Month: September 2023

Today, after so many days,
I’m flipping through the pages of memory.
The papers are sticking to each other,
Blanketing each other’s warmth.
The flavour of separating them is still on my tongue.
It tastes somewhat like loneliness without you.

All those words I’d crocheted for you
Are now forgotten like Christmas sweaters.
Whole night I used to sleep with them as pillows.
The drool of those nights is still there as dry stains.

If anything has changed, it is this:
Now, I’ve stopped writing in this diary.
Now, in someone else’s courtyard, I grind memories.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, क्लोज़र

Closure

āj kāFī dinon bād
kucH yādon ke saFhe palaTne laga hūn
chipakne lagīn hein kāgaz ek dusre se
ek dusre ki garmāhaT ko chādar banaye oDH rahīn hein
unko alag karne ka zāikā abhī bhī zubān par lagā hei
kucH kucH tumbin tanhāyī sa swād hei

vo sāre alfāz jo tumhāre liye bune the
Christmas kī sweater jaise bhulā diye gayein hein
rāt rāt bhar jab takiyā banāyein so jātā thā unpe
un rāton kī lār abhī bhī sūkhe dāg se padein hein

bas kucH badlā hei to ye hei ki
ab is Diary mein likhnā CHoD diyā hei
ab kisī aur ke āngan mein yādein pīstā hūn

Come now, come. Just sit and write –
Enough vacations taken.
You are tired just in name –
Enough vacations taken.

If you can’t for someone else,
Just do it for your only self.
Come now, come sit and write –
Enough vacations taken.

What of it? Is your chakra done?
You have a beast inside of you.
So, channel all that Kyuubi rage –
Enough vacations taken.

To write whatever comes to mind
Is better than to never write.
Come, live up to this Misra name –
Enough vacations taken.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, बहुत छुट्टी मार ली

bahut CHuTTī mārlī

chalo likhne baiTHo bahut CHuTTī mārlī
bas nām ke thake ho bahut CHuTTī mārlī

kisī aur ke padhne ke liye na sahī
apne liye likhdo bahut CHuTTī mārlī

tumhārā chakrā khatam hei to kyā huā
kyūbī kā nikālo bahut CHuTTī mārlī

kuCH na likhne se kuCH bhī likhnā behtar hei
Misra ka nām rakhlo bahut CHuTTī mārlī

In moments with you, I impress, they say.
A person new with new finesse, they say.

I point at you to show them where I live.
The fools – a house is their address, they say.

You aren’t by my side, but feel so close.
This bond divine is faithfulness, they say.

I count my seconds building dreams of you.
This waiting is the worst distress, they say.

No Misra I’ve repeated here, but still
My verse is, with your name, obsessed, they say.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, कहते हैं

kehte hein

tere lamhe se juDkar dilchasp huā kehte hein
tumse milkar main nayā shaksh huā kehte hein

main terī ore ishāre se dikhātā hūn ghar
wo to nadān hein rihāish ko patā kehte hein

tum mere pās bhī na ho kar ho karīb mere
kyā yahi rābtā hei jisko wafā kehte hein

tere hi KHāb sajāne mein guzarte hein pal
intezārī ke siwā kisko sazā kehte hein

maine to koī bhī misra doharāyā nahīn
kyon tere nām kī ghazal ko nashā kehte hein

In someone’s war, it’s someone else
Who’s caught in that crossfire,
As every year, it’s only clouds
Who weep for summer’s ire.

For months and years, for whom two words
Were two too many said,
That father too cried out his heart
Upon this bride’s attire.

Who keeps in mind the martyrdom
Of crackers later on,
Who’d turned to ash to light us up
Diwali night entire?

It’s best you keep your own advice,
O Misra, to yourself.
You seek in ink your remedy
And dare to preach the choir?

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Translated from my Hindi poem, किसी और का जंग

kisī aur kā jang

kisī aur kā jang koī aur fastā hei laDāī mein
har baras bādal hī rotā hei dhūp kī safāī mein

jisne muddaton se do lafz bhī na bole the
us bāp kā bhī sīnā fūTā hei merī bidāī mein

kaun yād kartā hei un shahīdon ko diwālī ke bād
vo paTākhe jo fanā ho gayīn nūr aFzāī mein

behtar hei terā mashvarā tere pās hi rakh Misra
tu vo marīz hei jo davā DHūnDHta hei siyāhī mein

Retreated from the world, because
with none I get along.
In loneliness I learned, with me
I hardly get along.

I made myself an island then,
entirely of myself.
Now, with these naughty surging waves
I hardly get along.

I’m used to diving into books,
and swimming in their depths.
Now, with the heights of bookcastles
I hardly get along.

It’s good I lost my papers old.
Now, Hindi has my heart.
With those romantic English rhymes,
I hardly get along.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, जमती नहीं

jamtī nahīn

zamāne se dūr huā ki kisī se jamtī nahīn
tanhāyī mein jānā ki merī mujh hī se jamtī nahīn

apne ko āp hī mein ek zazīrā banā diyā magar
ab in lehron kī naTkHaT dillagī se jamtī nahīn

ādat thī kitābon kī gehraiyon mein Dūbne kī
ab unse banī Tile kī unchāyī se jamtī nahīn

acHā huā purāne Kāgaz Gum ho gaye Misra
Hindī pe dil ā gayā he angrezī se jamtī nahīn

So, should I ask my thoughts to come?
If possible, in verse, to come?

I’d sown my words in hopes they’ll crop
In monsoons of my tears to come.

It’s time to change to office clothes.
I’ve waited long for her to come.

I’ve come, so I will fill this page
Though only fakes of words do come.

Today, we’ve written whatever, Misra
Let’s ask the readers tomorrow to come.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, ब्लॉक

block

Khayālon se keh dūn nikal āyen?
ho sake to banke ghazal āyen?

boye the alfāz is ummīd mein ki
ashkon ke mausam mein fasal āyen

aur kitnā intezār karein aise
office chalein, kapde badal āyen?

āyen hein to saFha bhar dete hein
chāhe laFzon ke hamshakal āyen

āj ham ne kucH bhī likhā hei, Misra
padhne wālon se keh dūn kal āyen?

To sulk at me, this Life’s not ready.
To break apart, this heart’s not ready.

Though Luck runs out with Poetry,
For so much work, this Luck’s not ready.

I sold my books for groceries.
And yet to leave, this Art’s not ready.

I brought my riches with my noose.
To loot me, still, this world’s not ready.

I’m ready, Misra, with my wish.
To drop and fall, this star’s not ready.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, तय्यार नहीं

tayyār nahīn

zindagī mujhse rūTHne ko tayyār nahīn
aur ye dil hei ki TūTne ko tayyār nahīn

sunā thā shāyarī mein Kismet phūTti hei
merī Kismet hei ki phūTne ko tayyār nahīn

rāshan ke bahāne kitābein bech āyā
par adab hei ki cHūTne ko tayyār nahīn

zar-o-zevar liye sar-e-dār ho gayā
par koī mujhe lūTne ko tayyār nahīn

tayyār kHaDa hūn māngte kHahishein, Misra
sitārā hei ki TūTne ko tayyār nahīn

Why shatter at his final breath?
A candle lit is meant to melt.

Go ask the stars his new address.
You’ll find them when no city’s left.

Don’t flood your day in misery.
Its course will change once you correct.

Forget your dream. He won’t come back.
You rubbed your eyes, that Misra slept.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, आगे बढ़ो

āge baDHo

kyon bikhar gayā unkī sāns nikalte hi
bujh jānā to tey hei charāG ke jalte hi

sitāron se pucH le unkā nayā patā
wo milte hein seher se dūr chalte hi

yūn māyūsī mein din tabāh na kar
tere din badlenge tere badalte hi

bhūl us Khāb ko fir dikhegā nahīn
miT gayā wo Misra tere ānkh malte hi

Even among the lucky, unlucky is he
Who’s just chewed a paan, when someone brings tea.

The people, who live in black marble homes,
Complain of their guests’ black-eyed jealousy.

No one’s surprised that Chandu’s aunt ran away.
Only on full-moon nights Chandu’s Uncle comes to see.

Compared to one with only pictures of God,
The idolist thinks he’s the greater devotee.

There will be more days when writing is tough.
A poet is one who can still write poetry.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, क़िस्मत

kismet

kismetwālon mein bhī badkismet use kahā jātā hei
jisne pān dālā hotā hei koī chāy le ātā hei

kāle sangmarmar wālon kī pareshānīyān aur hein
ghar āyā rishtedār unpe kālī nazar lagātā hei

kisīko heirat nahīn ki chandū ki chāchī bhāg gayīn
chandū kā chāchā to bas chāndnī rāt mein pās ātā hei

bhagwān kī mūrat biTHāne wāle ko ye waham hei
wo badā bhakt hei usse jo bas ik taswīr lagātā hei

aur bhī din āyenge aise jab likhnā mushkīl hogā
shāyar wahī hotā hei jo tab bhī misrā likh pātā hei