Category: Poems

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.

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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.

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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.

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