A shot in the dark

Wonder if there is anyone out there to hear this virtual tree falling.

But I hear there is a time for everything.

“A time to give birth, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to uproot what is planted. A time to kill, and a time to heal; A time to tear down, and a time to build up. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones; A time to embrace, and a time to shun embracing. A time to search, and a time to give up as lost; A time to keep, and a time to throw away. A time to tear apart, and a time to sew together; A time to be silent, and a time to speak. A time to love, and a time to hate; A time for war, and a time for peace.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1–8)

Now seems the time to blog.

On my handle. I permit myself here to interpret Saahir Ludhiyanvi‘s words for the (Hindi) movie Kabhi Kabhi, and provide my own context to them.

The unawoken poet sings:

“mai pal do pal kaa shaayar hoo, pal do pal meree kahaanee hain
pal do pal meree hastee hai, pal do pal meree jawaanee hain

muz se pahale kitane shaayar, aaye aaur aakar chale gaye
kuchh aahe bhar kar laut gaye, kuchh nagmei gaa kar chale gaye
wo bhee ek pal kaa kissaa the, main bhee ek pal kaa kissaa hoo
kal tum se judaa ho jaaoongaa, wo aaj tumhaaraa hissaa hoo

kal aaur aayenge, nagmon kee khilatee kaliyaa chunanewaale
muz se behatar kahanewaale, tum se behatar sunanewaale
kal koee muz ko yaad kare, kyo koee muz ko yaad kare
masaruf jamaanaa mere liye, kyo wakt apanaa barabaad kare”

[I’m a poet of a moment or two, my tale tells for a moment or two
My existence spans a moment or two, my youth is a moment or two

Before me several poets have come and gone
Some sighed sighs and departed, some sang ballads and left
Their’s was the story of a moment, mine is the story of a moment
Tomorrow I’ll be separated from you, but today I’m part of you

Tomorrow there’ll appear more, pickers of blossoming flowers of songs
That say it better than me, that listen better than you
Tomorrow some might remember me; why should anyone remember me?
The absorbed world, why should it squander it’s time for me?]

On awakening, the poet sings:

“Maein Har Ek Pal Ka Shaayar Hoon, Har Ek Pal Meri Kahani Hai
Har Ek Pal Meri Hasti Hai, Har Ek Pal Meri Jawaani Hai

Rishton Ka Roop Badalta Hai, Buniyaden Khatam Nahin Hoti
Khwabon Ki Aur Umango Ki, Miyaden Khatam Nahin Hoti
Ek Phool Mein Tera Roop Basa Ek Phool Mein Meri Jawaani Hai
Ek Chehra Teri Nishaani Hai, Ek Chehra Meri Nishaani Hai

Tujhko Mujhko Jeevan Amrit, Ab In Haathon Se Peena Hai
Inki Dhadkan Mein Basna Hai, Inki Saanson Mein Jeena Hai
Tu Apni Adaen Baksh Inhen Maein Apni Wafaen Deta Hoon
Jo Apne Liye Sochi Thi Kabhi, Woh Saari Duaen Deta Hoon”

[I’m the poet of every moment, My tale is of every moment
I exist in every moment, every moment is my youth

Forms of relationships change, their foundations remain intact
Dreams and aspirations, their durations do not expire
Your beauty lives on in one flower, my youth in another
One face bears your features, and another mine

You and I have to drink the elixir of life now with these hands
Make a home in their heartbeats, live in their breaths
You grant them your charms, I give them my fidelities
What I had once wished for myself, (I) give them all those blessings.]

I am no poet, and of unawoken poets I stake no claim to the noun.

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8 comments
  1. daku said:

    welcome in cyberspace (-: what a wonderful intro. maybe your time to blog has come, and my time to blog has gone (-:

  2. Mridul said:

    I love that song … and a few others from that movie.
    Welcome !

  3. gn said:

    wow! did not know this side of yours

  4. So here I am, in the middle way, having had
    twenty years –
    Twenty years largely wasted, the years of
    l’entre deux guerres –
    Trying to use words, and every attempt
    Is a wholly new start, and a different kind
    of failure
    Because one has only learnt to get the better
    of words
    For the thing one no longer has to say, or
    the way in which
    One is no longer disposed to say it. And so
    each venture
    Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate,
    With shabby equipment always deteriorating
    In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
    Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what
    there is to conquer
    By strength and submission, has already
    been discovered
    Once or twice, or several times, by men whom
    one cannot hope
    To emulate – but there is no competition –
    There is only the fight to recover
    what has been lost
    And found and lost again and again: and now,
    under conditions
    That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither
    gain nor loss.
    For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not
    our business.
    –T. S. Eliot
    East Coker
    Four Quartets

  5. gn said:

    nice. I just read about this poem. T. S Eliot probably had a different interpretation of this poem, but it fits very well here!

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