New Post – March

New Post - February

Fragile Artwork

Two porous cakes of charcoal,
a putty eraser, a graphite lead—
white paper, soiled and torn,
a sturdy plyboard—
is all he has,
and all he needs.

The night is woven
from unfurled shadows—
blotches of white
on a stricken tree.
The house clings to a crumbling rock,
harbouring the half-torn lives it breeds.

Lord, I am the house.
I am the lead,
the frayed lives,
the stricken tree—
a fragile artwork of Your being.
Complete me. Complete me.

The Dream of the Ordinary

After reading a million tomes,
the man said, “Worthless! I’d rather go home —
earn my bread like an ordinary man.
Toiling, struggling, but never again
falling for a vivid, unreal dream.”

He forged a kiln from wet earth bricks,
playing with countless stones and sticks,
and built a city of golden towers,
with avenues lined by crimson trees,
lost in its enchanting maze.

Then he paused and softly said,
“I see now — the real is unreal, too.”

If I Could Be with a Good Man

If I could be with a good man,

I’d have found salvation.

Yet here I stand, unable to be —

It’s good to be with a good man,

But still, I couldn’t be.

If I could find such a man,

I’d have run away with him,

Mingling in his heavenly hues,

I’d have become vibrant and free.

But alas, I couldn’t be.

I chant the name of God,

Yet in truth, I’m lost in thievery.

Gazing at others’ women,

My lustful eyes refuse to blink —

I couldn’t be, couldn’t be.

Boron in gold

Melts the metal’s hardness.

The words of a good man soften the stone.

My heart of stone remains unmelted —

I couldn’t be.

Lalon says, “My heart, the hours slip away

While you pinch the beads of a rosary

Without chanting His name.

Why not wear the garland of heartfulness and chant?

For you couldn’t be, couldn’t be.”

(This is my translation of a Bengali song, “সাধুসঙ্গ ভালো সঙ্গ, সঙ্গ আমার হইলো কই?”, by Fakir Lalon Shah.)

Acceptance of Duty

Who will light the world when I am gone, asked
the setting sun. Fearing a burden so great,
all kept mum. A little clay lamp, it said, Lord,
I’ll shine my best in your accord.

(This is my translation of a Bengali poem, ‘কর্তব্যগ্রহণ’, by Rabindranath Tagore.)

The Way My Life Is

The way my life is, it will remain the same way. In hardship
and in ease; in conflict and sway
to the everyday rhythm. Greeting all on my path —
How dear they will be to me, and to them I will be so dear.

Every moment will go like this: a life hued
with joy and sorrow. In the playground of a colourful world,
where He frolics with us all —
He, Who will be dear to me. And to Him, I will be so dear.

(This is my translation of a Bengali song, ‘জীবন আমার চলছে যেমন তেমনি ভাবে’, by Rabindranath Tagore.)

In the Fairground of Love

Where there is no violence, no condemnation, and no putrid smell of desire,
only the Lover prevails –
to that fairground of Love, let us go and see Him Who loves so deeply.

There He laughs and cries in Love,
drowning Himself in the emotion.

When met with a fellow lover of Love,
He talks with her fondly.

There runs a river
to the sound of monthly ebb and flow.

Forbidden to a greedy, lecherous soul.
The Lover swims in it.

So prays Saudamini:

I wasted my life in the land of desire
and could not reach the kingdom of Love.

I remained day-blind all along,
without knowing the path to the Lord.

(This is my translation of a Bengali Baul song, ‘যেথা নাই হিংসা নিন্দা কামের গন্ধ’, by Saudamini.)

Let Me Sit Beside You for a Moment

Let me sit beside you for a moment.
Let my tasks lie incomplete.
My heart knows no peace without a glimpse of you.
If I toil alone, I’ll be
at an endless sea.

Spring whispers joyfully into my window.
Idle bees buzz and float upon the garden ground.
Drowning in your eyes on a day like this,
I’ll sing of my devotion
in a restful sound.

(This is my translation of a Bengali song, ‘তুমি একটু কেবল বসতে দিয়ো কাছে’, by Rabindranath Tagore.)

Money Poem – 1

Who lives without money?
Even a beggar who lives
under a city flyover does not. 
His alms are money/money-equivalent. 
Otherwise, he starves. 

On the other hand, one Anil Dhirubhai Ambani,
once the sixth richest man 
in the entire world, pleaded in a London court
that he had become bankrupt.
Not a single penny in his name.

My God! Where does he live now? 
In an iron shade under a flyover? Does he starve?