Category: Poems

If Aunty next door had not been a poet,
Uncle would have been taken away a long time ago.

About the bandaged wrist, if she hadn’t said
That while she counted the stars last night,
Her hand had struck an aeroplane,
Uncle would have been taken away a long time ago.

I used to watch her everyday:
She had a penchant for gardening.
When the tap didn’t work
She’d plumb the well of her eyes
To water the plants.
She’d say
The season of clouds is quite mercurial.
And so daily in the shower,
She did some water harvesting herself.
If at nights, she didn’t wipe streams of kohl,
Uncle would have been taken away a long time ago.
If Aunty next door had not been a poet,
Uncle would have been taken away a long time ago.

One day, when suddenly her lips started bleeding,
She, at once, pointed to her empty lipstick and said,
“I’d painted my lips with sunset hues.
That colour of the sky has not yet dried,
And so it keeps on flowing away.”

That day, if her lips didn’t have that shivering smile,
Uncle would have been taken away a long time ago.
If Aunty next door had not been a poet,
Uncle would have been taken away a long time ago.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, पड़ोस की आंटी

paDos kī Aunty

paDos ki Aunty gar shāyar na hotīn
to Uncle ko bahut pehle hī vardīvāle le jāte.
kalāī ke bandage ko dikhāge gar ye na kehtīn
ki rāt ko tāre ginte ginte
hāth aeroplane se Takrā gayā
to Uncle ko bahut pehle hī vardīvāle le jāte.

roz dekhtā thā main,
bāGbānī kā shauk thā unko.
nal na chaltā thā
to ānkhon ke kuyen se
poudhon ko sīnch letī thī.
kehti thīn
bādalon kā mousam badā manchalā hei
isīliye roz shower tale
thoDā Water Harvesting khud hī kar letī thī.
rāt ko gar gālon se kājal kī dhār na dhotīn
to Uncle ko bahut pehle hī vardīvāle le jāte.
paDos ki Aunty gar shāyar na hotīn
to Uncle ko bahut pehle hī vardīvāle le jāte.

ek roz shahasā hoTon se jab khūn niklā
FaTaFaT khālī lipstick ko dikhā ke bolīn,
wo sunset kī lālī se hoTon ko rangā hei āj.
āsmān kā rang abhī sūkhā nahīn hei na,
isīliye bahe jā rahā hei.
us roz unke hoTon pe Darī Darī sī wo muskān na hotī
to Uncle ko bahut pehle hī vardīvāle le jāte.
paDos ki Aunty gar shāyar na hotīn
to Uncle ko bahut pehle hī vardīvāle le jāte.

The whole night, I’ve been heaving boxes.
Now that it was time to go, I couldn’t decide
What to take and what to leave behind.
My heart was burdened by four years of weight.
Even the clothes looked like coffins now.
So, I just plunked the old clothes into a box –
Lots of poor beggars sat outside the temple.
When all were sleeping tonight, I dropped the box there.

Some ages ago, I’d bought a suit –
Specially tailored to my every curve and corner.
When it was new, it used to wrap around my body
The way an imaginary girlfriend on the internet,
On seeing a real lizard on a real wall, clings to me.
And today, I couldn’t even close its buttons –
I’d gathered too much love from the party buffets.
I’d dropped an email to the juniors –
There’s no dearth of rich beggars here either.

The mattress too I’ve flattened out –
Who knows how many tons of lonely nights it supports.
Some stains wouldn’t even wash away now.
After all, many nights I’ve drunk my tea on it.
That same tea-seller was saying – hundred for the mattress.
Along with it, I’d also packed a box of covers and pillows.
But the moment I stepped out of the gate,
I saw in a corner, the old lady who sold us roasted corn.
Sidestepping her snores, I left it all beside her.

And then there were those bundles of paper –
Now, under which pillow would I’ve hid them?
I never took notes of what the professors taught,
But in every class, I did note down a new daydream.
Now, who could I leave this heritage of unheard lectures?
I couldn’t even carry them around with me, could I?
I’d dreamed of being a “peripatetic poet”,
But now, I’d picked another college for two more years.
No need to plant the seeds of these poems there as well.
Or else, another box will fill up there as well.
Bro, I couldn’t keep burying dreams every two years.
So, I gave it all to the same tea-seller –
Someone may enjoy the verse while munching fritters.

And now, this final box –
Only these are my real friends.
I’d long licked my fingers off the novels,
But these Civil Engineering books remain.
The books I’d not opened in these four years,
I’d smelt them one-by-one yesterday.
I hadn’t even opened the wrapping on some.
But yesterday, I turned a few pages in the balcony sun.
Who knows when else they will get to breathe.
I’ll have to buy a new cupboard to imprison these.
I couldn’t just leave them in this box, right?

It seems, the autorickshaw has arrived.
The friends here have already left.
No ta-ta, bye-bye business needed now.
Okay, let me pick up my luggage bags.
And this final box as well.
Dude, how come this box is so heavy now?
Why does it feel there’s still a burden on this heart?
By keeping them tied to my own bosom,
Am I going to bury their dreams as well?
Even they might have dreamed of being read by many.
Then, why am I making Anarkalis of them in glass?
It seems, even these will go their own way –
I’ll have to show the driver the way to the library.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, डब्बे

Dabbe

pūrī rāt Dabbe DHo rahā hūn.
jāne kā vaqt āyā to samajh nahīn ā rahā thā
kyā lūn aur kyā CHoD jāun.
chār sālon kā boJH mahsūs ho rahā thā dil par.
kapDe tak KaFan lag rahe the.
sāre purāne kapDe ek Dabbe mein bhar diye fir.
kāFī garīb BHikārī mandir ke bāhar baiTHte hein.
rāt ko jab sāre so rahe the, Dabbā CHoD āyā vahān.

ek suit liyā thā kisī zamāne –
darzī se KHas silwāyā thā har kone kā nāp dekar.
nayā nayā sā thā to badan pe yūn lipaTtā thā
jaise internet pe milī koī kālpanik girlfriend
asliyat mein dīvār ke CHipkalī se Dar ke chipak rahī ho.
āj to button bhī uske lag nahīn rahe the –
Partyon ke buffet mein kuCH zyādā hī pyār sameT liyā.
Junior logon ko mail Dālā thā –
amīr bhikāriyon kī bhī koī kami nahīn hein yahān.

gaddā bhī pichak chukā hei.
najāne kitnī akelī rāton kā boJH sambhālā thā usne.
kuCH dāG to ab CHūTne bhī nahīn wāle the.
āKHir bahut rātein chai pīkar bitāī hein us par.
wahī chaiwālā keh rahā thā – sou rupay degā uskā.
takiā aur bedsheet kā ek dabbā bānDH bhī liyā thā.
par gate se jaise hī bāhar niklā,
BHuTTe bechne wālī buDDHī ammā sote diKH gayī.
kone mein usi ke baGal mein CHoD āyā.

fir bache the biKHre Kāgazon ke wo bundle.
ab kaunse takiye ke nīche rakhtā unhein?
professor logon kī bāt to kabhī note nahīn kī,
har class mein ek nayā sapnā zarūr darj kar liyā.
wo unsune lecturon kī virāsat kisko saunptā?
sāth bhī to nahīn le jā saktā thā –
kahān ghūmte firte kavī banne kā KHwāb pālā thā
aur kahān fir ek college mein pisne jā rahā hūn.
un nazmon ke bīj ab naye college mein nahīn bone.
warnā ek Dabbā wahān bhī bhar jayegā.
har do sāl sapne nahīn daFnāne the, bhāi.
chaiwāle ko hī de āyā jākar –
bhajiye khāte khāte kisi kā man bahal jāyegā.

bas ye ek Dabbā bach gayā hai –
bas yahi aslī sāthī hein mere.
novel wagerā to sāre chāT liye hein,
par yeh Civil Engineering ki pothiyān paDi hein.
chār sālon mein jo Kitābein kholīn nahīn thīn,
kal un sab ko ek bār to sūngh liyā hei.
kuCH par se to pannī bhī nahīn haTāi thī.
kal magar balcony ke DHup mein chand safhe paDH liye –
najāne Fir kab inko sāns lene kā maukā milegā.
ek cupboard nayā lenā padegā inko Kaid karne –
kahān Dabbe mein saDte rahenge?

autowala ā gayā lagtā hei.
ās pās sab dost to pahle hī nikal gaye hein –
Tā-Tā bye-bye kā JHanJHaT nahīn hogā.
chalo, ab boriyā bistarā sameT letā hūn.
ek ākhrī Dabbā yeh bhī uTHā letā hūn.
yār, abhī yeh Dabbā itnā bhārī kyon lag rahā hei?
kyon lag rahā hei ki dil pe abhī bhī ek boJH hei?
khudke ānchal mein bāndh ke in kitābon ko,
kahīn main unke sapne bhī to nahīn gāDH rahā?
inkā bhī to man kartā hogā ki kai log paDHe inko –
inhein kānch ke pīCHe anārkalī kyon banā rahā hūn?
lagtā hei sāth inse bhī CHūTne wala hei –
autowale ko library ka rāstā batānā padegā.

You always were a knowledge well.
But now, there’s arrogance as well.
Forgotten all our youthful years?
Except that only day of tears?
In arguments, we so differed,
A hooded serpent’s hiss was heard
In every poisoned, angry phrase –
A million bruises on each face.
Your eyes and mine were flowing streams –
Too far to touch, on two extremes.
Two roads diverged within a wink
And turned mascara into ink.

Admitted, we were children still.
Too raw of heart, too full of will.
But now, at least, we’ve ripened, no?
Seen thousand turmoils come and go.
No longer of this rancour, please.
Let’s call a truce and make some peace.
These moody airs are not enough?
You want to pile more of this stuff?
If still you cannot move ahead,
I bow to offer you my head.
Be quick, be just with your decree.
Condemn me now, or set me free.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, पुनः मिलन

puna: milan

main jānā thā tum gyānī ho.
ab lagtā he abhimānī ho.
bhulāke sāre yovan varsh
smaraN he keval ek diwas?
jab tark tark mein Fark uthā,
Teke FaNā ek sarp uthā,
Visheile shabd aur krodh kaTHor
the koTī koTī kshat donon or.
the CHal CHal donon ke nayan
par CHūne kā na kiyā chayan.
kaTke us din do rāh chale
karke kājal ko syāh chale.

mānā us din hum bacche the,
nadān, hridaya ke kacche the.
par ab to pak ke gal chuke.
deKH hazār halchal chuke.
kab tak jalein abhimān mein?
ā milein sulah sandhān mein.
kyā kam hein ab tak naKHre sab
ki jodoge usmein tum ab?
gar dvesh abhī bhī he prakhar
lo jhuktā hūn nat ke main sar.
bas jaldi se insāf karo –
ya dedo danD, ya māf karo.

What bond brings you here?
That day, to hear my heartbeats,
You needed to play your stethoscope.
From that day itself, in your doctoring
I’d lost all faith.
A serpent around your neck, it seems to me.
Whenever it touches my chest,
It leaves something poisonous in your ears.
It turns the lub-dub of my heart
Into the percussion of a war-drum.
The closer I call you towards me,
The farther you seem to go away.

Why touch my forehead? Go!
I won’t open my mouth in “aa”.
By trapping mercury in this glass,
You’ll measure the heat in my body,
But what will you do about that glass
In which I daily see your face and burn?

I’m being dramatic?
No, no, miss. I’m just a poet.
Looking at one who hasn’t eaten in four days,
I don’t just prescribe Cyproheptadine.
I sit down with them.
I ask them what sorrow plagues them.
It should have been clear by now.
There is no sickness
That sits enslaving this body.
If something, it is simply that the man inside
Has not yet been coffined in a white coat.
Don’t talk of Potential. The price was too high.

Rubbing into me?
“For old time’s sake?”
What memory brings you here?
I hope it’s not those moments
That have ripened on our memory tree.
It would have been best to pluck them young.
The taste would have been sour, of course,
But we wouldn’t have hesitated to spice it up.
Today, we can neither pluck them overripe,
Nor can we see them turn to mush.
There’s a fear now of peeling them.
Who knows what cough will strangle us.
The bitterness of your medicines has settled down –
Now even a sweet truth doesn’t go down the gullet.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, also titled For old time’s sake

For old time’s sake

kis rishte se āye ho?
jis roz se meri dhaDkanen sun-ne tumhen
Stethoscope chalnā padā,
us roz se tumhārī dāktarī pe se
bharosā uTH gayā thā mujhe.
gale kā sānp lagtā hei wo chīz.
jab bhī CHātī CHūnta hei,
kuCH zehrīlā CHoD jātā hei tumhārī kānon mein.
mere dil kī Dug-Dug ko
na jāne kaunsā dankā banā detā hei
ki main jitnā pās bulātā hūn
tum utnī hī dūr chale jāte ho.

kyun CHū rahe ho māthe ko? jāo!
nahīn karnā “ā”!
is shīshe mein pāre ko Kaid kar
nāp to loge mere badan kī garmī,
par us shīshe kā kyā karoge
jismein tumhārā chehrā roz deKH jaltā hūn?

Dramatic ban rahā hūn?
nahīn nahīn jī – shāyar hūn bas.
chār din ke BHūKHe ko deKH
Cyproheptadine nahīn liKH detā.
baiTHtā hūn uske sāth.
kyā Gam satā rahī hei pūCHtā hūn.
ab tak to patā lag jānā chāhiye thā.
koī bimārī nahīn hei
jo badan ko Kābu kiye baiTHī hei.
kuCH hei to ye hei ki andar ke insān pe abhī
saFed coat kā Kafn nahīn chaDHāyā.
Potential kī bāt mat karo. Price high thā.

jatā rahe ho jī?
“For old time’s sake”?
kyā yād kiye āye ho?
kahīn un lamhon ko to nahīn
jo yādon ke ped par pak chukein hein abhi.
bachpane mein hi toD lāte to sahī rehtā.
thoDā kacchā swād zarūr ātā zabān pe
par namak mirch lagāte hāth nahīn JHiJHakte.
āj na wo pake Fal toDe jāte hein,
na unhein aise hī saDtā dekhā jātā hei.
Dar lagtā hei unhein CHīlne mein.
na jāne kaunsī KHansī jakaD legī.
tumhāre dawāon kī kaDwāhaT baiTH gayī hei –
ab mīTHī sacchāī bhī to nahīn utartī gale se.

I try to glance beyond the train’s window,
But it’s my own face that I see on the glass.
The search blooming in these eyes confuses me,
When face-to-face with the search blooming in those:
Should I just stop searching for meanings in feelings?

I’m anyway struggling with the burden of sleep.
To see myself eye-to-eye also requires
That I bear the burden of my own eyelids.
A flood of some tears has started flowing.
The light of dreams that it douses needs to be lit again.
The poem that didn’t giggle in the laughs of joy,
Perhaps, will come out in the silent breaths of sorrow.
While at it, perhaps, this fever to write will also cool.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, ट्रैन की खिड़की

Train ki KHiDki

Train kī KHiDkī se bāhar JHānktā hūn
to shīshe pe KHud hī kā chehrā diKH jāta hei.
ānKHon mein jo talāsh panap rahi hei
wahi talāsh ko rūbarū pā kār samaJH nahi ā rahā
ki ab ehsāson ke māyene DHūnDHnā CHoD dūn kyā?

nīnd kā bojh mushkil se sambhāl rahā hūn.
KHudse nazar milāne ke liye bhī to
palkon kā bhār uTHānā padtā hei.
kuCH askon kā sailāb behne lagā hei.
us se bujhī sapnon kī roshnī ko phir se jalānā padegā.
jo nazm khushī ke hasiyon mein nahi KHilKHilāye
shāyad Gam ke KHāmosh sānson mein nikal jāyengi wo.
Isi bahāne shāyad thodā likhne kā buKHār utar jāyegā.

The pausing lips, the errant eyes,
This nervous love – so new, so new.
It’s formal, yet informal too,
This heartful love – so new, so new.

Streetlight ahead, starlight above,
But twinkles only in their eyes.
Attempts to touch, attempts to hide,
This anxious love – so new, so new.

The mango’s raw on salty lips,
Such dire desires on their tongues.
Forgetting crowds, forgetting shame,
This wilful love – so new, so new.

With this one’s ring on that one’s thumb,
Who knows what else is going on.
Unspoken, yes, but not unknown,
Audacious love – so new, so new.

The one who didn’t have time to write,
What happened to that Misra, hunh?
He came so far, and waited too,
This leisured love – so new, so new.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, नई नई

naī-naī

rukte hue lab, bhaTaktī niGahein
dil mein ulFat naī-naī hei.
taqalluF bhī hei, betaqalluFī bhī
āj mohabbat naī-naī hei.

battiyān hein āgey, sitārein hein ūpar
par hei chamak sirF ānkhon mein.
CHūne kī koshish, CHup jāne kā man,
bechain ye hasrat naī-naī hei

kacchī hei keirī, namkīn hei lab,
kyā khūb talab in ānkhon mein.
bhulāke log, bhulāke sharm,
dabang ye harqat naī-naī hei

iskī angūTHī uskā angūTHā,
kyā kyā hei darmiyān inke?
patā bhī hei, kehnā bhī hei,
izhār kī zurrat naī-naī hei.

jisko likhne kā waqt na thā
huā kyā usko misraji?
dūr bhi āyā, intezār bhī kiyā,
lagtā hei Fursat naī-naī hei

Minnu’s Toffee was not like Minnu.
Wherever Minnu was puffed like a balloon,
Therever Toffee was lean like its thread.
Where Minnu’s hauteur became hot air,
His Toffee’s thread secured him there.

He’d ask his Minnu, “Why go up?”
You have no place amongst the clouds.
Your peer pressure will burst you from inside.
Stay here. At least, you’ll bring some smiles.”

Though, Toffee also wished to fly.
But not as an orphaned string of a cut-down kite.
He wanted to fly on a brother’s smile
Evoked by a sister’s Rakhi thread.
He wanted to fly on prayers freed
From threads around a holy tree.
He used to say,
“You want to fly? Spread joy and fly.
Spray dust as spinning wheels and fly.
Is there a point to hot-hot air?
Effulge on lampwick’s smoke and fly.”

Some years have passed now from those days.
This tug of war is still ongoing.
Here Minnu seeks his home in clouds,
There, Toffee in a dargah rug.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, मिन्नु का टॉफ़ी

Minnu kā Toffee

Minnu kā Toffee Minnu sā nahīn thā.
jahān jahān Minnu balloon sā fūlā thā,
wahān wahān Toffee Dor sā patlā thā.
jahān Minnu kā gurūr use hawā mein uDātā thā,
wahān Toffee kā Dor use zamīn pe le ātā thā.

Minnu se pūCHtā thā, “upar jāke karoge kyā?”
bādalon mein tumhārī koī ahmiyat to hei nahīn.
andar mehsūs hote peer pressure se FaT jāoge.
yahīn ruko, kisī ke chehre pe smile to le āoge.”

waise uDne ka shauk Toffee ko bhī thā,
par kaTe patang ke anāth mānjhe sā nahīn.
behen kī rākhī se CHūTe
bhāī kī hansī par uDnā thā use.
kisī peD pe bandhī duāon par uDnā thā use.
kehtā thā –
“uDnā hī hei to KHushī failā ke uDo.
charKHe kī sūtī sā dhūl chalā ke uDo.
khud mein garam havā bharne ka kyā mol hei?
bātī ke dhuen pe roshnī jalā ke uDo.”

kuCH sāl ho gayein hein ab to.
khīnchā tāni kā khel abhī bhī chālu hei.
Minnu ab bhī ghar bādalon mein DHunDH rahā hei.
Aur Toffee kisī dargāh pe biCHī chaddar mein.

Stop waiting for your perfect time.
Take every moment, make it yours.
Stop waiting for your perfect night.
Take every dream and make it yours.
Set flames to hunger, flames to thirst
Take all that ash and make it yours.
Forget about your origins.
The Infinite – Go, make it yours.

Your blood itself has poetry,
So why’s your ink this brownish peat?
Your name itself is written verse,
So why’s your poem incomplete?
Your voice erupts from deep within
So why’s heart so far from lips?
You want to live your wildest dreams
So why’s your life in humdrum’s grips?

Speak up

Your dreams come packed with bravery,
Deliberately make it yours.
Set flames to hunger, flames to thirst
Take all that ash and make it yours.
Forget about your origins.
The Infinite – Go, make it yours.
Go, plunder treasuries of time.
Take every moment, make it yours.

You’re stuck in traffic way too long.
It’s time to turn your car away.
That rearview mirror in your hand –
It’s time to smash it down today.
Pull down that roof that clouds your day.
It’s time to let the sunshine in.
Your shirt may drench in thousand storms.
It’s time to squeeze it dry again.

Let’s go!

Forget these highway lanes and take
That mountain track and make it yours.
Forget the bread of wayside stoves,
Take just their ash and make it yours.
Forget about your origins.
The Infinite – Go, make it yours.
Go, plunder treasuries of time.
Take every moment, make it yours.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, अपना कर ले

apnā kar le

apne Time kī talāsh CHoD
har lamhe ko tū apnā kar le.
rāton kī nīnd CHoD
sacchāyī ye sapnā kar le.
jalāke sāre bhūkh pyās
rākh ko hī chakhnā kar le.
bhulāke ādi tu
anant ko hī apnā kar le.

khūn mein hi hei shāyarī to
syāh terī yūn bhūrī kyon hei?
nām mein hei misra to
ye nazm terī adhūrī kyon hei?
awāz dil se hei to
lab se dil kī dūrī kyon hei?
jīnā hei khābon mein
haqiqat se manzūrī kyon hei?

bol

hein housale murādon mein
irādon ko tū apnā kar le.
jalāke sāre bhūkh pyās
rākh ko hī chakhnā kar le.
bhulāke ādi tu
anant ko hī apnā kar le.
CHuDāke waqt se
har lamhein ko tū apnā kar le.

Traffic mein tu qaid hei
chal apnī gāDī moD le.
us Rearview ke shīshe ko
khud apne hāthon toD le.
CHat ko de girā
Khud ko dhup se tu joD le.
āge girtī bārishon ko
Shirt se nichoD le.

chal.

is highway se dūr
TūTe rāste ko tu apnā kar le.
DHābon ke nān CHoD
KHaKH ko hī chakhnā kar le.
bhulāke ādi tu
anant ko hī apnā kar le.
CHuDāke waqt se
har lamhein ko tū apnā kar le.

O Lord, I’m not Your man, and yet
I seek more moments of Your time.
The one You made to make me me,
I seek more moments of his time.

He’s used to single pairs of shoes.
Until one broke, no more were bought.
He made me polish them at night,
Besides the school pair I had got.
Oppression then, an honour now,
I seek more shoes of crusted grime.
The one You made to make me me,
I seek more moments of his time.

And after Daily News, he’d sing
With Nusrat on the radio.
If I complained, he’d simply laugh,
“Go! Get yourself some cotton. Go!”
Oppression then, an honour now,
I seek more tuneless ghazal rhymes.
The one You made to make me me,
I seek more moments of his time.

O Lord, I’m not Your man, and yet
I seek more moments of Your time.
The one You made to make me me,
I seek more moments of his time.

---

Translated from my Hindi Poem, ए मालिक

E Mālik

E Mālik terā bandā hūn nahīn main
par tere kuCH pal aur māngne āya hūn.
jise tune banāyā mujhe banāne ke liye
uske kuCH pal aur māngne āya hūn.

ādat thī unhein ek hī chappal kī.
TūTti nahīn to nayā nahīn lete the.
School ke jūton sang raat ko mujhe
chappal bhi polish karne kehte the.
tab zulm aur āj nasīb mānkar
ek do chappal aur māngne āya hūn.
jise tune banāyā mujhe banāne ke liye
uske kuCH pal aur māngne āya hūn.

news ke bād radio par roz
Nusrat sang sur lagāte the.
shikāyat kartā to has ke
wo rūī DHūnDHne bhagāte the.
tab zulm aur āj nasīb mānkar
besure wo Gazal aur māngne āyā hūn.
jise tune banāyā mujhe banāne ke liye
uske kuCH pal aur māngne āya hūn.

E Mālik terā bandā hūn nahīn main
par tere kuCH pal aur māngne āya hūn.
jise tune banāyā mujhe banāne ke liye
uske kuCH pal aur māngne āya hūn.

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.

---

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.