Month: September 2023

Their own destiny – no one has seen.
The surrounding sea – no fish has seen.

They find the jewels of melodiousness
Around a neck no jewel has seen.

She’s lying if she claims she has,
To find me, never turned and seen.

My family’s so happy with my success.
My bowed down head, no one has seen.

My friends sure bought my published book.
A page inside no one has seen.

Expecting praise from him, O Misra,
Who never a poet of worth has seen?

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Translated from my Hindi poem, नहीं देखा

nahīn dekhā

kisīne apnā muKaddar nahīn dekhā
macHHlī ne kabhī samandar nahīn dekhā

zewar-e-tarannum us gale mein milā
jis gale ne kabhī zewar nahīn dekhā

jhūTH kehtī hei gar kehtī hei usne
ek bār bhī mujhe palaT kar nahīn dekhā

merī taraKKī mein yūn khush the gharwāle
kisīne merā jhukā sar nahīn dekhā

doston ne merī kitāb kharīd li par
kHolke kisīne bhī andar nahīn dekhā

unse wāhwāhī kī ummīd kyon ‘Misra’
jinHone ik DHang kā shāyar nahīn dekhā

My son’s up to some rooftop disaster.
He’s drowned the moon in a palmful of water.

He says he keeps a promise, thus,
To daily gift the moon hereafter.

Perhaps, he likes some college girl.
“Attendance Full,” reports Headmaster.

He’s doing all the chores at home.
From me, it’s something big he’s after.

Don’t fall for all his sweet-sweet words.
The cuckoo claims it’s a nest recaster.

“A couplet new in your hand, my boy?”
“The same one, Dad. The one you last heard.”

“Let it be, mister. It’s clear in your eyes.
Someone has stolen your sleep and laughter.

“You open that book every day now, Misra.
Whose gifted rose do you look after?”

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Translated from my Hindi poem, तोहफ़े

tohFe

cHat pe bete ne kyā nātak lagāyā hei
chullū bhar pānī mein chandā dubāyā hei

kehtā hei roz chānd tohFe mein detā hei
kisīko diyā ek vādā nibhāyā hei

shāyad college mein koi pasand hei ise
Teacher ne bhi attendance full batāyā hei

kucH din se ghar ke saare kām kar rahā hei
kucH badā māngne ka plan banāyā hei

uskī mīTHī bāton mein na fas jānā tum
Koyal bhi kehtā hei ghosalā banāyā hei

ā gaye bete hātH mein nayā sher hei kya
purānein hein Pāpā pehle sunāyā hei

rehne do janāb ānkHon mein sāF dikHta hei
Koī he jisnein rāt kā chain churāyā hei

ye kitāb tum roz kholne lage ho ‘Misra’
bolo kiskā diyā gulāb cHupāya hei

A book may burn. Its idea doesn’t burn.
In fire, it shines – this gold doesn’t burn.

After kicking all from this society,
In name of God, this place doesn’t burn.

O men of power, see the Martyr’s Flame.
The men may burn, their will doesn’t burn.

The rich may burn in envy of the rich.
In envy of crowns, the begging bowl doesn’t burn.

The flame of poetry is strong, O Misra.
It’s just that your kitchen stove doesn’t burn.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, नहीं जलता

nahīn jaltā

kitāb jal jāye FalsaFā nahīn jaltā
nikhartā hei āg mein sonā nahīn jaltā

mohalle se sabko nikāl kar kehte hein
ab mazhab ke nām mohallā nahīn jaltā

siyāsat wālon kabhī amar jyot dekho
insān jalte hein irādā nahīn jaltā

jalte honge amīron se dūsre amīr
hīron ke tāj se ye kāsā nahīn jaltā

badī āg lagātī hei shāyarī ‘Misra’
bas kambaKhat ghar kā chulhā nahīn jaltā

As wedding gift, what should I bring?
I’m drugged, what prayers should I bring?

Your husband keeps the windows closed.
What bottled breezes should I bring?

Your concrete yard will have no scent.
What petrichored earth should I bring?

You’d hardly get to steal a drink.
What highs in perfume should I bring?

I know you hate to make your meals
What picnic boxes should I bring?

Just call me, Misra, if you’re sad.
I’ll sneak you out. What should I bring?

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Translated from my Hindi poem, क्या ले आऊं

kyā le āun

teri shādī mein bol kyā le āun
duā nahīn hei davā le āun

band rahtā hei khiDkī shohar terā
botal mein bharke Fizā le āun

pakkā āngan mahakne se rahā
pahlī bārish kā mazā le āun

cHup kar ab tū pī nahīn sakegī
itr mein ghol ke nashā le āun

pakānā to tujhe pasand nahīn
main do dabbe har subā’ le āun

āwāz de ‘Misra’ gar kHush nahīn hei
wahān se tujhe bhagā le āun

In your own art, a thriving star you couldn’t be.
From salary slips, free you couldn’t be.

You only bragged of traveling the world.
Even Berhampur’s Sindbad you couldn’t be.

So what if you had a gun to your head?
A pseudo-Shehrezaad, you couldn’t be?

So what if you remember all your words?
For your words, remembered you couldn’t be.

And why so stingy with giving applause,
When worthy of applause you couldn’t be?

That name, O Misra, couldn’t make you much.
A poet, yes, but poor you couldn’t be.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, न हो सके

na ho sake

apne kalām mein tum ābād na ho sake
tankhādār reh gaye azād na ho sake

bas bolte rahe ki duniya ghumoge
tum Berhampur ke bhī Sindbad na ho sake

Bandūk bhi ho sar pe tum kyā hi kahoge
Jān bachāne bhī Shehrezād na ho sake

yād honge tumhein apne ash’ār sāre par
aFsos hei kisī aur ko yād na ho sake

kyon karte ho kanjūsiyān dādbakshī mein
Khud to kabhī Kābil-e-dād na ho sake

ab kyā hi milā Khudko bulākar ‘Misra’
shāyar bhī bane aur barbād na ho sake

I would have been a poet, but
This Love stood in the way.
I would have died in name of Love,
but Life stood in the way.

The story of my Life was frayed.
It would have stayed the same.
But thirst to win a moment’s worth,
again stood in the way.

All ports I searched to find no drop
of victory anywhere.
I’d search some more except my own
indigence stood in the way.

I’d saved some money turning nights
to days and days to nights.
I’d settled in the job, until
my blues stood in the way.

All mornings and all evenings
I thought of suicide.
I’d gone to buy some Death, but then
a girl stood in the way.

She taught me how to live again.
She tried to live with me.
I wasn’t ready for her yet,
Conceit stood in the way.

Collecting grains of broken heart
She went her way again.
I tried to call her back, except
Silence stood in the way.

In silence and in loneliness,
No clue what I’d have done.
But thankfully my poetry,
Misra, stood in the way.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, बीच में आ गयी

bīch mein ā gayī

ban-nā mujhe shāyar tha āshikī bīch mein ā gayī
Fanā ishK mein honā thā zindagī bīch mein ā gayī

shikastgi si merī ye zindagānī thī magar
pal bhar jīt ke jīne kī tishnagī bīch mein ā gayī

ghāt ghāt dhūndhā magar ik būnd Fateh kī na milī
Talāsh jārī rakhtā par muFlisī bīch mein ā gayī

rāt kā din aur din ki rāt karke paise jod liye kucH
jam chukā tha naukrī mein māyusī bīch mein ā gayī

har subah har shām bas Khudkushī ke khayāl aaye
maut lene chalā hi thā ajnabī bīch mein ā gayī

jīna fir sikhāyā usne jīnā sāth mein chāhti thī
Main nahīn tayyār tha aur KhudGarzī bīch mein ā gayī

dil ke reze baTor kar wo chal di apne hi rāste
sochā nām pukārūn par Khamoshī bīch mein ā gayī

Khamosh bhī main tanhā bhi na jāne kyā kyā kar jātā
shukar manāo ‘Misra’ shairī bīch mein ā gayī

We could have met, if you had stayed.
Some bonds we could have now remade.

Some shattered dreams lie at my door.
But at your feet, my heart would’ve laid.

So many nights you stared at it.
That birthmark you could have surveyed.

This garden owes its life to you.
You too could, here, have blossomed red.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, इतने दिनों बाद…

itne dinon bād…

āye the to ruk ke mil lete
kuch rishtein dobārā sil lete

sapne choukhaT pe toD gaye par
wapas tohFa-e-dil lete

jo dekh kayīn shab guzre the
Fir wo nazārā-e-til lete

ye bāG tumne hī sajāyā thā
rukte to tum bhī khil lete

About a thousand bets I’ve lost.
Often against myself I’ve lost.

I’d wagered just a brick at first,
And now a wall entire I’ve lost.

A month or more had passed before
I realised her love I’ve lost.

What’s there to say about my pride?
I’ve saved my face; income, I’ve lost.

Pursuing fame, I never looked
Behind to see the springs I’ve lost.

So busy I’ve been within my Self,
O Misra, my Supreme I’ve lost.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, हार चुका हूँ

hār chukā hūn

shartein karīb hazār hār chukā hūn
main Khud se itnī bār hār chukā hūn

shurū mein īnT rakkhī thī dāv pe
ab to pūrī dīvār hār chukā hūn

mahinā guzar gayā thā jab tak
jānā ki uskā pyār hār chukā hūn

apne gurūr kī kyā hī bāt karūn
nāk bachāke rozgār hār chukā hūn

nām ke chakkar mein mud ke na dekhā
pīcHe kitne bahār hār chukā hūn

khud mein itnā masrūf rahā ‘Misra’
apnā parvardigār hār chukā hūn

With all my innocence forgotten,
I’m blinded, Sacred Light forgotten.

I daily dress in pricey silks,
A million martyred worms forgotten.

Why does Nightingale grace my home
At dusk, her sky-high home forgotten?

To free her from this world was hard,
The sparkling of her eyes forgotten.

I oft forget to talk to her
Who talked to me, my pranks forgotten.

I stay away from all her mail,
Her dazed, hypnotic scrawl forgotten.

I’m grateful, Misra, for them now,
Whose kindness, so far, I’d forgotten.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, भुला कर

bhulā kar

ho chukā hūn apnī nadānī bhulā kar
andhā Khudāī daraKhshānī bhulā kar

resham ke kapDon mein sajtā hūn har din
karoDon kīDon kī Kurbāni bhulā kar

āti hei kyon mere makān pe wo bulbul
har shām apnī makān āsmānī bhulā kar

mushkil tha jahān se rihā karnā usko
uskī wo niGāhein nūrānī bhulā kar

bhūl jātā hūn aksar bāt karne us se jo
bāt kartī rahī har shaitānī bhulā kar

dūr rehtā rahā uske har khat se main bhī
wo likhāwaT uskī mastānī bhulā kar

hūn shukar guzār unkā is pal mein ‘Misra’
jiyā hūn jinkī meherbānī bhulā kar

Muslim to choose? Hindu to choose?
Both, Arms of God. Which one to choose?

Again my fortune’s coin is flipped.
Again no clue which side to choose.

Beloved’s scent or Mother’s bread.
I don’t know which fragrance to choose.

What beauty trickles off her that
I’ve cups or cupping hands to choose?

But who will choose me face-to-face?
Why meet her face-to-face to choose?

My venom-thirst, unquenched by verse,
Has snake or scorpion to choose.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, चुनूँ

chunūn

musalmān chunūn ya hindū chunūn
KHudā ka hī hei jo bāzū chunūn

phir ucHlā hei āj kismat kā sikkā
phir na patā kaunsā pehlū chunūn

sanam kā itr yā mān ke parānthe
chunūn bhi to kaunsi khushbū chunūn

kaunsā husn tapak rahā hei uskā
ki paimānā cHoD ke chullū chunūn

mujhe kaun hi ru-ba-ru chunegī
main kya kisī ko ru-ba-ru chunūn

zahar kī talab na bujhī sher se
sānp chunūn ya bicHū chunūn