Month: October 2023

On my way, when I meet someone
A question comes –
“What do you do?”

When I tell them the truth,
They think I’m insane.
When I twist-turn and cut-paste
a semblance of a story,
Their shrunk-up lungs
Inflate again with breaths.

Now, I’ve stopped trying altogether.
I just tell them, “I’m a poet.”
Then they leisurely take pity on me.

They whisper into each other.
“He had a lot of potential.
Who knows in which weak moment he slipped.”

I pocket this comment as well –
A collector of moments that I am.

Sitting on a table in a café,
I call out to passing moments,
“Come. How are you today?”

Who knows what curiosity
Impels them to me.
Taking a little detour from their path,
They come and sit beside me.
And tell me their stories.
In my diary of personal tales,
They become a brand new page.

When one of them asks,
“How much do you make, mister?”
Without hesitation, I tell them
That every month some thirty days
Get credited in my salary account.
It’s the interest on those thirty days
That floats the boat of my life.

Every day, I give away some moments to others.
Afterall, charity also begins at home.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, क्या करते हो?

kyā karte ho?

rāh chalte kisī se milta hoon
toh sawāl ātā hei,
“kyā karte ho?”

sacchāī bayān kartā hūn to
pāgal samajhte hein mujhe.
kucH toD-maroD kar kāT-joD kar
kahānī banā letā hūn to
Unke pichke hue FeFDon mein
sāns wāpis ā jāti hei.

ab toh koshish karnā chhoD diyā hei.
bol detā hūn, “shāyar hūn.”
tasalli se phir woh taras khātein hein.

kehtein hein fusfusā kar āpas mein
“kāFi potential thā ismein.
na jāne kaunse kamzor mauke pe fisal gayā.”

yeh tippaNī bhī baTor letā hūn jeb mein.
lamhon kā jamākār jo hūn.

ik Café ke table pe baithā
āte jāte har lamhe ko pās bulā letā hun,
“āo. āj kaise ho?”

patā nahi kaunsi jigyānsā
unhe bhī khīnch lāti hei meri aur.
apne rāh se CHotā detour leke
pās baiTH jātein hein.
Keh jātein hein apnī kahāniyān…
Mere dāstānon kī diary mein
ek panna ban jātein hein.

koi pūCHtā hei jab
“kitnā banā lete ho, janāb?”
bejijHak keh detā hūn tabhī tabhī
ki har mahine kuch tees din
jamā ho jātein hein.
unhi tees dinon ke byāj pe
zindagī guzartī hei merī.

roz kuch lamhe dūsron mein bhī bānT detā hūn.
ākhir charity bhī to ghar se hī shuru hotī hei.

Okay I am, alright I am.
Somewhere aghast, tongue-tied I am.

Somewhere inside, elixir flows.
So flowing, undefiled I am.

The fall pilfered away my leaves.
A branch unbent in height I am.

To burn, to douse – It’s all just Life.
Both magna, anthracite I am.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, ठीक हो?

THīk ho?

THīk bhī hūn THāk bhī hūn
kahīn achal abāk bhī hūn

kahīn andar amrit jharti hei
uske jhar se pāk bhī hūn

patjHaD ne patte CHīne hein
aDā sakt main shāk bhī hūn

tapnā bujhnā zindagī hei
jwālā main hūn rākh bhī hūn

When I called her to meet somewhere,
She said she’s in a soup somewhere.

She said, it’s fine, because we could
Do nothing when we meet somewhere.

I walked around alone in hopes
I’ll get to meet someone somewhere.

I met you after many years
And heard a whoop inside somewhere.

I’m scared of spending time with Mom.
She’ll see you in my smile somewhere.

You keep complaining, yelling, Misra.
Else, you’ll stray from art somewhere.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, तुम जो आए

tum jo āye

jab bhī bulātā thā use milne kahīn
vo fasī hotī thī mushkil mein kahīn

fir boltī thī jāne do koī bāt nahin
vaise kyā hi kar lete hum milke kahīn

main akelā hi chaltā rahā is ās mein
milegī koī yūn hī bhaTakte kahīn

Takrāyā jab tumse itne sālon bād
kāFī tez pukār āyī andar se kahīn

Mā ke sāth waqt bitāne se darne lagā hūn
merī muskān mein tujhe na dekh le kahīn

tum chīKHte chillāte hi rahna O Misra
fir dūr na ho jāūn main suKHan se kahīn

We do not sleep without a truce,
Don’t drown our nights in tears profuse.
Our morning is another start.
In spats, each other we don’t lose.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, सुलह

sulah

binā sulah kiye hum sote nahin
Gam mein rāt rāt bhar rote nahin
har subah nayi shuruvāt hoti hei
JHagdon mein ek duje ko khote nahin

With scars of struck out poetry,
These scattered paper marigolds
Remember fondly moments when
They loved the touch of fountain pens.

In orphaned zephyrs, traversing
The spaces separating them,
They talk of those unfulfilled dreams
In which they freely fly as friends.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, गेंदाफूल

gendāfūl

kaTe misron ke ghāv liye
biKHre Kāgaz ke gendāfūl
yād karte hein un lamhon ko
jab Kalam ka CHūnā bhātā thā

lāvāris halke JHonkon mein
ek dūje kī dūrī ko BHed
bāt karte hein un sapnon kī
jahān KHulke uDnā ātā thā

I’m about to turn twenty-five.
Some hair has started silvering.
People say the water must be bad.
Or I’ve carried the load of studies for too long.

Who sees how every night
I mix in ink a bit of my throbbing age
And smear it into lines of verse?

One day, when this body of dried dung
Becomes ashen remains on the stove of time,
It’s only these few words that will remain
To give you all the taste of my little life.

Afterall, sweetmeats deserve some silver foil.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, विरासत

virāsat

pachchīs kā hone wāla hūn.
bāloN mein ab chāndī āne lagi hei.
log kehte hain pāni kharāb hogā
yā padhāī kā bojH kuch zyādā Dho liyā hogā.

kaun dekh rahā hei kaise roz rāt
tHoDī dhaDaktī umr syāhi mein ghol kar
misron mein pot rahā hūn?

ek roz jab sūkhe uploN sā jism
waqt ke chulhe pe rākh ban jayegā
yahī chand alfāz reh jayengi idhar.
Mere chhotī sī zindagī kā swād de jāyengī sabko.

ākhir chamcham pe thodī chāndī to bantī hei.