Palkein bhi ankhiyon se karti hain shikayat,
Aayi hai kaisi kayamat,

Kyu mujh par bin mausam barsaat karti **
Jaanti hu dard bhara hai seene mein par mujhko kyu bhigati **,

Sikhati hai bahut hua paani barsaana,
Dusro ki khushiyon mein apni manzil hai pana,

Dusro ka marham bankar
Hriday mein deep jalakar

Khushiyon ke geet gaana hai,
Apni jhopdi jali ** bhale kisi aur ki nahi ujadne dena hai,

Kasam hai khayi,
Haaregi jaroor burayi,

Aag lagi hai dil mein
Khade hue hain fir se

Log kehte hai paisa hai khushiyon ki chabi
Galat, bilkul galat wo sirf hai jaroori

Paisa khushiyan nahi khareed sakta
Dusro ko khushi dekar is masoom dil ko sukoon milta,

Pochh do kisi ki bheegi palkein
Milengi anekon duaein

Antaraatma bhi hogi paavan
Khush honge bhagwan

Dua hai dil se hamari
Bhale le lo hamari khushiyan saari

Par is dil se kisi ka dil na tute
Warna ruth jayenge khud se,

Hamare ruthe chehre bhi khile gulaab ban jate hai,
Jab kisi ke chehre par hamari wajah se muskan aate hai,

Ab Naa koi dard, Naa kisi gum ka saya hoga,
Hume khush dekh dard bhi akele me muskuraya hoga,

Dusaro ki muskan lana hi hamari khwaish hai,
Na kisi se koi bair, Na kisi se koi numaish hai,

Jo log kisi rote hue ko insaan ko hasate hai,
Wo log khuda ko bhi bahut hi bhate hai,

Khuda unlogo pr kripayen aapar kar dete hain,
Unki jholi sirf khushiyo se bhar dete hain,

Ek sadharan insaan bhagwan budha, Mahaveer tabhi kahlata hai,
Jab kisi ke berang sapno me sunhare rang bhar jata hai,

Hamari apni khushi bhale hi humse ruthi hai,
Ab tou dusro ki khushi hi hamari khushi hai,
Hamari khushi hai.....

Collaboration by Shrivastva MK and Sonia Paruthi

English Tranliteration - Pratishod Ek Mithya Hain

Ghisi peeti baate hain ab, tum naa uljho ateet mein,
Tyaag dwesh gar maaf karo, badle shatru bhi meet mein...

Sugalte badle ki chingaari ko, nahi lagti der badalte aag mein,
Barsaao kshama ka paani us par, katutaa badle prembaag mein...

Sabhi jeev hain mitra tumhare, fir bair bhav ka kya prayojan,
Waqt rehte thook do gussa, behtar hain apna lo sanyam...

Pratishod ek mithya hain, mat uljho iske jaal mein,
Saajisho aur yojaanaao mein, aur badle ki chaal mein...

Krodh ke angaare oor mein rakh, khud hi ko jalaa baithoge...
Man ki chinta chittaa samaan, yeh baat puraani bhulaa baithoge...

Der nahi huyi hain ab tak, maafi ki ehmiyat jaan lo,
Thoda maaf tum kar do ab, aur thodi tum bhi maang lo...

- - - - -

English Translation - Vengeance Is An Illusion

Begone and ancient thing it is, you don't get indulged in the past,
By abandoning hatred, if you forgive (someone) , then even an enemy gets transformed into a friend.

It doesn't take much time for a burning vengeance of cinder to change into fire,
Pour the water of forgiveness onto it, and even bitterness will change into garden of love.

All the beings are friends of yours, then what is the use of aversion?
In time, spit away your anger, and it's better to adopt temperance (sobriety/control) .

Vengeance is an illusion, don't get entwined in its trap,
In its conspiracies & plans, as well as in its schemes.

By keeping the burning coals of anger in heart, you will burn yourself alone,
Mind's worry is like a crematory pyre: you'll forget this ancient wisdom.

It's not too late still; know the significance of forgiveness,
You should now forgive a little and you should also ask for it a little...

- - - - -

Original Poem - प्रतिशोद इक मिथ्या है*

घिसी पीटी बातें हैं अब, तुम ना उलझो अतीत में।
त्याग द्वेष गर माफ़ करो, बदले शत्रु भी मीत में।।

सुलगते बदले की चिंगारी को, नहीं लगती देर बदलते आग मे।
बरसाओ क्षमा का पानी उस पर, कटुता बदले प्रेमबाग मे।।

सभी जीव हैं मित्र तुम्हारे, फिर बैरभाव का क्या प्रयोजन।
वक़्त रहते थूक दो गुस्सा, बेहतर है अपना लो संयम।।

प्रतिशोद इक मिथ्या है, मत उलझो इसके जाल में।
साजिशों और योजनाओं में, और बदले की चाल में।।

क्रोध के अँगारें रख उर में, खुद ही को जला बैठोगे।
मन की चिन्ता चित्ता समान, यह बात पुरानी भुला बैठोगे।।

© Poem by *Manas Madrecha

Bachpan ka samay kabhi na lautkar aata ,
Har waqt bus yaadon ka aasma reh jaata ,

Khelte the hum bhi khub dhul ko udel ko,
Maaf kr diye jate hamare sabhi galtiya aur bhul ko,

Jab chaha has lete they ,
Aur jab chaha ro dete they ,

Chhote chhote aankhon me sapne bade hote the,
Na kisi se bair,sare log apne hote the,

Par ab tou aansuo ko chahiye tanhayi ,
Chehre par sirf jhoothi muskaan hai chhayi ,

Zindagi ki tapish mein kab bachpan guzar gaya ,
Kab bachhe se bade ** gye zindagi ki daur mein nazar hi nahi aaya ,


Kya din they chalate they baarish mein nao 
Ab khud ko chupane ke liye sochtey hain kha jao,
 
Na kuch paane ki aasha thi or na kuch khone ka drrrr,
Mast rehte they jaha apni hi dhun idhar udhar,

Koi lauta de bachpan ka sawan
Fir se mehak jayega mere dil ka aangan ,


Khelte they khilone se aaj khud khilona ban gaye ,
Bachpan ke sunhere pal na jaane kha kho gaye,

Maa se lipatne ke  bahane bnate,
Maa ke aanchal ke chav me hi so jate,

Chhote se kadam se saitaniya bde karte the,
Papa Ki pyari daat pr bhi ro dete the,

Jab bhi rota mai,Maa apne sine se laga leti thi,
Sahlake haath sar pr mere muskura deti thi,

Maa ka dudh jaise amrit ka pyala tha,
Sach me hamara bachpan bahut hi nirala tha,

Amrit ka Ek ghut pi kar bhi khush ** jate the,
Duniya ka sabse bda sukh maa ke aanchal me hi pate the,

Yaad hai hume wo khubsurat bachpan ke pal,
Muskura dete hum jab bhi yaad aate wo sunhare bite kal........

4th collab. Poem composed by
Sonia Paruthi & Manish Shrivastva

It was going to be the trip of a lifetime. Sydney, Cairo, Constantinople, maybe even Jerusalem if there was time and breath left in us. We came from the far-flung reaches of the earth to the bustling capitals of the Middle East. Just me, my good mates -  Blue, Grim and his cousin Frank - our chaperone Sergeant Major O’Donnell, and 1,500 other lads of the 1st Australian Light Horse Brigade.

Frank copped it at Gallipoli, never even set foot on the beach. I left him screaming on the metal deck of the landing craft awash with ***** and blood as he watched his innards unfurl. ****** oath, they stunk! Like ten-day-old snags left out in the Adelaide sun. His Mum always said she’d have his guts for garters if he enlisted underage. I reckon she’d never use that expression again. She was a nice lady too, that Mrs Gibson.

Tell me, fair dinkum, what do 18-year-old, daring-do dreamers from Parramatta know of the chain of high command, a war of geopolitical strategy and stiff upper lips. The bewhiskered gentlemen who manoeuvre their pieces in imperial map rooms will live to fight another day, and yet hold their fallen troops accountable for the unpredictable tides of history.

Grim took Frank’s death hard. From that day on his war was one explosive suicide mission. In the end, he walked into a spray of Turkish gunpowder at Chunuk Bair. The Distinguished Conduct Medal he earned that day sits on my mantelpiece beside a photo of the four of us at Giza. His sister Molly, my dear sweet Molly, turned out to be the love of my life. Funny how that happens - the threads that hold us together, the ties that bind brothers, the strangers who become our saviours.

The sergeant major succumbed to typhoid fever in Palestine and that left Blue and me. We sit and remember. We laugh at the horror during the day and shiver in our beds at night. We wage war with ourselves, our choices, our victories and defeats. We marvel at the world and the territorial ambition of nations, shake our heads at the repetition of dumb history, and raise our wavering fists to those same men in their ivory towers. It’s in all the newspapers that the Vietnam conflict is this generation’s Dardanelles Campaign. ‘A vain and protracted engagement fought in a topographically hostile arena with disproportionate loss of life’ is what I read. Yet wonder of wonders, a Yank - Blue knows his name...but I forget...Neville Someone - walked on the moon last month. Do y’reckon we helped to make that happen? Four cobbers from New South Wales, who had a knack with horseflesh and a taste for kangaroo feathers, on an adventure which spanned more lifetimes than I could ever have imagined.

Sometimes I feel invisible.
I'm screaming and shouting.
Waving my arms frantically.
No sound.
No one hears.
No one cares.
Grabbing limbs,
Tugging at shirts.
I'm doing everything to be noticed.
Not a person turns.
Tears course down my cheeks,
My throat is sore.
My cheeks, red.
My bair is  in knots and my palms are sweaty.
I'm exhausted, I'm a mess.
I'm about to give up on this life and,
No one cares.

As I stumble upon
A Bair
Of spheres
I wanted
What the hrck
They are
After a closer look
And a memoriess
Of the yakuza papers
Movies I recognized
Them
As stress *****
Of the Chinese verity.

IM Pilot Jane A. Rug
who ascribes to writing poetry
as opportunistic, holistic, and cathartic
warming me body electric
courtesy an outsize
warm brimful coffee mug
I savor and slowly chug.

Toupee piece blew off me bald noggin
with zag and zig
went off for hair raising shindig
donning noggin of villager in Nigg
(historic county of Ross-shire,
historic region of Ross
and Cromarty, northeast
coast of Scotland).

Somehow postiche crossed the big pond
once belonged to magician,
who could create static electricity waving wand
across artificial tresses colored blond,
which wizard in disguise did abscond
with priceless peruke
(archaic word for periwig)
cuz said luxurious locks
once belonged to Dolly Parton.

Though I embellished
and expounded from original
poem still probably not very clear,
nevertheless toil onward if ye dare.

Upon occasion the missus
doth plop squat foursquare
on her plump derriere
brandishes scissors to keep hair
closely cropped to her scalp.

Once upon a time,
not very long ago somewhere
over the rainbow
within the Milky Way Galaxy,
she managed plying
chutzpah, guts and moxie to scare
connive, finagle, inveigle,
et cetera, an unused wig another
tenant at Highland
Manor Apartments here
(Compact, low slung,
and well maintained
dwellings by big booted (size 14)
previous onsite natural marvel
property manager Kevin Bair
him with shiny pate,
the former onsite jack (jilted)
of all trades handyman balladeer
crooning of Jen Tra Fide
units made like new
for those in despair
battling a crisis, and experiencing
little salvation on broken wing and prayer
low cost affordable renting facilities
though not by a near
and/or far cry ritzy as
luxury places named Bel Air,
but energy efficient air
tight, quieter than a cemetary).

Anyway, zee spouse I dare
say casts a shadow clear
the size of Rhode Island,
and chanced to acquire
ratty noggin head gear,
she did need toupee joost a dime,
and quickly realized shear
hideousness, sans "FAKE" hirsute
wig required ample
tender loving care,
thus she betook

what closely resembled
skinned hide of a distant forebear,
(or perhaps def leppard)
to Liberty thrift store,
but encountered manic tear
roar (cue Katy Perry), when enroute,
to said rectilinear
structure, out car window flew wig
landing inaccessible risking life or limb
mighty size wife easily deflected career
ring vehicles (imagine

mini measle lee Andre the Giant)
despite drivers abruptly halting to stare
as pint size super woman
gingerly didst ensnare
tire worn and tread full sorry excuse
for those claiming going bald unfair
even if renaming opposite
of being hirsute male/female
pattern receding hairline
all the way back to nape of neck.

Interesting how odd
distribution of atavistic fur
witnesses enough coily kinks
donning nether regions of body
flowing to ground within a year.

Went off for hair raising shindig
donning noggin of villager in Nigg
(historic county of Ross-shire,
historic region of Ross
and Cromarty, northeast
coast of Scotland).

Somehow postiche crossed the big pond
once belonged to magician,
who could create static electricity waving wand
across artificial tresses colored blond,
which wizard in disguise did abscond
with priceless peruke
(archaic word for periwig)
cuz said luxurious locks
once belonged to Dolly Parton.

Though I embellished
and expounded from original
poem still probably not very clear,
nevertheless toil onward if ye dare.

Upon occasion the missus
doth plop squat foursquare
on her plump derriere
brandishes scissors to keep hair
closely cropped to her scalp.

Once upon a time,
not very long ago somewhere
over the rainbow
within the Milky Way Galaxy,
she managed plying
chutzpah, guts and moxie to scare
connive, finagle, inveigle,
et cetera, an unused wig another
tenant at Highland
Manor Apartments here

(Compact, low slung,
and well maintained
dwellings by big booted (size 14)
previous onsite natural marvel
property manager Kevin Bair
him with shiny pate,
the former onsite jack (jilted)
of all trades handyman balladeer
crooning of Jen Tra Fide

units made like new
for those in despair
low cost affordable renting facilities
though not by a near
and/or far cry ritzy as
luxury places named Bel Air,
but energy efficient air
tight, quieter than a cemetary).

Anyway, zee spouse I dare
say casts a shadow clear
the size of Rhode Island,
and chanced to acquire
ratty noggin head gear,
she did need toupee joost a dime,
and quickly realized shear
hideousness, sans "FAKE" hirsute

wig required ample
tender loving care,
thus she betook
what closely resembled
skinned hide of a distant forebear,
(or perhaps def leppard)
to Liberty thrift store,
but encountered manic tear

roar, when enroute,
to said rectilinear
structure, out car window flew wig
landing inaccessible risking life or limb
mighty size wife easily deflected career
ring vehicles (imagine
mini measle lee Andre the Giant)
despite drivers abruptly halting to stare

as pint size super woman
gingerly didst ensnare
tire worn and tread full sorry excuse
for those claiming going bald unfair
even if renaming opposite
of being hirsute male/female
pattern receding hairline
all the way back to nape of neck.

Interesting how odd
distribution of atavistic fur
witnesses enough coily kinks
donning nether regions of body
flowing to ground within a year.

(Any resemblance between the following humorous account and real life circumstance tis purely coincidental).

Went off for hair raising shindig
donning noggin of villager in Nigg
(historic county of Ross-shire,
historic region of Ross
and Cromarty, northeast
coast of Scotland).

Somehow postiche crossed the big pond
once belonged to magician,
who could create static electricity waving wand
across artificial tresses colored blond,
which wizard in disguise did abscond
with priceless peruke
(archaic word for periwig)
cuz said luxurious locks
once belonged to Dolly Parton.

Though I embellished
and expounded from original
poem still probably not very clear,
nevertheless toil onward if ye dare.

Upon occasion the missus
doth plop squat foursquare
on her plump derriere
brandishes scissors to keep hair
closely cropped to her scalp.

Once upon a time,
not very long ago somewhere
over the rainbow
within the Milky Way Galaxy,
she managed plying
chutzpah, guts and moxie to scare
connive, finagle, inveigle,
et cetera, an unused wig another
tenant at Highland
Manor Apartments here

(Compact, low slung,
and well maintained
dwellings by big booted (size 14)
previous onsite natural marvel
then property manager Kevin Bair
him with shiny pate,
the former onsite jack (jilted)
of all trades handyman balladeer
crooning of Jen Tra Fide

units made like new
for those in despair
low cost affordable renting facilities
though not by a near
and/or far cry ritzy as
luxury places named Bel Air,
but energy efficient air
tight, quieter than a cemetary).

Anyway, zee spouse I dare
say casts a shadow clear
the size of Rhode Island,
and chanced to acquire
ratty noggin head gear,
she did need toupee joost a dime,
and quickly realized shear
hideousness, sans "FAKE" hirsute

wig required ample
tender loving care,
thus she betook
what closely resembled
skinned hide of a distant forebear,
(or perhaps def leppard)
to Liberty thrift store,
but encountered manic tear

roar, when enroute,
to said rectilinear
structure, out car window flew wig
landing inaccessible risking life or limb
mighty size wife easily deflected career
ring vehicles (imagine
mini measle lee Andre the Giant)
despite drivers abruptly halting to stare

as pint size super woman
gingerly didst ensnare
tire worn and tread full sorry excuse
for those claiming going bald unfair
even if renaming opposite
of being hirsute male/female
pattern receding hairline
all the way back to nape of neck.

Interesting how odd
distribution of atavistic fur
witnesses enough coily kinks
donning nether regions of body
flowing to ground within a year.