Ordained by our holiness,
we shall kindle the initiatiory sacred flame
by singing your glory.

Having bougt this slave
why are you forsaking him midway?
I have no confidence
and have lost all courage.
What must I do?
Ministering to the Universe,
nurturing the devotees,
headful of your devotees' sorrow,
you bear the entire burden.
Here they are at your holy feet
for you to bear the load
of your devotees' woes on your back.
You have yoked prosperity and misery,
salvation and damnation together.
Who will carry
the burden of sin and sorrow?
Let it continue to lie at your feet.
Having manifested yourself
why are you apathetic?
Where shall I flee and hide?
Today shall I unfasten
the burden of my sins
and lay them out at your feet.
Having surrendered themselves,
all the wailing devotees
are prostrate at your feet.
Forgiving all their sins and crimes,
O master, nurture them carefully.
How do you endure
your importuning devotees,
and their endless sorrows?
Even if my life be consigned to hell
let the world be saved.















The storm that blows in me blows nowhere else.
It's kind of you to listen to me say so
though kindness is a gain that love cancels,

A gathering of metaphysical laughter repels
the platitude about what comes must go.
The storm that blows in me blows nowhere else.

The argument in massed design, that tells
of a dragging maze is the decorated door
to kindness which is a gain that love cancels.

The lush in the dark assembles many spells
to call forward a shape kinetic below
the storm that blows in me and nowhere else.

Dream or nightmare, each in turn compels
a complex construction on what love may show.
Though kindness is a gain that love cancels.

A passing thought of brave universals
signs to words lost symbol-sung gestures ago.
The storm that blows in me blows nowhere else
though kindness is a gain that love cancels.

All the experiments with truth
turned into slogans.
Life's philosophy stuck to
the statue's blind eye.
Achievement was
circumsized by definitions.
The soul was taken over
by crass opportunism.

For the entrenchment religion
war was fought
For the maintenance of peace
slums of the oppressed were gutted.
Swearing by the art of deception,
the testimony of truth was probed.
Harijans were ostracized.
The lowest of the low
Sunk even lower.

There are no more seekers after truth.
No one bothers about the means.
Everyone eyes the spurious end.
The relics the capital of
Good conduct has been spend
in the relentless black-marked
of unequivocal profit and loss.
The imperialists have gone away
looking for new colonies.
Peace prices have been awarded
to warmongers.

The old pocket watch can not cross
the poverty line.
The horror of the painted truth
is no more visible
though the thick glasses.
The scant loin cloth can not hide
the obscenity of absolute power.
The savage ferocity of the terrorist
can not be stopped by the
lathi to support a frail body.

All the clocks are dead and mute.
Echoes of prayers are silent.
History take leave.
Religion returns to its shame
Freeing himself from stone statues.
disciplines of definitions.
movies and anniversaries,
he walks away in brisk pace
towards the raised guns of
a new band of assassins.

I remember the night my mother
was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Parting with his poison flash
of diabolic tail in the dark room
he risked the rain again.
The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the Name of God a hundred times
to paralyse the Evil One.
With candles and with lanterns
throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the sun-baked walls
they searched for him: he was not found.
They clicked their tongues.
With every movement that the scorpion made
his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.
May he sit still, they said.
May the sins of your previous birth
be burned away tonight, they said.
May your suffering decrease
the misforti nes of your next birth, they said.
May the sum of evil
balanced in this unreal world
against the sum of good
become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh
of desire, and your spirit of ambition,
they said, and they sat around
on the floor with my mother in the centre,
the peace of understanding on each face.
More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,
more insects, and the endless rain.
My mother twisted through and through
groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist,
trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.
He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother.
I watched the holy man perform his rites
to tame the poison with an incantation.
After twenty hours
it lost its sting.
My mother only said:
Thank God the scorpion picked on me and spared my children.
When they moved into the house It was winter.
In the garden a sycamore stood.
No other root nor shoot, but wild nettles
Good only for a bitter soup. He planned
Flowers around the sycamore for summer,
The great splayed rose, the military tulip,
All colours, smell of sun, himself with spade
Drinking cold beer with his wife. Spring came.
He rooted up the nettles with his hands.
He burnt them all, stamped on the clotted ash,
Tamping new seeds in, fingering stones aside.
This work he wanted, his hands came alive.
They wanted flowers to touch. But from his care
Only the tough nasturtiums came. They crawled
In sullen fire by the wall a week.
But the soil was sour, the roots went unfed.
Even they ceased to clutch, their heads fell forward.

All summer was the same. He fed the soil,
Flicking out stones, plucking the few sparse shoots.
The trapped flowers were trying to escape.
But died in their cells, and winter came.

Next year he planted early. Spring brought up
Over fussed tussocks, a green scanty surf.
Then it receded, but a tidewrack stayed
Of shrivelled leaves, shoots like dead dragonflies.
Then nettles crawled back. Now he didn't care.
His hands were useless, the earth was not his.
It did things to him, never he to It.
He watched the nettles with a little smile.

Then In the snowdrift of a summer bed
He planted himself, and a child came-
-News that he knew early one winter day.
He came home dumbly from the hospital.
The garden gate was open. He went out,
Stood by the sycamore, watched the clouds moult,

To begin to love
is to set out to sea
in a small boat,
destination unknown.
You may get far out
into that wide ocean,
or be castaways on a dangerous island.
You may be smashed upon the rocks
nearer the shore,
or drown in that deep
treacherous water,
or survive
clinging to the sides of the boat.
You may even sink forever
clutching at one another,
innocent voyage undertaken so lightly.
But love is always
a stretching out into
unknown water.
It is the charting of
unmapped territory,
And the discovery of forgotten

It was Siva, her primordial lover,
Whom she had met before the dawning of days.
At such moments their love was intense
And they became one
The androgynic God

Stood in the chilly and falling feathers
Under the sycamore

My Journey
'Like the grass, I have sprouted a hundred times'

The day will come
When the eye-lamps will fade
The hand-lotuses wilt
And the butterfly of speech forever fly
The flower of tongue.
All faces blossoming like buds,
Laughing like flowers,
Will one day, disappear
To the shadowy depths of the sea.
All pulsing blood, all beating hearts,
All melodies will be hushed.

On the velvet of blue sky
This-shining gem,-
This heaven, this earth of mine,
Without knowing, understanding,
Will weep tears of dew .
On the handful of dust that is man.
From the temples of memories
Every single thing will have gone.
Then no one will ask:
Where is Sardar?

But I'll come here again,
Speak through children's voices,
Sing in the calls of birds.
When seeds smile under the earth
And seedlings, with nimble fingers
Caress the layers of soil
I'll open my eyes
Through every bud, each blade of grass.

On my green palm
I'll balance the droplets of dew.
I'll become the glow of cheeks,
The beat of melodies.
Like the blush of the modest bride,
I'll sparkle through every veil.
When the wintry winds blow
And autumn leaves fall
Under the lively feet of travellers
My laughter will sound
In the crunching of dry leaves.
All golden streams of the earth,
All blue lakes of the sky
Will be filled with my being.
And the world will see
That every tale is my tale,
Every lover Sardar here,
And every love Sultana*.

I am a fleeting moment
From the magic house of time.
I am a restless droplet
Busy travelling
From the flask of the past
To the cup of the future.
I sleep and awaken
And fall asleep again.
I am a play, centuries old,
Death makes me live forever.

When the delicate fragrance
Of your hand
Passing through your fingers to my fingers
Permeated my palm
I gathered it
In my possessive fist
As if I would retain for ever
Only for myself
Your blossoming face -
Your resplendent beauty.

I felt you
From probability to a pleasant dream
And was bathed in light
From head to foot.

I unlock today
My yearning fingers
And set you free, O fragrance !
You may freely fly now
In azure expanse
May kiss the skies,
Alight on stars,
Take elements in your arms -
You are fragrance, colour, light
An opening bud,
An awakening new life.

Balraj Komal

Love Child
You may hide love at the bottom of a well,
But a voice will haunt you.
Sometimes as song on moonlit nights,
Sometimes as black laughter from the mad-house.
A voice will haunt you,
It will haunt you.

That voice,
A child, rejected, fatherless,
One day,
Borne along on crosses,
Led forth the children of this world
And became God.

A mother,
Long years ago,
Fearful of society,
Abandoned her beloved child
On the roadside.
That child, rejected, fatherless,
One day,
Borne along on crosses,
Led forth the children of this world
And became God.

The Moment

Whenever I kiss her beautiful eyes,
a hundred lamps light up in the dark.
The heart is drawn to dry lips.
A thousand mirrors dance in the blood.
Blossoms, buds, the moon, the stars,
even my foes
stoop down
and touch my feet.
The mind is aflame,
the soul afire.

Little Darlings
These stars in our eyes
These little darlings---
Keeps safe the joy and laughter
Keep safe your love for the other
No outcaste among you
Keep safe and with all share goodness.

These stars in our eyes
These little darlings---
Take our love now
Take our love
Brace us when age overtakes
Stay close to us now, stay close to us then
Read write play
These stars in our eyes
These little darlings!

Sing glory to your country!
Make its fabric strong
Sing unity--
These stars in our eyes
These little darlings!

Blessings comfort wisdom to you!
Love , do not hate---
These stars in our eyes
These little darlings!

Raise high your thinking, my children
Raise high your country's worth
Raise high yourself from pettiness--
These stars in our eyes

On the Bank of the Seine
"Tell him I have bought
four karas worth of land at the
Chila Hill. I shall not go."

I have loved Asom like an obstinate man
With the world I have little to do.
So, on the blank of the Seine
In beautiful Spring
I am sitting right in the middle of the day
In the month of Bohag,
Under a forlorn Saora tree
In the village of Ajara.
(Where sunshine looks that rain
Have you ever looked that far
Over endless fields?)
I am seeing in the juction of Farkating
A night train stopped for eternity.
My place is not here
My place is by the side of the Borsilla bil
On the bank of the Kaldia river
On the broken bridge of the Kolong.
In the tea garden of Rongagora.

The intoxication that grows
In the chalky land of Champagne---the perfume
In the ochre land of the Darjeeling hill
Does not grow in any other place.
The mind that grew in the mud of the Luit,
The m


ind that forever wanders
Among the Dadigdiga shrubs of the Pagladia river,
That mind will find salvation only on its banks.

Whatever little have I seen of the Earth's loveliness,
In the same measure my longing increased
For the Bokul flower picked from the ground
In the knot ofmy mother's shawl.

I have no use for looking at the float of History
Going down the Seine
I want to see without a drop of my eyelid,
Without knowing what I did
The sun going down over the bamboo leaves.
I have no use for looking at the gallop
Of horse in the museum of modern art
I want only to see
The grass boiling in a broken pot
For our red-black cow.
I have no use for the Seine,
For the Loire, for the Isere-chained rivers.
I see the Disang in flood
In the month of Ahar
The swirl spinning the ferry-boat
Crushing on the river's bank.

Rene Descartes , Comte ,Sartre
I see so I am, I hear so I am
I get smell, I get flavour I get warmth

The Song of the Students
We are the power and the strength--
we the students.
The storm dies under our feet,
above us are the sky ,the storm and rain.
We are the students.

We march barefooted in the darkness
of night on a difficult road,
with the impact of our terrific march
we redden the hard earth with blood!
In age after age our blood has wetted the soil of the
the blood of us students.

Our souls fly unbounded almost like the unorbited
We are ever the sacrifices at the altar of the Goddess
of Luck.

When Goddess Lakshmi ascends to heaven
We reach the limitless blue below,
we students.
We hold the reins of the sacrificial horse
of the king of death
our deaths record the annals of our lives!
we erode the banks.
We the young make the road
slippery with our blood in the dreadful night,
we the students.

The lamp of wisdom shines in our eyes,
our hearts are full of illuminating speech,
the call of eternity rings in our confident voices.
We have reddened with fresh blood
the white lotus of Goddess Saraswati,
we the students.

These days of revolt of the masses
we lay down our heads,
in us cries the liberation of the century!
We have filled the verdant train
of the mother's cloth with tears of glory,
we the students.

We build the future of love and hope,
the galaxy in the sky points our way to heaven,
May the dreams of all the world's men and women
be fulfilled in our visions:
the visions of us students!

Kazi Nazrul Islam

Ever seen snow fall ?----
without fuss
whole fields are lost
from sight,
and whiteness overcomes
wide forests.

But, detained in dream
I see a wood of deep green;
on the pinnacles of Shrikanth temple
flutter multicoloured banners.

Then the scene changes,
there are sky supporting mountains---
and, on snow, the sun's dazzling linen.

Like paper-landscapes
clinging to house-walls
a ravishing tableaux
is screened on the cliffs of my thoughts.

Slowly the day-dream
goes out, and like an apparition
a mere remembrance lingers on
in memory's dim rooms.

Ganga Prasad Vimal

A Leafless Tree
It doesn't have a single leaf
and that itself is its beauty!
My heart rushes towards it
continuously with joy!
My soul-bird flies about it
among its leafless boughs
freely, expecting nothing
neither buds nor flowers nor fruit.
The naked form, with innumerable angles---
That is more than enough, I think!


The mathematics of angles---
ah! what great gymnastics!
Boughs rising from the trunk,
branches shooting from the boughs,
and tendrils sprouting at the ends
in subtle patterns!
From the trunk to the top there are
a hundred forms, projecting
the entire series of Euclid's theorems:
triangle, radius, square, circumference,
diameter, diagonal--
Why do we need colours?
and why the leaves?


My love went down to the bare roots
and coursed up everywhere.
Beauty streamed through all the boughs
and turned into leaves , animating the tree,
inviting the breezes: it's life's juice
budding, sprouting, red and beautiful---
my love turning to raw fruits and ripe
loading the tree till it swayed about.
It's magic fructifying theVoid!


There's eclectric charge in the network of its branches,
but no lightning of creepers in it.
This is a ready made veena; the Spring,
the player hasn't fingered it yet.
It's a skeleton made by the machine-yogi:
blood hasn't coursed through it.
This is Arjuna's chariot, with no Krishna
driving it triumphantly.
It's not the Spring-chariot of joy
with a garland of tender leaves.
The magician west wind hasn't come
and uttered the mantras of Spring.


Oh boughs! Oh branches!
Why have you stretched your hands towards the sky?
Do you think the rain of mercy
will fall from the sky and nourish you?
What use that army of clouds
wandering like vagabonds?
You'd better stretch your roots a little more deeply.
Life is


in the depths.
The rain of grace which had fallen once
is now a subterranean stream:
it will nourish you, and tomorrow
the Spring rain might come down,
like Dharma, to protect and bless!

V.K. Gokak



Beyond the Blue

Leave a little void somewhere
Within your life so full--
The solitary temple of a moment
Where, in utter seclusion
You are all your own
Keep away your happy consciousness
And remain awhile
With just your own thoughts.
Encase the eternal solitude
With precious creations
Of such inaccessible moments,
Evoking the one who dwells
Within your heart of hearts
Perhaps some day
I shall open the silent door
Of your tender solitude
And share your thoughts
In your quiet meditation
Laying bare my heart
To its boundless charm!
So keep a little void
Deep within your heart.


I have sought Him in the sea
At times in rocks
At times in autumn
In the tranquil storm within my heart
In rain, in drought
In flowers, in roots
At times
Someone has seemed to whisper
Just look and hear
But say nothing
Do not step out
Just remain where you are
It's not for you
To shake the roots
And pull up trees---
You are here to hoard your desires
All the rest
Which does not touch your existence
Means nothing at all.
At times
I've sought Him in the sea
At times in rocks
At times in autumn
In the tranquil storm


Within my heart.

Shakti Chattopadhyay

The Night of Ravenous Hair
Ah, the shadow of your dark black magic has pervaded
my being:
within me your body keeps time
to the tune of some wild song's floating melody.
Even during sleep its echoes
and in the same place its melody pulsates.

Ah, the shadow of your wonder has permeated my
My calm eyes see
strange fantasies and things
receding into the distance
acquire a new meaning.
Dust settling on age lifts up
as the incomplete monument
within myself
moves towards consummation
In this exhausting boredom of superfluous work
you with the night of flowering hair, suddenly come...

Ah, you are the flower clinging to my colourless
lonely existence :
my words like fragrance


hang upon your arms.
My colourful words are but imprints
of your lips.
The intensity of my voice
reflects the warmth of your rising desires.
In this emptiness
this denuded time...
you are a pungent taste
lingering in me....

Ah, you are a dark shadow pervading my being.....

Girija Kumar Mathur


Amiya Chakravarty

is why I am
I have loved Asom like an obstinate man
That is why I am
To the world--my salutations.

Ajit Barua

hese little darlings!

Atma Singh Chitti

A human resplendence
prevails around.
Temples give out heavenly light.
Smiling gods
reign over skies.
The Ajanta figures frisk and dance.
for ages mute
burst into song.
The bounty of spring for ever abounds.
Beneficient clouds float in the sky.
The world for a moment
sheds its angry malevolent face.
The stones for a moment
cover themselves
with a radiant smile.

Kaifi Azmi


, and not knowing why,
He felt his hands become alive, and touched
The tree's smooth body with a kind of joy,
Thinking next summer it would have new leaves.

In Exchange(Sincerity)
In exchange of
my tears
I bought a flower,
a flower of affection.
I planted that flower
in every soul.

I know not
if ever anyone will
give it its worth.

In exchange of my blood
I got a bird,
a bird of peace.
I release that bird
into the sky around the world.
I known not if
it will usher in
the rains of new hope.

In exchange of my dream
I plucked a star,
a star from the sky.
I lit my earthen lamp
with that star.
I know not if
it will light a flame
in every soul.

In exchange of my heart
I got a woman,
a woman of unsuppressed beauty,
and I dedicated my all
to her.
I know not if
she has fathomed
my innermost corc.

The flower I got
in exchange of my tears,
the bird I got
in exchange of my blood.
the star I plucked
in exchange of my dream.
The woman I got
In exchange of my soul:
Will these turn my mud-hut
into a heaven?
Or will they turn the world into my hut?
in exchange of everything
I have hopes of getting all.
Swimming in the light of hope
Quivering to the song of life
I bide my days and nights.

The Mother
The burden
on my mother's bent back
grows heavier and heavier
as dawn heralds a new-born day.

The children she bore-
my brothers, sisters
near and dear ones-
all my own
now cover the earth
far and away
and keep on
unloading on her bowed down back
countless measures of rotting debris
of their time-old sins.
The mother, they think
will carry her burden
to the end of the road
But the mother is now
so heavily weighed down
under the mounting load
on her back
it's likely that
the protective distance
that so far saved her
from her death
may eventually come
to a mournful naught.

But she, the Mother
never she falters
never she stops on her way.
Oblivious of things
quiet and serene
beyond all weariness
at her usual pace
on she struggles
on she trudges
and on and on ....

Balraj Komal

Hymn of Love
The world has but one religion-Love, which is its life,
A full moon that feeds us all on the nectar-milk.
The supreme cosmic power assuming different forms-Devotion,
Love, Compassion and the like-
Sheds its lustre on all this earth.
Hate, its foe, is nothing but atheistic faith;
Lo! the world fallen to its darkness reaps premature death.
A fatal deity it is that turns bridal-chamber into a funeral pyre;
Floral garden into wasteland and Heaven into Hell.

A sentence conveys sense only when words are put in order,
A song becomes melodious to the car when tune and timing blend.
Is not the entire world of the animate and the inanimate
An embodiment of countless groups of infinite atoms?
Even an insect has nowhere to live apart from others;
Even the omnipotent is on Nature dependent in Universal Dispensation.
The Lord blends in creation and breaks in dissolution,
The Earth, Water, Fire, Air and Sky.
The blossom'd flower needs the bee to make this earth a Heaven.
The people of the world are but noble fruit
Of the celestial tree of mutual love planted in virtuous couples.
The pregnant mother for whom even a flower on her hair is a weight,
Carries the unbearable child-in-womb in joy.
Surrounded as we are by service-minded people
Like father, mother, brothers, relations and friends
As well as wife, sons, servants and the like, all bound alike by love
We rejoice that the sea of mundane life a green meadow.

The mirror of the Universe reflects our moods
The cave of the Universe echoes our voice;
The Universe is a parrot well-versed in repeating our words:
The Universe is an actor who cleverly imitates our inner moods;
The Universal soil yields us the fruit of the seed we have sown:
The Universe offers bouquets or brickbats in return for our deeds
The entire world is full of light to him that has light within him.
And it is ever more full of deathless joy to him that has virtue shining in him. Nothing in this world is beautiful if there is no spectator:
Wherein is this relative sense present, in Cod's creation?
The natural mood present in matter is mutual attraction;
The primary virtue inherent in all creatures is mutual love.
Prostrate, we rise; sowing, we eat; giving, we gain;
We are ourselves the architects of our heaven and our hell.
Men rise to godhead if they wipe away the world's sorrows
By suffusing their minds, eyes, tongue and hands with great compassion,
Nature shines around us as the donor of supreme joy
Appearing as she does in different forms like stone, shrubs, medicines, birds, animals and the like.
Those who have eyes to see can see in us as well as in them,
Our supreme Father who shines as the embodiment of love.
They can hear the holy preceptor chanting all too loudly
The Upanishad of service in the best school that is this world.
Brothers are we, all sprung of the same loins;
And all creatures are but the warp and woof of the fabric of earth.
What wonder is there if God, the formless, is invisible
To those who have no eyes to see their brethren standing by?
O! victory to the world's foundations divine and wonderful
Indivisible, unimaginable in glory and without beginning, middle or end.
In the low-born Pulaya as well as in the high-born Brahmin
In the small insect as well as in the sun-its radiance is manifest
Little difference is there between King and King and between slave and slave;
In them burns alike the same flame called 'soul' lit from it.

Prostrations to thee, my Life-giver, O Cosmic Dancer! O! Supreme Soul!
I am but a humble member of your company of dancers called mankind.
Lord! the will to assign the role for me is thine
And the duty to enact it so as to please the world, is mine.
It is acting well one's part, not the costume, that's great, no doubt.
Though the king may spoil the stage while the attendant enhances its effect
From within me but not to others known
You lead my feet to the steps of your choice
When I follow tlie lead you give
I become an expert dancer, showering glory
On my fellow-actors and spectators
O! Supreme of Souls! accessible as thou art only through devotion
Who without eyes anointed with universal love can see thee?
The happiness of others is, of course, my happiness; their sorrow, mine;
You and I and others-aren't these but one and the same?
At your disposal is my body as well as my life; pleased be thou
To make it useful to others day and night: I salute thee O Lord!

The Nature of Love
Can love be contained by a bolt?A tear
makes known the great love within.

The loveless are self-centred;the loving
give all themselves to others.

The present union of soul and body
derive from the need for love.

From love to the forging of kindred minds:
that's the secret of friendship.

Domestic joy here and bliss hereafter
depend on a life of love.

The naive say that love aids virtue, but love
safeguards against vice as well.

As the fierce sun burns up the boneless worm,
virtue withers the loveless.

A lack-love householder ekes out his life
like a parched-up desert-tree.

When, denied love, the soul within is maimed
vain are the fair outer limbs.

The body ruled by love houses a soul;
loveless, it is skin and bone.


lloor Parameshwara Iyer (1877 - 1949)