere,

Am scared to see the little sapling

Of rose losing the sparkle;

The boyhood scene of a free kite,

Falling and floating, in a noontide sky,

Often reappears in my eyes now;

Quite a few dead horses,

In the realms of my childhood

Are lying dispersed over the grassland;

These thoughts infuse me

With a terrible fright, nowadays.

Fine I remain, sometimes,

In a dimly lighted corner of my room,

Absorbed between the leaves of the book;

Amidst the rustles of fallen leaves

It brings a solemn news of growing age,

When some elders disappears

Just like the setting of the sun,

I spend the draining time playing hopscotch

With my mind in sheer darkness.



Sadness just keeps on shedding

Long shadows of sorrows—

Upon the lines of the face;

It pours loneliness into my soul,

Forlorn I am, so often, nowadays,

Feel so lonely, so often, nowadays.

Sunday 14 June 2020

Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hain....

         Sahir Ludhianvi was a different kind of Urdu poet, who contributed majorly in enriching the film world of our country with new wave of thoughts. His poetry infused words with a sense of rebellion, a rare appreciation of human values. I would always carry a different message, even when understanding his poetry, particularly being rich in Urdu, for its intrinsic values ingrained within.
   I have long thought of attempting his work for transliteration, but always avoided as I am very weak getting correct expression of words written in Urdu, one of finest and purest languages in the world; yet I shamelessly did it and bear the courage even to share it...


The world of these mansions, thrones and the crowns,
The world of those societies, hostile to the mankind,
The world, infected with an endless greed for wealth;
What matters if such a world is bequeathed to us?

Each one is wounded, every soul is thirsty,
Eyes bear only confused glances, and souls are dampened;
Is it a world or a formless expanse of an unconscious whole?
So, what if such a world is bestowed upon us?

Where human attainment is just a piece of plaything,
It is nothing but the land of the worshippers of death,
Death still comes cheaper here than life;
What if such a world is bequeathed to the mankind?

The prime of youth gets distracted by misperceived growth,
The blooming beauties are saleable pieces on the floor,
Where love is a nothing but a trading deal;
Does it matter even if such a world is conferred upon?

It is such a world, where mankind is never valued,
Neither commitment is respected nor a friendship,
Where love doesn’t get the honour of love even;
If such a world is gifted, does it matter even?

Ignite the flame, burn down this world, blow it up!
Remove this world from the frame of my sight,
It is all yours and you take care of it, if you like;
So, what if such a world is even given away to me?

Saturday 13 June 2020

Dots....

Dots….dots…dots
Lying here and there
The space is benevolent
Giving home unwantedly
Playing with them
A child would be doing alike
Arrange, one following the other
In a line, or sometimes, scattered
But, as wishes flow, more orderly
Giving a shape, sketching a face
Upon the wide canvas of space
A few dots…dots that were words,
Spoken, yet never heard
A few more that had bubbled
Yet never burst
A few dots….dots that were thoughts
Conceived, yet never shared
A few more that had grown enough
Yet, never saw the life sheltering
Gathering once again; picking up
One by one, laying one after the other
In a last attempt to sketch a face
Longed for so long
But, never emerged out of a life
Full of dots…dots…and dots.

Friday 12 June 2020

Is mod se jaate hain....

"Is mod se jaate hain" is another Gulzar poem, which carries intense feelings saturated with rich philosophy and I attempted its transliteration some two decades back and am uploading without any further editing to keep the emotions of my youth uninterrupted by an intrusion of my old mind now.....



This is the bend, where it leaves from;
The path tracing a few leisurely steps
The traveller pacing a few agile strides,
To a marble palace
To a glass house
To a nest of straw;
It reaches there from just this bend.

Gliding like a gale, the path sweeps past
Coyly slides down from some footstep;
Of those myriad flowing walkways
There must be one such path,
Which takes to your doorstep;
It is this bend where it leaves from.

From afar one comes
And flips once nearer,
And a solitary forlorn path
That neither treads nor pauses,
Amidst all random thoughts
I await, with a feeble trust,
There must be one such path,
Which takes to your doorstep;
It is just this bend, where it leaves from.

Friday 5 June 2020

The day I was born


Long nights and days sped by
To yearn and earn and count and die,
In loving spree and dreams and cry,
In heaps of petals fallen and dry.

Swirling serpents—smoky dread
Invading sky to paint and spread,
Erasing signs of innocent myths—
Cradled so long in cerebral piths.

Promises faded, one by one,
Nothing was lost and none has won;
Reaped not harvest, seeds not sown,
The last wish awaits the last ribbon.

Moments flee, pages burn,
And ashes fill the memories’ urn;
Yet the sojourn shines in glee
When life recounts its first turn.

(A repost)

Thursday 4 June 2020

Mera kuch saman tumhare paas pada hai

"Mera kuch saman tumhare paas pada hai ..." is one of my favourite poems written by Gulzar....I tried  my best to let it carry the deep emotions and wonderfully woven words while translating it into English....never mind my shortcomings in getting near to the original....


A part of me is still lying around you,
A few moist days of a long-parted monsoon,
And a night wrapped in a sodden veil of fuzzy scribbles;
Let all images of that night fade into vacuity,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Heard the rustles of leaves….aren’t there?
And those gentle tunes of falling leaves that
Slipped off my ears casting a fleeting kiss once and reappeared.
Somewhere the forsaken twig in the Fall is still trembling;
Let the wailing branch be wished adieu too,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Sharing beneath a sole dripping umbrella, you and I—
Half-drenched and a bit dry—
And the warmth in me that we shared too;
Those a few wet thoughts, perhaps, still be lying around the bed.
Let it all be set free; let all be just mine,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

The sweet memories of a string of moonlit nights,
And of the beauty spot prettifying your shoulder;
The intoxicating fragrance of soggy paste of henna
And a few freaks of silly play of blame and regret;
And a few weird promises never kept.
Let it all fill me to the deepest down in me,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Just grant me the parting acquiescence of the self,
For my lone walk to the grave,
For me to sleep forever….beside you.

(A repost)

Patience !

  The beginning is mysterious The end fascinates I see its flight The projectile of life…. The own dreams, follies and a few deeds...