Simran, Agar Mujhse Hota.

Simran, agar mujhse hota toh mai
tumhare liye kayi nazmein
likhta, aur un nazmon mei
apne ehsaaso ko shabdo
se saja kar tumhare saamne
rakhta. Tumhare bachpane
ko kisi hava mein khilkhilati
dhaal pe gaata huya phool
bolta, aur tumhari payal ki
khanak ko kisi jaam se
chalakti sharaab keh kar,
un lafzo ko jakad kar, be-
intehaan jhoomta. Par
mujhse hota nahi, kyunki
tu bhi kisi roz, nazm ban
kar mere labo pe giri thi
aur har nazm ki tarah
kuch hi lamho mein
hava mein mehak gayi thi
jaise baarish ke baad
mitti mehakti hai, kisi
garmi ki shaam ko raat
ki rani, behakti hai.
par fir, tu bhi har nazm
ki tarah, mere hothon ko
choo kar, udd gayi, aur
peeche bas apna ehsaas
chorh gayi.

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How To Make A Dream.

It is a terrific process
to make a dream, you
start with three spoons
of full-fat cream, and
fold into it, the skyline
of a foreign city, that
sells, wrapped in lights
and Marijuana leaves,
a glory that you shall
blindly seek, until it
fails to serenade you
further or your bones
begin to crumble at
their seams.

Once the rocketing peaks
of the silver skyscrapers
have started sticking to
the corners of your mind,
add three ounces of finely
crushed memories, of what
was and what could have been,
solely for the slightly
wistful flavor, it leaves
in the back of your teeth,
but, remember to make sure
that they’re ground to
perfection, for from what
I’ve heard, when allowed to
exist too extravagantly,
memories can make the
inside of your cheeks
bleed, and also, ruin
the flavor profile of
amateur dreams.

By now you should
be seeing the batter
turn slightly red, with
an unlikely sheen,
reminiscent of men
that work every day,
every hour, chasing
hollow moulds that
promise joy, endlessly.

When the effort you’ve
put in, starts to match
theirs, know it’s time to
let that dream bake, in
the chambers of your
heart, you’re most likely
to hear wails and sobs,
for dreams are not unlike
schoolboys that throw
tantrums for fulfillment
of their juvenile whims
and shed tears thereafter.

But hold your own and
put your finger down
and watch it grow and
flutter its wings, longing
to be free, and eventually
leave, through your chest
and out, brushing against
your quivering lips like
a silent scream.

And that’s how you make a dream.

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Another Pointless Translation – Sabse Peeche Hum Khade.

I've added a link to the original song here, please give it a listen.
Happy Birthday, Maths. 

Lift your eyes and you shall see,

it is here that we happen to be.

Why do you choose to be indifferent,

not bad enough for this, are we.


Do not believe what the World sings.

Do not let us be lost.

It is easy to know this,

whether we belong to you or not,

only ever, if you ask within.


En-charmed by your eyes,

the world seems to be,

and in this crowd we stand,

[waiting] hopelessly,

right at the very end.


Came and went, evenings of pleasure,

came and went, people,

but today, that you come,

you shall forever rest,

in my heart and me.


Do not smile, and let this

pass, for if we ever happen

to cross paths, again, after

tonight, you shall only say,

not bad enough were we.


En-charmed by your eyes,

the world seems to be,

and in this crowd we stand,

[waiting] hopelessly,

right at the very end.

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Happy Birthday, Dïto.

Walking down boulevards that smell of 
freshly-baked croissants and romances 
that dwell in the lanes of Montmartre, a 
hand-rolled cigarette hanging from my 
mouth, playing its part, with rain creeping 
her way in, running down my fingers, 
dripping from my navel like my last lover, 
I’ll always think of them who dared to 
dream, to play songs that’d tear through 
the night and herald a good winter. I’ll 
strum the strings in my mind like the last 
call of the crow before it retires for the night
and question the waste of all her love, if I 
was always there. ‘I’ll try to be patient and 
I’ll try to be kind,’ I’ll try my best 
to wait for happiness to sneak in from behind.

Humming the wrong words to myself, I’ll always
lend some space in my curdling head to a lovely
maiden who goes to embassy parties to speak in
cringing Russian and Greek on days when my
body will feel like ‘Himalayan glaciers in the Fall’,
when the stars will refuse to shine over my head
and all love will seem like mannequins at the mall.

I’ve never been to church, but every time my
mother will talk about how she’s hurt, for my 
love and life doesn’t fit into the moulds, 
she has morphed for me, I’ll play the tunes 
that remind me of, the song you sang for the 
amateur me, and bounced my dreams, 
on your dancing fingers.

And it is all because of you.

You’ll always come back to me
like a song and not a time of a
day. You’ll always come back
like a subtle reminder of how
pretty things rot and how they
bloom, into exuberance and 
light and colour, like flights
right before they take off, like
prayers right before they leave
my lips.
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To Piyu, How to Bake Bread.


The first step to baking bread from scratch is to move yourself 

to a coastal town somewhere around Cancun and rent a lodge 

that costs nothing more than 12 cowrie shells, cleaned and placed, 

systematically, in a row, through a strand of seaweed, to adorn the 

landlord's neck. Then you find a friend, in a canine that refuses to sit, 

in silence, for more than a minute, at a time. Juggle ideas for his name,

while he rushes through the clear waters and allow yourself to be drowned 

in the honesty of his eyes and his proclamations of temporary forevers

in his imperceptible language of whimpers barks and howls. Then go on 

to name him after an alcoholic beverage you’ll grow to appreciate, 

as much as you shall grow to appreciate him. Once you have your 

superman lair and your woofing apprentice, wrap yourself in a saree 

that spells out incantations that trap men in an admiring gaze in golden 

thread and silver sequins. Now you’re ready to get down to the kneading 

of the dough that shall rise and fortify your heart, protecting the little daisies 

and dreams you nurture in its crimson chambers, behind the cage of hollow 

bones. After the dough is kneaded and the warmth of your body, your words 

and your curious mind has heated the corners of your World, you let it bake 

and revel in the scent of freshly baked bread while dancing around with puerile 

exuberance on your maturing face, shedding some light and happiness, that 

tends to unarm the sternest of men and forces them to smile, on everyone that 

manages to be blessed with a moment or two in your immediate vicinity. 

Or you could just buy the perfume that your van mate wore, that smelled like

bread and carry it around to make the World easier to live in for yourself and

for everyone you hold close to your heart.

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Ideas – Stand With Ramjas.

When I speak, it is not just my words

that are propelled into the air that

hangs between us like corpses on

a tree. My ideas ride on the back of

those randomly arranged syllables,

and they find their way out into the

world and into the minds that hold

within themselves, the strength to

paint the world in new colours, even

if, with broken fingers. You cannot

lock my ideas behind state enforced

padlocks or stop them from flowing

endlessly because they’re water and

water flows: from under locked doors

and through broken windows. It runs

wild, smothering all that comes in its

way and shaping the rocks that you

cower behind. You cannot force them

[my ideas] into groups of fifty as hundreds

of you trespass beyond all walls and

measures of propriety into their refuge

and surround them, pelting stones and

pieces of broken furniture at them because

they’re the wind that can find its way from

in between your fingers and toes. The wind

doesn’t shy away from the towers that stand

in its way, it strikes with all its strength,

uprooting trees with roots that run right

into the centre of the World. So tame my

words and injure my body, they’ll [my ideas]

always stand as eye-witnesses to my unwavering

spirit and aching body because they’re the

earth you walk on, as you walk to strangle

all questioning minds.


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Another Pointless Translation – Nadaan Parindey.

This is not an exact translation as I’ve tried to maintain the poetic unity.


O Nadaan Parindey
Ghar aaja
O Nadaan Parindey
Ghar aaja

Oh wayward soul,
come back home.
Oh naive bird,
come back home.

Kyun desh-bidesh phire maara
Kyun haal-behaal thaka haara
Tu raat-beraat ka banjaara
O Nadaan Parindey
Ghar aaja

Why do you fly over lands unknown?
Why do you fly, exhausted and crestfallen?
Why do you soar above countries you’ve never been to?
You’re a vagabond who belongs to the Night.
Oh unworldly soul,
come back home.

Sau dard badan pe phele hain
Har karam ke kapde maile hain

Your body has had a hundred injuries
inflicted upon it.
Your clothes, compassionless, are torn and
tainted with the struggles of your flight.

Kaatein chahein jitna
Paron se hawaaon ko
Khud se na bach payega tu
Todh aasmon ko
Phoonk de jahaano ko
Khud ko chupa na payega tu

No matter how fiercely you try
to pierce the winds with your weary wings,
but realize,
you’ll never escape yourself.
Break way all the skies, if you have to,
smoke away the World below you, but remember,
you’ll never be able to hide from yourself.

Koi bhi le rasta
Tu hai tu mein basta
Apne hi ghar aayega tu
O Nadaan Parindey
Ghar aaja

Choose whatever path you wish to,
you exist, within yourself,
and you’ll only ever reach home.
Oh, naive bird.
Come back home.

Kagar Kagar
Mori itni araz tose
chun chun khaiyo mass
Arajiya re khaiyo na tu naina mohe
piya ke milan ki aas

O, darling crow.
I implore, nothing but this,
eat my flesh sparingly.
I implore, I implore,
don’t devour my eyes.
For there still remains,
a blinding hope of seeing
my beloved for one last time.
Don’t devour my eyes,
for there still remains
the possibility of an unlikely union.

O Naadaan Parindey
Ghar aaja.
Ghar aaja, ghar aaja, ghar aaja.

Oh, wayward soul.
Oh, naive bird.
Come back home.
Return. Return. Return.

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