Khalish

Wanted to write about one poet here. But I have ended up sharing the words of quite a few.  But most of all..above any other..the words of Amrita Pritam. That most celebrated of  souls.

A friend shared this video and these lines  on a forum and after listening to it, I had to share it here too. This poem is such. The words are such. The rendition? By Gulzar. Mesmerising to say the least.

Take a deep breath and savour the rich baritone of Gulzar as he gives voice to her words. And then read the translation.

Mein tainu pher milan gi (I will meet you yet again)

I will meet you yet again

How and where? I know not.

Perhaps I will become a

figment of your imagination

and maybe, spreading myself

in a mysterious line

on your canvas,

I will keep gazing at you.

Perhaps I will become a ray

of sunshine, to be

embraced by your colours.

I will paint myself on your canvas

I know not how and where –

but I will meet you for sure.

Maybe I will turn into a spring,

and rub the foaming

drops of water on your body,

and rest my coolness on

your burning chest.

I know nothing else

but that this life

will walk along with me.

When the body perishes,

all perishes;

but the threads of memory

are woven with enduring specks.

I will pick these particles,

weave the threads,

and I will meet you yet again.

—-Amrita Pritam.

This poem was written in her sickbed for her partner, the painter Imroz

Translated by Nirupama Dutt and published in The Little Magazine

Give yourself a moment or two to take in this experience. Listen to the words again. This time with the translation and you will be blown away.

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And now if you have been able to recover from that experience. One that moves you.Wrenches your heart with feelings that are beyond comprehension ……now , here’s the other poet whose words I originally wanted to share.

The Tree (Rukh)

Some trees look like sons to me.

Some like mothers.

Some are daughters, brides,

A few like brothers.

Some are like my grandfather,

Sparsely leafed.

Some like my grandmother

Who used to throw choori to the crows.

Some trees are like the friends

I used to kiss and embrace.

One is my beloved

Sweet. Painful.

There are trees I would like

To throw on my shoulder playfully,

There are trees I would like

To kiss and then die.

The trees sway together

When strong winds blow.

I wish I could render

Their verdant, leafy language.

I wish that I could

Return as a tree.

And if you wanted to listen to my song

I would sing it in the trees.

These trees are like my mother,

May their shade stay intact.

Rukh : Translated by Suman Kashyap

English Translation of Shiv Kumar Batalvi‘s poem Rukh

I read the words of a commentor on a  forum who says ,  ”this is a poem that has stayed within me since I saw it perched on a beautiful tree outside the Department of Botany, Panjab University, Chandigarh. I have taken some very dear friends there to share it. Go read it there and it will melt you even more ”

So going by his/her words I assume that the Deptt of Botany in Punjab University, Chandigarh has these lines etched there. Do let me know please if you have indeeed read it there. Must be an experience in itself.

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But this last one below  is the one I loved most of all. Not least of all because of the way Jagjit Singh has sung it. But  because Shiv Kumar Batlavi has written some of the most beautiful and melancholic lines I have ever read or heard.

Eh Mera Geet (Punjabi)

Eh mera geet

Kise na gaana.

Eh mera geet

MaeN aape ga ke

Bhalke hi mar jaana!

Eh mera geet dharat toN maela,

Sooraj jeD puraana.

KoT janm toN piya asaahnu

Is da bol haNDHaana.

Hor kise di jaah na koi

Is nu hoTHeeN laana,

Eh taaN mere naal janmeya

Naal bahishteeN jaana.

Eh mera geet

MaeN aape ga ke

Bhalke hi mar jaana!

Es geet da ajab jiha sur,

DaaDHa darad raNjhaanaaN.

Katak maah vich door pahaaReeN

KooNjaaN da kurlaana.

Noor-paak de vele rakh vich,

ChiReeyaaN da chichalaana

Kaali raate sarkaRiyaaN toN

PaunaaN da laNgh jaana!

Eh mera geet

MaeN aape ga ke

Bhalke hi mar jaana!

MaeN te mere geet ne dohaaN,

Jad bhalke mar jaana,

BirhoN de ghar jaaeeyaaN saahnu

KabareeN labhan auna.

Sabhna saaeeyaaN ik avaaze

MukhoN bol alaana:

Kise kise de lekheeN huNda

EDa darad kamaana.

Eh mera geet

Kise na gaana.

Eh mera geet

MaeN aape ga ke

Bhalke hi mar jaana!

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Eh Mera Geet – My Song

Do not sing

My song.

I must sing this song

Myself,

And then die.

This song is more soiled than the earth,

As old as the sun,

For many births I have had to live

The weight of its words.

No one else has the ability

To bring voice to it.

This song was born with me,

And will die with me.

I must sing this song

Myself,

And then die.

This song has a rare melody,

It is filled with pain.

It is like the shriek of cranes

Heard from distant mountains in autumn.

Or the clamor of birds in a forest,

Heard in a chaste dawn.

Or the sound of the wind flowing through high grasses

Heard on a black night.

I must sing this song

Myself,

And then die.

When I and my songs

Both die,

They who inhabit separation-houses

Will seek out my grave.

With one voice,

They will declare,

“Only a very few are fated

To shoulder such pain.”

Do not sing

This song of mine.

I must sing this song

Myself,

And then die.

Why this poet you ask? Why Shiv Kumar Batalvi?

Does this song below remind you of any song that you have heard lately?

and then this one ..

Another version of this poem has been sung by Rabbi Shergill:)

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More information about Batalvi here

I may end with a warning to anyone envisaging an overdose of Shiv: he can be terribly Wagnerian- effusively dark and deeply sombre.

Says another blogger and I would have to agree. So dont go overboard with his poetry.

Let the words sink in. Savour them. But draw a line. And I especially say this for young impressionable minds.

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Would love to hear from all of you about your favourite poets/poems/songs. And specially if they can be  shared with a translation:)

Though I know the magic and the beauty of the original gets lost in translation but for  many like me that would be better than nothing.

Do share.

Malayalam poetry, Bangla poetry, Gujarati…and so on…Would LOVE to hear from you:)

Oh! and I am not a Punjabi. Not even close

But living in Delhi since the past so many years has made me understand quite a lot of it. Though the translation was still needed because the Punjabi that Batalvi uses is very different.

Plus Punjabi somehow seems familiar . Closer to Hindi. (or maybe I am wrong)

Whatever be the reason, it is a treat to be able to listen to such poetry and read the translations.

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A few days back I was reading the translated poems of some poets. ANd here even though I know that the post as usual is in danger(?) of becoming as long as ever..yet I cannot resist sharing a few more poems.

Stammer

K. Satchidanandan (Malayalam)

Stammer is no handicap.

It is a mode of speech.

Stammer is the silence that falls

between the word and its meaning,

just as lameness is the

silence that falls between

the word and the deed.

Did stammer precede language

or succeed it ?

Is it only a dialect or a

language itself ? These questions

make linguists stammer.

Each time we stammer

we are offering a sacrifice

to the God of Meanings.

When a whole people stammer

stammer becomes their mother tongue:

as it is with us now.

God too must have stammered

when He created Man.

That is why all the words of man

carry different meanings.

That is why everything he utters

from his prayers to his commands

stammers,

like poetry.

Translated from Malayalam by the poet himself.

(This has to be my fav out of all the ones)

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A Single Shooting Star

Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh (Hindi)

A single shooting star

A distant star

shoots through the blue of space

Here, someone measures its speed,

records the rise and set.

But nothingness of space,

assumed to blue, must spell

an answer inaccessible.

To stretching scope

eye muscle’s strain.

Astronomers describe

its pace and spatial shift;

account for its time concealed

in tunnels of shade.

Yet it tracks only itself,

oblivious to sketch

and sketcher, eye and scope.

With equal speed

another lone star seems

to move across the space

So in moving out of shades

of evil , reining self,

riding the void,

each star

becomes the image

seeing

its own fearless offspring—

because of this

I shall put faith in every man,

in every man’s son.

Translated from Hindi by James Mauch

Vichu this reminded me of you:)

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I Want To Be Killed By An Indian Bullet

Thangjam Ibopishak Singh (Manipuri)

I heard the news long ago that they were looking for me; in the morning in the afternoon

at night. My children told me; my wife told me.

One morning they entered my drawing room, the five of them. Fire, water, air,

earth, sky – are the names of these five. They can create men; also destroy men at whim.

They do whatever they fancy. The very avatar of might.

I ask them: “When will you kill me ?”

The leader replied: “Now. We’ll kill you right now. Today is very auspicious. Say

your prayers. Have you bathed ? Have you had your meal ?”

“Why will you kill me ? What is my crime ? What evil deed have I done ?” I asked

them again.

“Are you a poet who pens gobbledygook and drivel ? Or do you consider yourself

a seer with oracular powers? Or are you a madman ?” asked the leader.

“I know that I’m neither of the first two beings. I cannot tell you about the last

one. How can I myself tell whether I’m unhinged or not ?”

The leader said: “You can be whatever you would like to be. We are not

concerned about this or that. We will kill you now. Our mission is to kill men.”

I ask: “In what manner will you kill me? Will you cut me with a knife? Will you

shoot me? Will you club me to death?”

“We will shoot you.”

“With which gun will you shoot me then? Made in India, or made in another

country?”

“Foreign made. All of them made in Germany, made in Russia, or made in China.

We don’t use guns made in India. Let alone good guns, India cannot even make plastic

flowers. When asked to make plastic flowers India can only produce toothbrushes.”

I said: “That’s a good thing. Of what use are plastic flowers without any

fragrance?”

The leader said: “No one keeps toothbrushes in vases to do up a room. In life a

little embellishment has its part.”

“Whatever it may be, if you must shoot me please shoot me with a gun made in

India. I don’t want to die from a foreign bullet. You see, I love India very much.”

“That can never be. Your wish cannot be granted. Don’t ever mention Bharat to

us.”

Saying this, they left without killing me; as if they didn’t do anything at all. Being

fastidious about death I escaped with my life.

Translated by Robin S Ngangom

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Edited to add:I was able to find a Hindi translation of the poem ‘I want to be killed by an Indian bullet’   Here it is