Rescuing Bismil

One of my most enduring memories of watching Rang De Basanti is the incredibly powerful rendition of "Sarfaroshi Kee Tamanna" by Laxman Pandey (Atul Kulkarni). It was a poem written by Ramprasad Bismil. I have not been able to find these lines in the audio CDs of the movie though the other part of the same poem is rendered equally powerfully by Aamir Khan (this time with accompanying music) later in the movie. The entire poem can be found here. The wiki website has works of many other renowned persons of Hindi literature, for those of you who are interested. For my own sake, however, here are the lines that Kulkarni delivers in his throbbing baritone with his eyes turning rather emotively-looking-faraway as he gets through the poem:

sarfaroshi kee tamanna ab hamaare dil mein hai
dekhna hai zor kitna baju-e-quatil mein hai

karta nahin kyoon doosra koochh baatcheet
dekhta hoon main jise woh chup teree mehfil mein hai

Ei shaheed-e-mulquo-millat main tere upar nisaar
ab teree himmat ka charcha gair kee mehfil mein hai

waqt aane de bata denge tujhe ei aasmaan
hum abhee se kya bataayein kya hamare dil mein hai

kheench kar laayee hai sabko qatl hone kee ummeed
aashiquon ka jamghat aaj koocha-e-quatil mein hai

#Aamir's rendition later in the movie

yoon khada maqtal mein quatil keh raha hai baar baar
kya tamanna-e-shahadat bhee kisi ke dil mein hai

- Ramprasad Bismil

a disappearing poet of always

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your (in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here's to silent certainly mountains; and to
a disappearing poet of always, snow
and to morning; and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight (and a first dream called ocean) and

let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks, nor dares to feel (but up
with joy; and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

- e e cummings

Sunday

Books, portraits & an ashtray
on a bed that disowns
this afternoon of mediocrity.

Black Marigolds

Even now
If I see in my soul the citron-breasted fair one
Still gold-tinted, her face like our night stars,
Drawing unto her; her body beaten about with flame,
Wounded by the flaring spear of love,
My first of all by reason of her fresh years,
Then is my heart buried alive in snow.

Even now
If my girl with lotus eyes came to me again
Weary with the dear weight of young love,
Again I would give her to these starved twins of arms
And from her mouth drink down the heavy wine,
As a reeling pirate bee in fluttered ease
Steals up the honey from the nenuphar.

Even now
If I saw her lying all wide eyes
And with collyrium the indent of her cheek
Lengthened to the bright ear and her pale side
So suffering the fever of my distance,
Then would my love for her be ropes of flowers, and night
A black-haired lover on the breasts of day.

Even now
My eyes that hurry to see no more are painting, painting
Faces of my lost girl. O golden rings
That tap against cheeks of small magnolia-leaves,
O whitest so soft parchment where
My poor divorced lips have written excellent
Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more.

Even now
Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids
Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body
All broken up with the weariness of joy;
The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort
Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow
Wet crimson lips that once I marked as mine.

Even now
They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars
Who was so strong to love me. And small men
That buy and sell for silver being slaves
Crinkles the fat about their eyes; and yet
No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her,
Leading to his grim bed. Little lonely one,
You cling to me as a garment clings; my girl.

Even now
I love long black eyes that caress like silk,
Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes,
Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close
It seems another beautiful look of hers.
I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth,
And curving hair, subtle as a smoke,
And light fingers, and laughter of green gems.

Even now
I remember that you made answer very softly,
We being one soul, your hand on my hair,
The burning memory rounding your near lips;
I have seen the preistesses of Rati make love at moon fall
And then in a carpeted hall with a bright gold lamp
Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep.


Even now
I mind the coming and talking of wise men from towers
Where they had thought away their youth. And I, listening,
Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl,
Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep;
Little wise words and little witty words,
Wanton as water, honied with eagerness.

Even now
I mind that I loved cypress and roses, clear,
The great blue mountains and the small grey hills,
The sounding of the sea. Upon a day
I saw strange eyes and hands like butterflies;
For me at morning larks flew from the thyme
And children came to bathe in little streams.

Even now
I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life
Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast.
Just for a small and a forgotten time
I have had full in my eyes from off my girl
The whitest pouring of eternal light ...

Quoted in 'Cannery Row' - John Steinbeck

Anticipation

This evanescing Friday evening
I cannot help smiling
at the thought of seeing you.

Evasion

Why this need for cloaks?
these unsure strides, the fake smile,
Why this turning away
& locking of doors?