4 जून 2013

Die Slowly

He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience,
dies slowly.

He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones i's rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,
dies slowly.

He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,
who is unhappy at work,
who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,
to thus follow a dream,
those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,
die slowly.

He who does not travel, who does not read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself,
she who does not find grace in herself,
dies slowly.

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,
dies slowly.

He or she who abandons a project before starting it, who fails to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who doesn't reply when they are asked something they do know,
dies slowly.
Let's try and avoid death in small doses,
reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.
Only a burning patience will lead
to the attainment of a splendid happiness.

---Pablo Neruda

Prayers fall on deaf ears

(The Armed Forces (Special Powers Act) has been in operation in Assam since 1990 and in many other north-eastern States for even more longer a duration)

The sweat drips from his brow
and makes the earth greener.
His wife is nearby planting hopes.
And the valley admires in silence

But then a green monster comes
And sucks away all the air,

A terrified silence echoes.
From the womb of the monster
descend some uniformed aliens
who ask silent questions.

And take the man away shackled
as a prize for their
horrific curiosity.
The wife mutters a thousand prayers
that act as music to deaf ears.
The Prayers, the wails

All get dissolved in the black trail the monster leaves.
Son killed in encounter
The old lady is waiting in the light of that
Old flickering kerosene lamp,
for her son to bring the day’s rations.
And she hears a knock
On her tattered door.
And finds a relative telling her,
between melodic intermittent wails;
That her son was killed in an encounter.

Her Son! Who left home that morning
with a smile on his lips
And an empty jute bag on his cycle
for the day’s job, was a terrorist!

And immediately the lady
feels winter descending in summer
a winter that will forever grasp her
Heart and her hearth
squeezing out the last rays of hope.
Monsters feed on her flesh

She works the whole day
In that tailoring shop.
Stitching old pockets and broken dreams.
On her way back in dusk;
some of the many defenders of the nation
Pass her lecherous stares
and unspeakable comments.

When she rebukes them for their criminal audacity
She is gagged and carried to a place
where the light of law is dim.
There, the monsters feed on her flesh
one by one, taking disciplined turns

When they are done devouring;
they kill her to save themselves
the trouble of an explanation

A voice is silenced in the woods
A body is barked.

Ants will become lions
When they are chasing a cricket ball
the kids are delirious
Their laughter doesn’t gel well with some
Some of those young, sporting souls are
Are taken away to play a sport
which has just one victor, always!
All that is left to know for their parents after that
Is that dreaded word: “Missing”

One day when the third eye
Of humanity twitches open
The defenders will know
That when the ants realise that-
They too possess the strengths of lions
The forest won’t remain the same anymore!

---Bistirna Barua

2 जून 2013

हमको मन की शक्ति देना

हमको मन की शक्ति देना, मन विजय करें ।
दूसरों की जय से पहले, खुद की जय करें ।
हमको मन की शक्ति देना ॥

भेदभाव अपने दिल से, साफ कर सकें ।
दूसरों से भूल हो तो, माफ कर सकें ।
झूठ से बचे रहें, सचका दम भरें ।
दूसरों की जयसे पहले,

मुश्किलें पडें तो हम पे, इतना कर्म कर ।
साथ दें तो धर्म का, चलें तो धर्म पर ।
खुद पे हौसला रहे, सच का दम भरें ।
दूसरों की जय से पहले, खुद की जय करें ।

---गुलज़ार

21 मई 2013

रात यों कहने लगा मुझसे गगन का चाँद

रात यों कहने लगा मुझसे गगन का चाँद,
आदमी भी क्या अनोखा जीव होता है!
उलझनें अपनी बनाकर आप ही फँसता,
और फिर बेचैन हो जगता, न सोता है।

जानता है तू कि मैं कितना पुराना हूँ?
मैं चुका हूँ देख मनु को जनमते-मरते;
और लाखों बार तुझ-से पागलों को भी
चाँदनी में बैठ स्वप्नों पर सही करते।

आदमी का स्वप्न? है वह बुलबुला जल का;
आज उठता और कल फिर फूट जाता है;
किन्तु, फिर भी धन्य; ठहरा आदमी ही तो?
बुलबुलों से खेलता, कविता बनाता है।

मैं न बोला, किन्तु, मेरी रागिनी बोली,
देख फिर से, चाँद! मुझको जानता है तू?
स्वप्न मेरे बुलबुले हैं? है यही पानी?
आग को भी क्या नहीं पहचानता है तू?

मैं न वह जो स्वप्न पर केवल सही करते,
आग में उसको गला लोहा बनाती हूँ,
और उस पर नींव रखती हूँ नये घर की,
इस तरह दीवार फौलादी उठाती हूँ।

मनु नहीं, मनु-पुत्र है यह सामने, जिसकी
कल्पना की जीभ में भी धार होती है,
वाण ही होते विचारों के नहीं केवल,
स्वप्न के भी हाथ में तलवार होती है।

स्वर्ग के सम्राट को जाकर खबर कर दे,
"रोज ही आकाश चढ़ते जा रहे हैं वे,
रोकिये, जैसे बने इन स्वप्नवालों को,
स्वर्ग की ही ओर बढ़ते आ रहे हैं वे।"

--- रामधारी सिंह "दिनकर"

1 मई 2013

ये चाह कब है मुझे सब का सब जहान मिले

ये चाह कब है मुझे सब का सब जहान मिले
मुझे तो बस मेरी ज़मीं मेरा आसमान मिले

कमी नहीं है सजावट की इन मकानों में
सुकून भी तो कभी इनके दरमियान मिले

अजीब वक़्त है सबके लबों पे ताले हैं
नज़र नज़र में मगर अनगिनत बयान मिले

जवां हैं ख़्वाब क़फ़स में भी जिन परिंदों के
मेरी दुआ है उन्हें फिर नई उड़ान मिले

हमारा शहर या ख़्वाबों का कोई मक़्तल है
क़दम क़दम पे लहू के यहाँ निशान मिले

हो जिसमें प्यार की ख़ुशबू मिठास चाहत की
हमारे दौर को ऐसी भी इक ज़ुबान मिले.

--- देवमणि पांडेय

23 अप्रैल 2013

किसी भी शहर में जाओ

किसी भी शहर में जाओ कहीं क़याम करो
कोई फ़ज़ा कोई मंज़र किसी के नाम करो.

दुआ सलाम ज़रूरी है शहर वालों से
मगर अकेले में अपना भी एहतराम करो.

हमेशा अमन नहीं होता फ़ाख़्ताओं में
कभी कभार ओक़ाबों से भी कलाम करो.

हर एक बस्ती बदलती है रंग रूप कई
जहाँ भी सुब्ह गुज़ारो उधर ही शाम करो.

ख़ुदा के हुक्म से शैतान भी है आदम भी
वो अपना काम करेगा तुम अपना काम करो.

--- निदा फ़ाज़ली

23 मार्च 2013

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied:
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

--- Oliver Goldsmith