मन मस्त मगन / अमिताभ भट्टाचार्य

इश्क की धूनी रोज जलाये
उठता धुंआ तो कैसे छुपाये
हो अखियाँ करे जी हजूरी
माँगे है तेरी मंज़ूरी
कजरा सियाही दिन रंग जाये
तेरी कस्तूरी रैन जगाये
मन मस्त मगन
मन मस्त मगन
बस तेरा नाम दोहराये

चाहे भी तो भूल ना पाये
मन मस्त मगन
मन मस्त मगन बस तेरा नाम दोहराये

जोगिया जोग लगा के
मखरा रोग लगा के
इश्क की धुनी रोज़ जलाये
उठता धुंआ तो कैसे छुपाये
मन मस्त मगन
मन मस्त मगन बस तेरा नाम दोहराये

चाहे भी तो भूल न पाये
मन मस्त मगन
मन मस्त मगन बस तेरा नाम दोहराये

ओढ़ के धानी रीत की चादर
आया तेरे शहर में राँझा तेरा
दुनिया ज़माना, झूठा फ़साना
जीने मरने का वादा, सांचा मेरा
हो शीश-महल ना मुझको सुहाये
तुझ संग सूखी रोटी भाये
मन मस्त मगन
मन मस्त मगन बस तेरा नाम दोहराये

चाहे भी तो भूल ना पाये
मन मस्त मगन
मन मस्त मगन बस तेरा नाम दोहराये

Under Dadar Bridge / Prakash Jadhav

(Translated from Marathi by Shanta Gokhale and Nissim Ezekiel)

The three bricks of the sacrificial fire

She used to light

Have sooty ornamental marks- signs of

Loathsome destruction,

Charred neem twigs, and the arrogant touch

Of Impalas, choking and dragging with them

The breath of roads.

The ashes of existence float in the air.

She has left

The ruined sculpture of her relics

Under Dadar bridge.

As she tore her ragged hair

In the darkness of frustration,

I, poison-drunk and restless,

Would dig my fingers into the

Gooseflesh-navel,

Profusely pouring black blood into

Her psychic wounds.

‘hey, ma, tell me my religion. Who am i?

what am i?

‘ you are not a Hindu or a Muslim!

You are an abandoned spark of the

World’s lusty fires.

Religion? This is where I stuff religion!

Whores have only one religion, my son.

If you want a hole to fuck in, keep

Your cock in your pocket!’

Stripping the sari off her breasts

On that bridge

She would fling on my questioning face

Repulsive smiles, one after another,

Like stones.

I piss in the bastard gutter which

Has links with high-class sewage water

‘who was he? Who’s my father?’

scraping and scratching at the VD sores

that traced

the world’s map on her flower-like breasts,

shriveled during the malaria epidemic,

she would answer: ‘ he was some swine or other!

A star going berserk shot out of the

valley between my eyebrows:

‘ whore! Tell me the truth , or else…’

‘why? Was there only one who mounted

and then abandoned my body?

How many names shall I mention?

Many came and many went.’

‘you are whore , sss!’

a scream like a venomous snakebite

would break out involuntarily from my bloodied lips

she was engrossed in pulling out hunks

from the cat-flesh

boiled in her begging-bowl,

her eyes were sharp like razor edge

that scalps the world.

‘my stomach was on fire with hunger,

and they needed my cold corpse!’

she would take the scab off the green wound

and show me the ancient leprosy coursing

through her blood.

Stumbling through the dense darkness of life

She would callously dynamite my

Most dearly cherished dream-

‘show me my father, or perform his last rites.’

She would bray , that she-donkey of Bhdrapad,

Spitting on the fire in the chula,

Brutally exposing both her nakedness

And mine.

Then the raging volcanoes of my innermost being

Would break and tear into my heart.

‘I’ll rip your clothes off! I’ll strip you naked!’

‘what’s left with me now? I gave

them my lifeblood,

they gave me only wounds.’

Baring her teeth, like bramble thorns, hissing,

‘ you want to see, don’t you, where you came from?

What path you took?

Take my clothes off. Strip me and

Have a good look at the tomb

That was broken open to pull you out.’

Dashing ice-cold water on my maddened sex-organs,

She would kickat my cold, convulsive

Shudders, and run amuck.

Many stones and much mud

Slid off the bridge.

Under Dadar bridge , my questions echo,

The hostile stars eat like maggots

Into my future, my buried dreams,

The umbilical cord I myself

Had hung up to dry

There in the crevices of the stone walls.

One day, ma died…

When the rudder of her raft broke

In the cruel seas under the bridge,

I was asking these Himalayan people, whose

Heads drift proudly in cultured skies

To allow me to continue living.

Now I sit beside unrecorded memories,

And those scattered sculptures, in an empty hour,

And cry.

Now that she hasn’t left a lot

Behind her for me.

Hereditary diseases rebelling underskin

Are even now gradually bursting out

All over my face.

When striped and patterned,

Wholly panther-like,

I stand under the bridge,

Some white-collared mountain dwellers

Throw me coins

Because of her

All You Who Sleep Tonight / Vikram Seth

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years. 

If- / Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

भिक्षुक / सूर्यकांत त्रिपाठी "निराला"

वह आता--
दो टूक कलेजे के करता पछताता 
पथ पर आता।

पेट पीठ दोनों मिलकर हैं एक,
चल रहा लकुटिया टेक,
मुट्ठी भर दाने को-- भूख मिटाने को
मुँह फटी पुरानी झोली का फैलाता--
दो टूक कलेजे के करता पछताता पथ पर आता।

साथ दो बच्चे भी हैं सदा हाथ फैलाये,
बायें से वे मलते हुए पेट को चलते,
और दाहिना दया दृष्टि-पाने की ओर बढ़ाये।
भूख से सूख ओठ जब जाते
दाता-भाग्य विधाता से क्या पाते?--
घूँट आँसुओं के पीकर रह जाते।
चाट रहे जूठी पत्तल वे सभी सड़क पर खड़े हुए,
और झपट लेने को उनसे कुत्ते भी हैं अड़े हुए!

Looking For A Monk And Not Finding Him / Li Po

I took a small path leading 
up a hill valley, finding there 
a temple, its gate covered 
with moss, and in front of 
the door but tracks of birds; 
in the room of the old monk 
no one was living, and I 
staring through the window 
saw but a hair duster hanging 
on the wall, itself covered 
with dust; emptily I sighed 
thinking to go, but then 
turning back several times, 
seeing how the mist on 
the hills was flying, and then 
a light rain fell as if it 
were flowers falling from 
the sky, making a music of 
its own; away in the distance 
came the cry of a monkey, and 
for me the cares of the world 
slipped away, and I was filled 
with the beauty around me.

चलते हुए मुझ में कहीं ठहरा हुआ तू है / अभिषेक शुक्ला

चलते हुए मुझ में कहीं ठहरा हुआ तू है

रस्ता नहीं मंज़िल नहीं अच्छा हुआ तू है

ता'बीर तक आते ही तुझे छूना पड़ेगा

लगता है कि हर ख़्वाब में देखा हुआ तू है

मुझ जिस्म की मिट्टी पे तिरे नक़्श-ए-कफ़-ए-पा

और मैं भी बड़ा ख़ुश कि अरे क्या हुआ तू है

मैं यूँ ही नहीं अपनी हिफ़ाज़त में लगा हूँ

मुझ में कहीं लगता है कि रक्खा हुआ तू है

वो नूर हो आँसू हो कि ख़्वाबों की धनक हो

जो कुछ भी इन आँखों में इकट्ठा हुआ तू है

इस घर में न हो कर भी फ़क़त तू ही रहेगा

दीवार-ओ-दर-ए-जाँ में समाया हुआ तू है