a heap of rice
with small stones and salt
this red sari I am wearing
is a story
I cannot write.
So I am walking
with my bag of rice.
I give it to maa,
to you I give the salt
the stones I put between
today and tomorrow.

Bangla:

কত দেব?
এক গাদা ভাত
ছোট পাথর এবং নুন সঙ্গে
একটা লাল শাড়ি আমি পরা
এতা একটা গল্প
আমি লিখতে পারি না।
তখন হাটছি
ভাতের থলে সঙ্গে
আমি মা কে দিয়েছি
তোমাকে আমি নুন দিয়েছি
পাথর আমি রাখছি
আজ এবং আগামীকাল মাঝখানে।

People are fragile,
Afraid of change.
They process a new development in their lives,
In a hurried and careless manner.

As if they can't tolerate the ripple,
It would cause in their stagnant lives.
It's as if, every now and then,
The incompotents are forced to display their brutality and animalistic urge through an inhuman act,
Which, after much difficulty,
They take into account,
And again seek solace in their mundane lives.

Swearing and cussing and all the while believing,
This won't ever happen to them.
In the wake of such mishaps,
There's only one thing they're really concerned about,
Why the newspapers and channels won't showcase their usual fundbazaar news,
Or whether or not a celebrity baked a cake in quarantine,
Or when will Ramayan telecast again,
As if the act of being oblivious,
Can cure their miserable existence.

I wonder what has become of us,
What will become of us.

I wonder how many sacrifices are necessary in order to change their perspectives,
Which lens would provide them with a clearer view of the world,
I wonder if i should bear a daughter.


I wonder.
And given the pace of this new world,
I guess, I'll always wonder.

Our story couldn't have been much different than how it turned out.
We were young,
And in love.

When you proposed to me,
I said "yes" in a heartbeat.
Why wouldn't i?
You were practically the most eligible bachelor in school,
With your good looks,
And a seemingly prosperous future.

It took me about an year to come to terms with my feelings for you.
Before that,
We had a namesake friendship.

My friends used to talk about you all the time.
About how charming you were,
How polite in approach.
They were all secretly envious of how you only had eyes for me.
How smitten you were with me.
I didn't realise it back then,
But it was more with the image of you my friends had created that I fell in love with.

When we were together,
I felt invincible.
In your company,
There was a joy unlike anything I had known.

We had our romantic escapades.
We went for strolls,
Walked hand in hand,
Were often lost in the other's eyes.
It was like any love story,
We took each other's breaths in,
Longing for any accidental touch.

You loved me,
You couldn't stress it enough,
And I believed it.
I believed it with every bone in my body.

Until one day you left me.

You didn't inform me of this new arrangement.
You'd rather I be left in dark.

After the seemingly endless anguish I went through,
I received a letter.

In the letter was a painting,
A painting of the years we had spent together.
But the colours you had painted them in were...unfamiliar.

It read how I took your focus off important things.
How I was the source of your incompetence.
How I made you less happy by the day.
How I had lost all that you had once loved about me.
How I had changed.
Changed irrevocably.
How you knew I'd never be enough.
How I was just an infatuation,
Nothing, Nothing more.

Strange Currents
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

O Khusrow, the river of love
creates strange currents:
the one who would surface invariably drowns,
while the one who surrenders, survives.

There are a number of translations of this poem, and they all involve some degree of interpretation. I can't claim that my interpretation is "correct" and sometimes poets are intentionally ambiguous. I based my translation on this explanation by Madhu Singh: “Ubhra-Floats: He who floats actually sinks (is lost) & and he who drowns actually reaches the other side (gets salvation).” In other words, one must stop struggling and surrender to the river of love. And this makes more sense to me than some of the other translations do.

###

Becoming One
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I have become you, as you have become me;
I am your body, you my Essence.
Now no one can ever say
that you are someone else,
or that I am anything less than your Presence!

###

I Am a Pagan
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I am a pagan disciple of love: I need no creeds.
My every vein has become taut, like a tuned wire.
I do not need the Brahman's girdle.
Leave my bedside, ignorant physician!
The only cure for love is the sight of the patient's beloved:
there is no other medicine he needs!
If our boat lacks a pilot, let there be none:
we have god in our midst: we do not fear the sea!
The people say Khusrow worships idols:
True! True! But he does not need other people's approval;
he does not need the world's.

*****-e-ishqam musalmani mara darkaar neest
Har rag-e mun taar gashta hajat-e zunnaar neest;
Az sar-e baaleen-e mun bar khez ay naadaan tabeeb
Dard mand-e ishq ra daroo bajuz deedaar neest;
Nakhuda dar kashti-e maagar nabashad go mubaash
Makhuda daareem mara nakhuda darkaar neest;
Khalq mi goyad ki Khusrau but parasti mi kunad
Aarey aarey mi kunam ba khalq mara kaar neest.

###

Amir Khusrow’s elegy for his mother
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Wherever you shook the dust from your feet
is my relic of paradise!

###

Paradise
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

If there is an earthly paradise,
It is here! It is here! It is here!

Amir Khusrow (or Khusro) was born in 1253 A.D. in Patiyala, India, His paternal ancestors belonged to the nomadic tribe of Hazaras. Khusrow called himself an Indian Turk (Turk-e-Hind). He was a Sufi mystic, musician, poet, composer and scholar who wrote in Persian (Farsi) and Hindavi (Hindi-Urdu). Khusrow has been called the “Voice of India” and the “Father of Urdu literature.” He introduced the ghazal to India and made significant contributions to its development. He also wrote in other musical and verse forms, including qawwali, masnavi, qata, rubai, do-baiti and tarkib-band.? Keywords/Tags: Amir Khusrow, Khusro, India, Urdu, Hindi, Farsi, Sufi, ghazal, love