सरफरोशी की तमन्ना

This is an amazing composition, and its rendition in the movie Rang De Basanti is great. And a very profound part of the composition is also that the poet is an Urdu poet, Bismil Azimbadi. It never fails to amuse me when this poem would be quoted by our "Hindutva" parties to further their bigotted agendas :)



सरफरोशी की तमन्ना अब हमारे दिल में है
देखना है जोर कितना बाजू-इ-कातिल में है

ए वतन करता नहीं क्यों दूसरा कोई बात-चीत
देखता हम मैं जिसे वोह चुप तेरी महफिल में है
ए शहीद-इ-मुल्क-ओ-मिल्लत में तेरे ऊपर निसार
अब तेरी हिम्मत के चर्चे गैर की महेफिल में है
सरफरोशी की तमन्ना अब हमारे दिल में है

वक़्त आने दे बता देंगे तुझे ऐ आसमान
हम अभी से क्या बताएं क्या हमारे दिल में है
खींच कर लाई है साब को क़त्ल होने की उम्मीद
आशिकों का आज जमघट कूचा-इ-कातिल में है
सरफरोशी की तमन्ना अब हमारे दिल में है

है लिए हथियार दुश्मन टाक में बैठा उधर
और हम तैयार है सीना लिए अपना इधर
खून से खेलेंगे होली गर वतन मुश्किल में है
सरफरोशी की तमन्ना अब हमारे दिल में है

हाथ जिन में हो जूनून कटते नहीं तलवार से
सर जो उठ जाते वो झुकते नहीं ललकार से
और भड़केगा जो शोला-सा हमारे दिल में है
सरफरोशी की तमन्ना अब हमारे दिल में है

हम तो घर से निकले ही थे बांधकर सर पे कफ़न
जान हथेली पर लिए लो बढ़ चले हैं यह क़दम
ज़िन्दगी तो अपनी मेहमान मौत की महफिल में है
सरफरोशी की तमन्ना अब हमारे दिल में है

यूं खडा मकतल में कातिल कह रहा है बार बार
क्या तमन्ना-ऐ-शहादत भी किस्से के दिल में है
दिल में तूफानों की टोली और नसों में इन्कलाब
होस्ग दुश्मन के उडा देंगे हमें रोको न आज
दूर रह पाए जो हमसे दम कहाँ मंजिल में है

वोह जिस्म भी क्या जिस्म है जिसमें ना हो खून-इ-जूनून
तूफानों से क्या लढे जो कश्ती-इ-साहिल में है
चुप खड़े हैं आज सारे भाई मेरे खामोश है
न करो तो कुछ कहो मज़हब मेरा मुश्किल में है

सरफरोशी की तमन्ना अब हमारे दिल में है
देखना है जोर कितना बाजू-इ-कातिल में है

- बिस्मिल अझिम्बादी

And it also reminds me of this sentence: A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them and all chance of valor has gone beyond beyond recall or desire.

I sit beside the fire and think

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood and every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

- Its Bilbo's song :)

What a wonderful world

This entry is the other way around. I like this song so hear it first.





I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and for you
And I think to myself... what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue clouds of white
Bright blessed days dark sacred nights
And I think to myself... what a wonderful world.

The colors of a rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands sayin how do you do
They're really saying I love you.

I hear babies cry I watch them grow
Theyll learn much more than Ill never know
And I think to myself .....what a wonderful world

आता है याद मुझको

आता है याद मुझको गुज़रा हुआ ज़माना
वोह बाग़ की बहारें वोह साब का चह-चहाना
memories of days gone by come back to me
that garden in spring, all that chitter chatter

आज़ादियाँ कहाँ वोह अब अपने घोंसले की
अपनी खुशी से आना अपनी ख़ुशी से जाना
where is that freedom of my nest now
that coming and going as one pleased

लगती हैं चोट दिल पर, आता है याद जिस दम
शबनम के आंसुओं पर कलियों का मुस्कुराना
it hurts my heart when i so recall
the petals glowing with those tears of dew

वो प्यारी प्यारी सूरत, वोह कामीनी सी मूरत
आबाद जिस के दम से था मेरा आशियाना
that lovely face, that idol
by which my whole world was alive

- इकबाल

बोल के लब आजाद हैं तेरे

बोल के लब आजाद हैं तेरे

बोल ज़बान अब तक तेरी है

तेरा सुतवां जिस्म है तेरा

बोल के जान अब तक तेरी है

देख के आहंगर की दूकान में

तुंद हैं शोले सुर्ख है आहन

खुलने लगे कुफ्लों के दहाने

फैला हर एक ज़ंजीर का दामन

बोल ये थोरा वक़्त बहुत है

जिस्म-ओ-जुबां की मौत से पहले

बोल के सच ज़िंदा है अब तक

बोल जो कुछ कहना है कह ले


सुतवां - well built आहंगर - blacksmith
आहन - iron कुफ्लों - locks

Irresistible Faiz... did I say how much I like his poetry?

मोगरा फुलला

मोगरा फुलला मोगरा फुलला ।

इवलेंसे रोप लाविलें द्वारी ।
त्याचा वेलु गेला गगनावेरी ॥१॥

मोगरा फुलला मोगरा फुलला ।
फुलें वेंचितां बहरू कळियांसी आला ॥२॥

मनाचिये गुंती गुंइफियेला शेला ।
बाप रखुमादेविवरू विठ्ठलीं अर्पिला ॥३॥

- संत ज्ञानेश्वर

Mogra bloomed, Mogra bloomed (Mogra is a very sweet smelling flower)

A small sapling planted at my doorstep
It's vine grew up to reach the sky

Mogra bloomed, Mogra bloomed.
As the flowers were plucked, it bloomed into completeness (approx)

On mind's loom, I wove a rich cloth
And offered it to my father-like god Vitthal



Marathi poetry has a rich collenction of bhakti sangeet. There were many poet saints who wove beautiful poetry of devotion to Vitthal or inspiration found among daily doings of people, and in nature. I don't know much about the origin of Vitthal, but he has inspired some really beautiful poetry.
Many times though, the Marathi used is arcane, and not easily comprehendible. But isn't it the case with a lot of Indian literature that the language is the biggest barrier?

Living

I knew only these words of the poem:

The thing that is called living isn't gold or fame at all
It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal
It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul

A google search gave the entire poem:

The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;
The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;
The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
And upon this vital subject no two of us agree.

But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.
I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold,
To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.
I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,
And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.
I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,
And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.

Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!
It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall;
It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze,
And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.
It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;
It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.

- Edgar Guest