Freedom from the insult of dwelling in a puppet’s world, in an unword
That grants you sanctuary from fire and from
The smell of salt as it lunges forth from this
Slice of the world, where it lodges on the seams of a restored yesterday, punishing each inch of flight
With an unroot: the unearthed limp of the master’s glib filch of unfaith.
“Freedom from fear is the freedom I claim for you, my Motherland!
Freedom from the burden of ages, bending your head, breaking your back, blinding your eyes to the beckoning call of the future;
Freedom from shackles of slumber wherewith you fasten yourself to night’s stillness, mistrusting the star that speaks of truth’s adventurous path;
Freedom from the anarchy of destiny, whose sails are weakly yielded to blind uncertain winds, and the helm to a hand ever rigid and cold as Death;
Freedom from the insult of dwelling in a puppet’s world, where movements are started through brainless wires, repeated through mindless habits; where figures wait with patient obedience for a master of show to be stirred into a moment’s mimicry of life.” – Rabindranath Tagore
The slow mourn - what makes fidelity to flame lack lustre for the fog?
kis tarah dhund ki sham’ay se rawaadaari ho
kyuNkar ho fursat ke tasaadum ka hayoola mumkin
kaun bichRay huoN se rooh ka parcham chheenay
kub talak hosh ka maatam ho maddham maddham?
night's silence translates into a pejorative muting of, burrowing of dawn
ب dasht-e-Khumaar ka ranj kyuN, haalat-e Khamr ka marz kyuN? saakit huN ab ke raat bhar, sukoot-e fajr ka ramz kyuN? lazzat-e-be-panaah ko yuN moqay ki jo talaash hai, uss be- hijr zabt ka zabt kyuN, woh la-deeni yat bilfarz kyuN? ushshaaq aur kamaan ab haathoN se farq Dhaa chukay, iss shaaKh-e-be-kamaan ka, hasil-e-fard be-rung kyuN?
a droplet's beckon - a desert's foreboding of, dissolution of resolve
maiN tabaahi ki tajassus
may ghaayal ho kar
iss bayabaN se taghaaful
ho kar tajawuz ker
ke, ik CheeNTay ki faqat
rah takooN andhere
may; ye barabar hua lutf
yuN Thikanay lagay
Power is the justification of power, the daily slights
adding up to a gaping wound staring you in the face,
a grand pus-filled showcase of historical inequity
ordained by god, for the glory of man, his middling meddling
Justice is the undoing of power. It is the stream correcting its
flow, talking to the wind, gushing past the mountain, seeping
the lowly fields. It is the wrath of the wind, touching the stream,
laughing with the mountain, weeping when it reaches the seed.
Prelude to Jon Elia’s “Do AwaazaiN” (Shayad, pg. 243)
We walk into, beside each other, breathing
the space around us, but not each other, you
and I, forgetting daily the remembrance of
what could once again be you and I.
Interpretation of Jon Elia’s “Maa’mool” from Shayad (pg 88). Transliteration and translation below:
|jaanay kub se||For how long|
|mujhe yaad bhi naheeN jaanay kub se||can’t even recall how long it has been|
|hum ik saath ghar se nikaltay haiN||since we have been leaving our home together|
|aur shaam ko||and in the evening|
|aik hee saath ghar lauTte haiN||coming back home together|
|magar hum ne ik doosray se||But neither of us|
|kabhi haal pursi naheeN ki||ever asked how the other was|
|na ik doosray ko||and neither of us|
|kabhi naam lay kar mukhaatib kiya||ever called out the other by name|
|jaanay hum kaun haiN!||Who knows who we are!|