translated from Urdu by Pavan K Varma

BOOKS

They peer from the
Panes of locked cupboards,
They stare longingly
For months we do not meet
The evenings spent in their company
Are now passed at the computer screen.
They are so restless now, these books
They have taken to walking in their sleep
They stare, longingly

The values they stood for 
Whose ‘cells’ never died out 
Those values are no more found in homes
The relationships they spoke of
Have all come undone today
A sigh escapes as I turn a page
The meanings of many words have fallen off
They appear like shriveled, leafless stumps
Where meaning will grow no more
Many traditions lie scattered 
Like the debris of earthen cups
Made obsolete by glass tumblers

Each turn of the page
Brought a new flavor on the tongue,	
Now a click of the finger
Floods the screen with images, layer upon layer
That bond with books that once was, is severed now
We used to sometimes lie with them on our chest
Or hold them in our lap
Or balance them on our knees,
Bowing our heads as in prayer
Of course, the world of knowledge is still there,
But what of
The pressed flowers and scented missives
Hidden between their pages,
And the love forged on the pretext
Of borrowing, dropping and picking up books together
What of them?
That, perhaps, shall no longer be!



GREEN MOMENTS

When tired of winging around
The white eagle descends
It speaks to the mountains
Of trees that once were.

There a tall deodhar had stood once
It would tie the clouds to its leaves
Like a turban
Or wrap them around like a shawl
Holding the breeze
Swaying, it would say,
If I was not rooted
I would waft away with you!

And there, a little ahead of the keekar
Was a sheesham
The two would fight a great deal
But the truth was that
The keekar was envious of the sheesham’s height!
When the wind whistled through the leaves of the sheesham
The birds on its branches would imitate the sound

There was a mango tree too
For years a koel
Would alight on it as it flowered
Nearby were a few gulmohars, of which only one remains
It spends its time assuaging the pain
Of names gouged on its body

And here a neem tree, in love with the moonlight
Drunk with joy its leaves would turn blue

A little further away, on the next mountain,
A rustle of pines could be heard breathing deeply
But today not one can be seen on that mountain

I have not seen but it is said
That in the embrace of that valley lived a champa 
Larger in size than the big banyan tree
Lush, milk-white sap oozing from its cuts
The poor champa was taken away
From this jungle in so many parts

Sitting on a barren tree, the white eagle
Tells the mountains old stories
Of trees that once were.
Trees that stunted men felled
Cut into pieces, and burnt.



A DAY TO SPEND

Every day I am given a full day to spend
But every day someone snatches it away
Grabs it away from my grip

Sometimes it drops off from my purse
And I do not even hear it fall
Even a good day I forget thinking it was bad!

Then there are those who collar me and claim my day!
‘It is a debt owed by generations before you,
You must pay the instalments –

Others forcibly mortgage it saying:
Take a few moments to spend now
The rest we will credit to your remaining life
And settle accounts when required

I would love to have
A full day to myself, if only for once
And to spend that one full day with you
Is what I truly desire