Urdu poetry (shayaree) consists of a couplet or sher (pl. ashaar). A sher has two lines (misra) - the first one is called misra-e-oola and the second is called misra-e-sani. Each verse expresses a single thought.
Phan
[my first attempt at shayaree]
aap ki mausiqi ke sahaare
humne hazaaron haseen pal guzaare.
mehefil ka daam to hum bhar chuke hain
magar phan ka daam kaun bhar saktaa hai?
04-JUN-06
Gareeb
asharfiyon se cchaagal bhartaa hai, pet nahee,
ameeree ka kya faida, samajh na saka wohee.
zindagi ke karz ko chuka na sake,
maasoomiyat ko khareed na sake!
04-JUN-06
Muqaddar ka Sikandar
jab duniya dushman ban jaati hai,
taqdeer bachaata hai.
jab taqdeer dushman ban jaaye
kaun bachaa saktaa hai?
02-JUL-06
zindagi mein sabhi pyar karte hain
kuch log toh saphal bhi ho jate hain.
khush-naseeb hain baaki saare
baal baal bach gaye saale!
01-NOV-09
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Falling in Love
Imagine falling in love and never being disappointed.
Imagine falling in love and never having to keep any commitments.
Imagine rising in love.
Most people remember distinctly the times they fell in love, at least for the first time. I don’t. I might have been three or four, still unconscious of the world, but it was love. I’m quite sure. Else it wouldn’t have lasted all these years.
I don’t remember the first book I read, but as a child I always enjoyed reading. In my formative years, my staple diet comprised comic books about Indian history and myth, children’s magazines, and story books. I was born in a time when land-line telephones were a luxury, computers were unheard of, and J K Rowling was still a teenager.
By the time I reached the information age, I was gorging on entries in the Grolier encyclopaedia – one of the best investments my dad ever made (apart from my schooling). Holding a book larger than my brain and trying to absorb a few carats of information, I used to wonder how the author knew so much about so many things. It bothered me. I simply couldn’t believe that I knew so little. Worse yet, looking at the volumes on the bookshelf, I had no hope.
Amusement parks were boring and circuses were loud, but a trip to the bookstore was sheer joy – not strange for a boy like me who bunked sports classes to sit in the school library. Annual book fairs in the city meant party time. Armed with a huge list and hoping that dad’s wallet had at least a few hundred rupees, I would go for the kill. And as always, a huge argument would begin at the payment desk.
As I got older, I had my monthly allowances, which I often saved up to buy a book that my dad would brush off as irrelevant or my mom would accuse of being ‘ridiculously expensive’. What did become ridiculously expensive was the wooden cupboard we got done in order to fit in my books.
To me, a book is alive. Not just in the sense of the author speaking to me, but in its entirety. The paper came from a tree, the ink came from seeds or sea creatures, the glue came from starch and so on. Every single letter in the book was manually arranged by someone, the font was created by another, and the book was bound by a third. By the time this 19th century book reaches my hand, no one’s alive. But as I turn the pages carefully, inhale the dust, and ruminate over its contents, I bring the book back to life, making every single sacrifice worth it.
And so, when my dear friend sends word that my beloved will be replaced by a gizmo that is manufactured in Taiwan and sold in the US, he is asking for trouble and he doesn’t even know it. I don’t think you want to exchange your wife with an android that looks like her, talks like her, thinks like her and does everything that she does.
Hari Ravikumar
26th October 2009
Context: A friend of mine said: “books are on the way to extinction, and I think that's a good thing,” and continued after a pause “what I mean is thanks to the popularization of e-readers and e-books, we will one day, stop cutting trees for a rather avoidable reason.”
Imagine falling in love and never having to keep any commitments.
Imagine rising in love.
Most people remember distinctly the times they fell in love, at least for the first time. I don’t. I might have been three or four, still unconscious of the world, but it was love. I’m quite sure. Else it wouldn’t have lasted all these years.
I don’t remember the first book I read, but as a child I always enjoyed reading. In my formative years, my staple diet comprised comic books about Indian history and myth, children’s magazines, and story books. I was born in a time when land-line telephones were a luxury, computers were unheard of, and J K Rowling was still a teenager.
By the time I reached the information age, I was gorging on entries in the Grolier encyclopaedia – one of the best investments my dad ever made (apart from my schooling). Holding a book larger than my brain and trying to absorb a few carats of information, I used to wonder how the author knew so much about so many things. It bothered me. I simply couldn’t believe that I knew so little. Worse yet, looking at the volumes on the bookshelf, I had no hope.
Amusement parks were boring and circuses were loud, but a trip to the bookstore was sheer joy – not strange for a boy like me who bunked sports classes to sit in the school library. Annual book fairs in the city meant party time. Armed with a huge list and hoping that dad’s wallet had at least a few hundred rupees, I would go for the kill. And as always, a huge argument would begin at the payment desk.
As I got older, I had my monthly allowances, which I often saved up to buy a book that my dad would brush off as irrelevant or my mom would accuse of being ‘ridiculously expensive’. What did become ridiculously expensive was the wooden cupboard we got done in order to fit in my books.
To me, a book is alive. Not just in the sense of the author speaking to me, but in its entirety. The paper came from a tree, the ink came from seeds or sea creatures, the glue came from starch and so on. Every single letter in the book was manually arranged by someone, the font was created by another, and the book was bound by a third. By the time this 19th century book reaches my hand, no one’s alive. But as I turn the pages carefully, inhale the dust, and ruminate over its contents, I bring the book back to life, making every single sacrifice worth it.
And so, when my dear friend sends word that my beloved will be replaced by a gizmo that is manufactured in Taiwan and sold in the US, he is asking for trouble and he doesn’t even know it. I don’t think you want to exchange your wife with an android that looks like her, talks like her, thinks like her and does everything that she does.
Hari Ravikumar
26th October 2009
Context: A friend of mine said: “books are on the way to extinction, and I think that's a good thing,” and continued after a pause “what I mean is thanks to the popularization of e-readers and e-books, we will one day, stop cutting trees for a rather avoidable reason.”
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Eyes will deceive you
Lyrics: Guzlar
Album: Omkara | Singer: Rahat Fateh Ali Khan | Music: Vishal Bharadwaj
Don’t trust the eyes
Don’t listen to the eyes
Eyes will deceive you.
They weave their magic even as you are awake
They weave their magic, ruining your sleep
Eyes will deceive you.
They see no difference between good and bad,
between friends and strangers
Eyes love to sting, on whim,
and lethal is their venom
In the clouds, they plant rainbows and make it rain till dawn
In the clouds, they plant rainbows
They drive you crazy
Eyes will deceive you.
Eyes will walk you to the heavens at night
sowing dreams of rain-laden clouds and greenery
One can never believe the words of the eyes;
there’s no receipt or record to prove what they say
Their words float like the wind
Sans clouds they bring rain and sans rain bring monsoon
Sans clouds they bring rain
They drive you crazy.
Eyes will deceive you.
Translated by Hari Ravikumar
naina thag lenge
nainon ki mat maaniyo re
nainon ki mat suniyo re
naina thag lenge.
jagte jaadu phunkenge re, jagte jagte jaadu
jagte jaadu phunkenge re, neenden banjar kar denge
naina thag lenge.
bhala manda dekhe na paraya na saga re
nainon ko toh dasne ka chaska laga re
nainon ka zeher nasheela re
baadalon mein satrangiyan bonve, bhor talak barsaave
baadalon mein satrangiyan bonve, naina baanvra kar denge
naina thag lenge.
naina raat ko chalte chalte swargan mein le jaave
megh malhaar ke sapne bije hariyali dikhlaave
nainon ki zubaan pe bharosa nahi aata
likhat padhat na raseed na khaata
saari baat havaai re
bin baadal barsaave saawan, saawan bin barsaata
bin baadal barsaave saawan, naina baanvra kar denge
naina thag lenge.
Album: Omkara | Singer: Rahat Fateh Ali Khan | Music: Vishal Bharadwaj
Don’t trust the eyes
Don’t listen to the eyes
Eyes will deceive you.
They weave their magic even as you are awake
They weave their magic, ruining your sleep
Eyes will deceive you.
They see no difference between good and bad,
between friends and strangers
Eyes love to sting, on whim,
and lethal is their venom
In the clouds, they plant rainbows and make it rain till dawn
In the clouds, they plant rainbows
They drive you crazy
Eyes will deceive you.
Eyes will walk you to the heavens at night
sowing dreams of rain-laden clouds and greenery
One can never believe the words of the eyes;
there’s no receipt or record to prove what they say
Their words float like the wind
Sans clouds they bring rain and sans rain bring monsoon
Sans clouds they bring rain
They drive you crazy.
Eyes will deceive you.
Translated by Hari Ravikumar
naina thag lenge
nainon ki mat maaniyo re
nainon ki mat suniyo re
naina thag lenge.
jagte jaadu phunkenge re, jagte jagte jaadu
jagte jaadu phunkenge re, neenden banjar kar denge
naina thag lenge.
bhala manda dekhe na paraya na saga re
nainon ko toh dasne ka chaska laga re
nainon ka zeher nasheela re
baadalon mein satrangiyan bonve, bhor talak barsaave
baadalon mein satrangiyan bonve, naina baanvra kar denge
naina thag lenge.
naina raat ko chalte chalte swargan mein le jaave
megh malhaar ke sapne bije hariyali dikhlaave
nainon ki zubaan pe bharosa nahi aata
likhat padhat na raseed na khaata
saari baat havaai re
bin baadal barsaave saawan, saawan bin barsaata
bin baadal barsaave saawan, naina baanvra kar denge
naina thag lenge.
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