Laal Gopal Gulal Humari

लाल गोपाल गुलाल हमारी आँखिन में जिन डारो जूं
वदन चन्द्रमा नयन चकोर, इन अंतर जिन पारो जूं

कुमकुम रंग सों भरी पिचकारी, तकि नयनन जिन मारो जूं
खेलो फ़ाग वसंत परस्पर, अट-पटे खेल निवारो जूं

पंक-विलोचन दुःख-मोचन लोचन भर दृष्टि निहारो जूं
नागरी-नागर भव-सागर सों 'कृष्णदास' को तारो जूं

~ Krishndas

With gulaal you must not imbrue,
O Gopal laal, our eyes,
for they continually look at you
like moon, the chakor espies.

Pichkari filled with kumkum
at our eyes, don't you aim.
Celebrate the festival of phaag;
forsake your mischievous game.

You, who dispels all the gloom,
whose eyes like lotus bloom,
pray, cast your divine glance
upon us, O beloved of every lass.
Salve us from the ocean of suffering,
pleads so, forever yours 'Krishnadas'.

(My translation)

Happiness

All that they tell you

about happiness is

shit

it is not found under ancient trees

nor in the caves of lofty mountains

or on the banks of pious rivers

happiness is to be fished

from the filth of your

everyday life

It is to be found in

clean, sun-dried underwear

(and stained too);

in the release

of a painfully full bladder;

in a person

humming the song

you were trying hard

to recall;

in clean and cold

water to drink on a

hot summer afternoon;

in looking at a photograph

in which you’re grinning

into a camera, wide-eyed,

when you’d no clue

what a camera is;

in sleeping, knowing

that the alarm won’t

go off in the morning;

in waking, knowing that

there’s another hour

for alarm to go off;

in a condom

that fits your size

if not your ego’s;

in dreaming about

the house where you’d spent

your childhood;

in seeing someone you love succeed

and someone you hate fail;

in eating first mango of the

summer

and first gazak of the winter;

in finding a comfort in a

a tale that you’ve read/heard

hundreds of time and knowing

its details like you know all

the arbitrary shapes on the

cemented floor and walls

of your old house

that you dream about;

in the shade of gray clouds

that have wafted over

out of nowhere

on a scorching May afternoon;

in thinking about home

when at school/work.

happiness is not an illusion

grandness is

infinity is.

2015

Your story is written

by an unseen hand

in a long-winded sentence,

which doesn’t really say much.

Year-ends come

like commas, marking

a pause, to allow

you to catch your breath;

But then some

are like semicolons:

you know

it might as well have ended

here;

but it didn’t;

it won’t;

it

just

won’t...

~ aviD

Naivete

For an irrational moment
I had thought our fates
have been sealed,
among that multitude
of books, some as old
as civilisation, and some
new as your youth.

A quiver of thrill ran
through me as I introduced
Odyssey to you.
Even Homer would have seen
the affection that glazed
my eyes as they darted
from the book to your face.

“Iliad too must be about!”
I’d said looking away impulsively,
eager to conceal that very affection.
Would I sail the Aegean sea
to reach you? Would I launch a thousand
ships to have you?

No! But I was willing to share
my books with you. And my food.
And, believe you me,
that’s a bigger endeavour on my part
than the ones epics exalt.
All the while we walked
those semi-lit alleys
of Connaught Place,
I’d secretly hoped that you’d
place your hand around my waist,
or plant a kiss on my cheek.
All the while we talked
in the frail chill
of an early December evening
I’d secretly hoped that you’d
tell me one thing that you like
in me.

When I dared to probe your feelings
you said that you’ve been
meeting other people, and that
you treat all of us equally.

Never had egalitarianism
sounded as ridiculous and offensive
to me before.
What was I to put it down to?
Your naiveté or mine?
Yours could still be extenuated by
your age. But mine should only be
damned.

~ aviD

Plea

He lies grunting,
smeared with blood and dust,
on the battlefield.

You two stare at each other.
Your eyes— dilated, smoky,
And fiercely red; his— defeated, dull, depleted

And full of plea,
as even death refuses
to grant him refuge
from your wrath.

How dreadful one must be
to have even death shudder
at the thought of embracing him.

He is watching you thirstily
as you clench your teeth,
and clasp your fists around the trident,

and is waiting for you to lunge it
in his once ego-swollen, now pain-crushed chest.

He shivers and rolls at your feet,
as you draw the trident back,
fearing that you may change your mind
and let him live.

You laugh,
violently, boisterously, throatily,
nostrils flaring, nose-ring swaying,
unwilling to grant him his
most willed will at this moment: end!

With a wounded ego,
a maligned soul,
a motionless body
and exhausted eyes
he is looking at you longingly
to salve him from this indignity, this humiliation.

O Ma! Relieve him now! Be merciful, O Durga! 

 

~ aviD

How do I thank you?

How do I thank you
for making me a
hot cup of coffee in
middle of this autumn-flavoured night?

For grazing my legs
with your foot as we sit
on opposite chairs on the verandah with my earphones plugged in and
Gulzar's lyrics tugging at my heart?
For gazing at me from the opposite
chair as though there's been nothing
more important to you than gazing at me thus?
Ever!


For continuing to gaze at me
when I avert my eyes from you and close them,
conscious and shy,
from all your gazing, and pretend to concentrate on the lyrics?

For leaning forward to kiss me;
but then tousling my hair
pulling my right cheek instead?

For then, as the watchman beats
 his stick on the ground somewhere
in the distant background and as the
trees murmur in the light breeze,
wrapping your arms around me
and nuzzling at the cleft between my neck and my shoulder?

For taking one earpiece and humming
along with me as we spoon
under the half-bitten moon?

For being so tender, so thoughtful, so perfect?
How do I thank you--most importantly-- for not being?
~ aviD


"कोई आता है पलकों पे चलता हुआ, इक आंसू सुनहरी सा जलता हुआ
ख्वाब बुझ जाएंगे... राख रह जायेगी
रात ये भी गुज़र जायेगी ...."
~ गुलज़ार

The Gentle And The Men, Drove On

The gentle and the men
Drove on,
Driven by the yen
To extinguish the anguish
That life and living spawn.

The gentle and the men
Drove on
On the roads that bend
As they please,
Refusing to be predictable,
Refusing to cease.

Two rivulets rushed down
The hills
Like streams of milk
Oozing out of breasts of mother Yashoda
Upon seeing Madhav
Return home at dusk,
 Spent and worn.
The gentle and the men
Drove on.

 The stately hills looked on.
Or did they too giggle
At the banter produced by
The gentle and the men
As they drove on?

The clouds and hills squabbled.
In a bid to be one up,
The clouds cast shadows
That eclipsed the hills; and
Hills, they raise their heads,
Impudently,
To touch the very clouds
They won’t fawn
As the gentle and the men
Drove on.

The clouds gloated
Over their mobility
And fluidity,
Mocking the static hills;
The hills took pride in stability,
In their simple forms and regularity,
Changeless since they were born,
As the gentle and the men
Drove on.


Who could say whether
The mobility was not freedom
But punishment?
It came at a cost—the lack of belonging.
Everywhere but nowhere.
Wasn’t the stability an act?
An act under constant attack from
Forces of nature—the winds of desire,
The torrent of temptations,
The quakes of urges.

Neither was better off.
They laughed at the facades
The hills and the clouds don,
As the gentle and the men
Drove on.



~ aviD
                                                                         

कुरु यदुनन्दन

Rub some salt of hope

On my wounds, so that

I may sing.

Shriller. And shriller still.

Bind me in darkness

Delirious, so that

I may dance.

Madder. And madder still.

Drown me in solitude

Delicious, so that

I may float.

Lighter. And lighter still.

Impale my imperviousness

Immense (and noxious), so that

I may heal.

Quicker. And quicker still.

Stifle my meagre mind

With wishlessness, so that

I may breathe.
Easier. And easier still.

Underline my eyes

With kohl of oblivion, so that

 I may see.

Clearer. And clearer still.

Push me from the nadir

Of my vanity, so that

I may fall.

Deeper. And deeper still.

Stoke my soul with passion, and
Fill my body with love, so that

I may fly.

Higher. And higher still.

And then shatter into pieces

My heart, so that

I may grow benevolent.

Kinder. And kinder still

O Unfair Master! I pray to thee:
Colonize my heart,and

Enslave my mind, so that

I may be set free!

Freer. And freer still.

 

~ aviD

                                                                         

 

"No pic, no reply"

I said:
My mind forbids
pinging you
but my heart doesn’t comply.

All they said was: “no pic, no reply.”

Pictures are not people;
People are not pictures.
Understand.
At least try.

All they said was: “no pic, no reply.”

We could make it meaningful,
deep, lasting and beautiful.
Let us take this beyond
the mere demand and supply.

All they said was: “no pic, no reply. ”

Together we could share
our lows and our highs.
We could laugh together,
maybe even cry.

All they said was: ” no pic, no reply.”

We could walk on the shore,
Collect shells, build castles.
We could gaze at stars
under a moonlit sky.

All they said was: “no pic, no reply. ”

We could do long drives,
musical nights, shopping sprees.
We could explore new eateries.
Heck! Even barbecue, bake and fry.

All they said was: “no pic, no reply. ”

Then time flew.
More impatient I grew.
I learnt my lesson by and by.
One fine day I too wrote:
“Golden rule apply;
No pic, no reply.”

~ aviD

Beginnings...

Winter has begun
to whisper
again.

The air seems
to have regained
its grace.

Fans haven't been
put out yet.
Yet we clasp our sheets
tighter
as we nestle in our beds.

Soon the winter will yelp,
a silent, bone-chilling yelp.

The air will get colder,
beds warmer,
my soul darker.

Bodily warmth doesn't suffice
when the soul craves warmth;
the warmth that can make it
melt,
and can recast it in a mould
in which it once
dwelt.

~ aviD

शरद पूर्णिमा

At a certain hour
        and a certain thought
        in the night,
as I lie in my bed,
      mostly awake,


     Moon-rays come
     knocking at my window,
              boisterously,
    when the moon positions itself
     right across my window.

Perhaps to sympathise;
Perhaps to mock.


          Tonight too,
           'tis so.

   It looks at me,
     expectantly,
    as it bleeds,
    waiting for me
    to nurse it.

I wish to have no
truck with it though!

       Why, it's a gloriously bitter reminder,
            this moon, full and whole,
              of a promise unfulfilled
                      and broken
          that haunts my dark soul.



|| याताबला व्रजं सिद्धा  मयेमा  रंस्यथ क्षपा:

  यदुदिश्य व्रतमिदं चेरुरार्यार्चनं सती: ॥ (Bhagwatam.10.22.27)    


~ aviD






                                                                   

Fossilised

The hopes you had raised
that evening
still stir occasionally
in the dark closets
of my memory.

Your words and phrases
punctuated by smiles
and twitching eyebrows
still breathe somewhere
between the pages
of my notebook.

Yes, you were one of those
who made it to those pages
and will remain there
fossilised,

gathering vividness
every time the pages flutter
in the winds of my solitude,

recreating that muggy evening
when my heart had danced a
secret dance,
unseen and soundless,

reminding me of your
oblivion then
and thereafter.

Oblivion-- so precious
whose absence
would have made me feel
vulgar.

The hopes you had raised
that evening
still stir occasionally
in the dark closets
of my memory,

but now I have learnt
the art of being deaf
to their pleas.

They were too demanding;
I was too inadequate.

~ aviD

A Kiss Is Not Just That

To call it just a kiss
would be unjust
For it wasn't just that.

It wasn't just our lips
that met;
Nor just our tongues
that battled.

It was my having you,
And your having me.
Not simply having me,
But having me,
My I,
My self;

It was my having you
in those moments
as flickery as the
candle flame
that flickered
as we kissed.

I discovered
a whole new
You!
I tasted the coffee that'd
burnt your tongue
this morning.
My tongue sympathised
with yours.

I chanced upon
that fibre of bhutta--
stuck adamantly between
the spaces of your teeth--
you'd just had.

I sensed my name that'd
rolled off your tongue
ever so tenderly
before you'd leaned forward
to kiss
Me.

It still sat there,
It sat there still.

There were the invectives too
that you'd used to curse
a reckless fellow driver
while driving on the road.

The fine words of praise
you'd showered upon me
clung to the wall of your mouth
and sweetened mine
as we kissed
under the moon
that looked like
a large water-melon wedge
coated with fine and delicate silver foil
juicy and edible.

Then there were also
those three treacherous words,
hidden in a dark corner
of your mouth,
waiting to pop out
as soon as the kiss
were to end.

"I love you!"
You would have said,
had I not continued
kissing you ceaselessly.

To call it just a kiss
would be unjust;
For this kiss averted
a disaster too!

~ aviD

Moments...

Extra-ordinariness is over-rated

It’s your ordinariness that allures me

Perfection is intimidating

It’s your imperfections that I value

Like I value mine

Imperfections

Make us even,

Make us humane,

Make us sensitive,

And considerate,

To those of others.

Charm is over-rated

It’s your awkwardness that I am drawn to.

The way you bob your head;

The way your eyes widen

When you speak of a new gadget.

That please-forgive-me-for-the-last-time expression

You give

When I come out of the bathroom

After you’ve used it.

How everything is so simple when you do it.

How you casually fling your leg over me in your sleep.

How you laugh...like a child at that crass joke

And try to straighten your face

When I look at you.

How you don’t care whether yellow and black go together.

How you wear the first thing you find clean in your closet.

And yet look so adorable in your mismatched attire.

How you put your arm around me just when I need it the most.

How you smile when you see me after a gap of two days.

So earnest a smile that makes the wait worth.

How you ask me the silliest of questions in middle of the night

How your embrace makes everything seem just perfectly right.

Eternal love is over-rated.

It’s in these fleeting moments that I fall in love with you.

And how!

~ aviD

राग माला

मनावन आए ललित लाल, राधे अब छांडो  मान ।
देख री सजनी खिल्यो है वसंत, मदन चलावत बान।

गूंजत शुक पिक कीर वाणी, करत भ्रमर गुंजान |
बहत मारुत मंद गति, कहाँ लों करुँ  या ऋतू को बखान।

चारो  दिसा  रंग मच्यो भारी, बाजत बीन ढफ मृदंग निसान
यह औसर फिर न मिलेगो, तज दे री  जिय को अड़ान ।

नेक विचारो  कैसी  धरी निठुराई, भयो तेरो हिय पाषाण ।
वृन्दाविपिन राजेश्वरी, तो में  बसत पिय के प्राण ।

जा बंसी को नाद सुन तोड़ी,  ते  आरज पथ आन ।
राग बिराग भये सब वाके, और मौन भई  सब तान ।

कुंचित केश सिर पाग सुदेश, छवि कोटि  मैन  लजान ।
वंशी-धरण तमाल वरन,  द्वारे  ठाडो रूप को निधान।

कबहुँ राग केदारो अलापत, लेत  सरस तान बंधान ।
निज कर कोमल  हार गहि गूंथत, तोहि रिझावन हेत  सयान।

विरह वेदना या मन की निवारो, संग मिल करो मधु रस पान ।
नव यौवन तेरे अंग अंग प्रगट्यो, सुघराई कर याको मान ।

तेरे सुहाग कि कौन  कहे आली, प्रीतम पायो नागर नट  सो ।
चल बड़भागिनि बेर कर जिन, कंठ भुज मेलि ब्रजराय सों ।

सुन तिय वचन विहँसी उठी गोरी, चली देवे दरसन को दान ।
कान्ह-राधे जुगलवर-राय, अब आन बसो 'जस' के ध्यान ।




                                                                                       

(To the connoisseurs of Hindustani classical music, and Haveli sangeet in particular, the concept of raag malas must not be a new one. In such a composition each couplet or sometimes each line has a name of raag  embedded within it, and that particular couplet or line is then sung in that specific raag.  In Pushti Haveli sangeet tradition, luminaries such as Soordasji, Parmanand-dasji, and Nand-dasji et al have composed several pads on raag mala.

In this humble attempt I have strung twenty raags  in the following order:
1) Lalit
2) Vasant
3) Kirwani
4) Maru
5) Sarang
6) Adaana
7) Charukeshi
8) Raajeshwari
9) Todi
10) Bairagi
11) Desh
12) Maalav
13)  Kedar
14) Malhaar
15) Yaman
16) Sughraai
17) Nat
18) Raayso
19) Gori
20) Kaanhra


The scene described here depicts an anguished Radha who's being appeased by another Sakhi (also called "दूती" in Brij literature, a role usually played by Lalita) on the behalf of Krishna. Krishna is himself standing at the threshold of the kunj,  and is trying to appease Radha, but won't be allowed in unless Sri Radha permits him.

The sakhi describes to Radha the heavenly bliss that has engulfed Vrindaavan in the Spring Season, and edifies her on how setting aside her differences, she should make most out of this lovely, vernal ambiance.)

All I am saying...

I am trying to say
That what I am saying
Is not exactly what I am trying to say.
The trying is relentless.
Saying is inexhaustible.
There's so much lost in between
Saying and trying.

My life (at the moment) is a constant struggle
for saying what I am trying to say,
And saying that I am trying to say.
Be kind, I am still trying.
I try.
I say.
I try to say.
And then try some more.

Void

A void
shapeless
and undefined

Desirous
Painfully so
Of what?
I know not

Murmurs
now and then
What and why
Beyond my ken

Looms
Like a wraith
Shapeless
and watchful

I know it's here
Or is it there?
Feeding
on moonlight
Observing
coldly
Me & my shadow

I grope
in vain
'Tis thinner
than air


Only suffocating


Inscrutable,
That silent shriek
tinged with my own blood.

Come Closer

Come closer
I wish to whisper a secret in your ears.
Is it a secret anymore?
I think not.

Come closer.
Suspend the fears.
Believe me
I harm not.

Come closer.
Talk.
Hear.
Loosen the knot.

Come closer.
Touch.
Feel.
No difference?

So now you believe
What I'd said?
On baseless notions
Your mind had fed

We are the same
Blood and flesh
Same air we breathe
Stale and Fresh

Then why the scorn?
Why the wrath?
I know not.

We love differently
That is all.
Then why hate love
I get not.

P.S. I Miss You

I envy the madness
That grips your lovers,
The mirth that throbs
In every fibre of their being
When they hear your name,
The ceaseless ecstasy that
Oozes out from their bodies
In form of sweat
When they dance to your chants.

They have different faces, colours
And shapes
But one identity—
Your servants—eternally and joyously.
Everything else is
False.
Everything else is
Binding.
Everything else is
Poison.

 The nectar of your love
Flowing in their veins
Surges upon being invoked
By your names.
The blissful frenzy
Augments
With each passing moment

It is potent and alive—
Yes, it has a life of its own—
Looking alertly for stoic souls
To stir and consume.

The ingenuous prey
Is caught unawares.
It all starts with
Shake of a limb.
Then the body quakes
Then tongue utters
Your name...

And the battle is lost.
You then smile
At the helpless soul
For now it has lost control
Over itself.


It is that helplessness
That I yearn.
It is much better
Than the one
That I feel now.

What would it take
To resurrect that naiveté?
Where did I lose it?
And when?

It is on nights
Such as this
That the loss stings.
And it stings hard.

There goes no day
When I don’t think of you.
For some you are a part
Of life;
For me you were
My life.

Why did you then, O love!
Go mute
On questions I asked?
Why did you then
Withdraw when I needed
You the most?

Was it one of your many ploys?
Was I just one of your many toys?
Who’s to be blamed, you or I?
I cannot say.
Have you pushed me farther away?
Or pulled me closer
To You?
To The Truth?
I cannot say.

We may’ve grown estranged;
We may’ve grown apart;
I can’t but admit though
“Thou art my art”

PS: I miss you.

   

A Pursuit Of Life and Death

What is life if not a string of natal travails,

For every second we’re born anew.

And every second we’re dying too.

Every moment the circle of life and death prevails.

That spate of lives we live

In that final moment before we cease.

And those innumerable deaths that we die

While we are still on life’s lease.

What is life if not prolonged death.

So many deaths packed in one breath.

Every second we die as we live

Hoping to recoup what we give—

That precious, rare, and vital potion

Which rarefies with Time’s ceaseless motion.

Alas! Recovery is impossible.

Today I am what I never was,

I am what I never will be.

Every breath is anxious because

Tomorrow it may or may not be.

But what if the truth lies elsewhere?

What if Death is not as ghastly

 As it is made out to be?

What if that moment when life does finally freeze

Is indeed the moment of redemption, the moment of release?