Winter ends.
Flowers wake up.
Birds twitter.
Financial year ends.
Insurers wake up.
Hoardings glitter.
Tuesday 10 November 2009
Saturday 7 November 2009
Thursday 5 November 2009
न तुमने जाना न मैंने
चमन के कोने में एक फूल मुर्झाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने|
बनकर रह गयी महज़ एक परछाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
उसकी ख़ुशबू जो मदहोश करती थी, क़तरा ब क़तरा सूखने लगी|
जलती तपती धूप में वह छटपटाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
उसके रंग जिनसे महल सजते थे, फीके बेजान होने लगे हैं|
आँखों के दीदार के लिए तरसाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
उसकी ताज़गी जिससे हर थकान मिट जाती थी, अब बिखरने लगी|
अब ख़ामोश है वह जो कभी इतराई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
वह जो किसी गुलदस्ते की शान बन सकती थी, गुमनाम बनी रही|
उसका तक़दीर - बस मुसलसल तन्हाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
कोई ख़ानाबदोश उसे तोड़कर ज़मीन पर फैंककर चला गया
मालिन मलबे में डालकर चली आई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने
چمن کے کونے میں ایک پھول مرجھائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
بنکر رہ گیی محض ایک پرچھائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
اسکی خوشبو جو مدہوش کرتی تھی قطرہ بہ قطرہ سوکھنے لگی
جلتی تپتی دھوپ میں وہ چھٹپتائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
اسکے رنگ جنسے محل سجتے تھے ، پھکے بےجان ھہنے لگے ہیں
آنکھوں کے دیدار کے لیے ترسائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
اسکی تازگی جس سے ہر تھکان مٹ جاتی تھی ، اب بیکھرنے لگی
اب خاموسھ ہے وہ جو کبھی اتراٴی ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
وہ جو کسی گلدستے کی شان بن سکتی تھی ، گمنام بنی رہی
اسکا تقدیر بس مسلسل تنھاٴی ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
کوٴی خان بدوش اسے توڑکر زمین پر پھینک کر چلا گیا
مالن ملبے میں ڈالکر چلی آٴی ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
बनकर रह गयी महज़ एक परछाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
उसकी ख़ुशबू जो मदहोश करती थी, क़तरा ब क़तरा सूखने लगी|
जलती तपती धूप में वह छटपटाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
उसके रंग जिनसे महल सजते थे, फीके बेजान होने लगे हैं|
आँखों के दीदार के लिए तरसाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
उसकी ताज़गी जिससे हर थकान मिट जाती थी, अब बिखरने लगी|
अब ख़ामोश है वह जो कभी इतराई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
वह जो किसी गुलदस्ते की शान बन सकती थी, गुमनाम बनी रही|
उसका तक़दीर - बस मुसलसल तन्हाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने||
कोई ख़ानाबदोश उसे तोड़कर ज़मीन पर फैंककर चला गया
मालिन मलबे में डालकर चली आई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने
چمن کے کونے میں ایک پھول مرجھائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
بنکر رہ گیی محض ایک پرچھائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
اسکی خوشبو جو مدہوش کرتی تھی قطرہ بہ قطرہ سوکھنے لگی
جلتی تپتی دھوپ میں وہ چھٹپتائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
اسکے رنگ جنسے محل سجتے تھے ، پھکے بےجان ھہنے لگے ہیں
آنکھوں کے دیدار کے لیے ترسائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
اسکی تازگی جس سے ہر تھکان مٹ جاتی تھی ، اب بیکھرنے لگی
اب خاموسھ ہے وہ جو کبھی اتراٴی ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
وہ جو کسی گلدستے کی شان بن سکتی تھی ، گمنام بنی رہی
اسکا تقدیر بس مسلسل تنھاٴی ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
کوٴی خان بدوش اسے توڑکر زمین پر پھینک کر چلا گیا
مالن ملبے میں ڈالکر چلی آٴی ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے
The Ballad Of Jean-Pierre Dominique
There was once a singer tall
Specialised in Greek technique
Who sang in Sydney Opera Hall
Called Jean-Pierre Dominique!
He sang tenor, he sang bass,
He rose to falsetto.
But not one note in its place
Oh no no no no no!
The audience was sorely tried
And they threw tomatoes
But his zeal did not subside
When faced with potatoes.
Once upon an ANZAC Day
Gathered on Taylor Square
The orchestra began to play
Advance Australia Fair!
Now our Maestro Dominique
Who was then passing by
Saw fit to use his Greek technique
And took the tune on high!
“Australians all let us rejoice,
For we are young and free;
With golden soil and wealth for toil,
Our home is girt by sea…”
He thought it fit to raise his pitch
To mezzo-soprano!
He thought it was the method which
Was right for piano!
The audience was knocked-out flat -
“A storm of gale-force ten!”
The veterans feared they’d landed at
Gallipoli again!
They stopped his song, they dragged him down,
They beat him black and blue.
“Never show up in this town
Or we shall murder you!”
He went purple, he went red,
“What cheek, what bilious gall!”
And his sensitive heart bled
“You have no art at all!”
Damning them he did scoff,
In angry righteous pique
And majestically set off
To bonny Mozambique!
*
“Listen one, and listen all
A star has just arrived!
He sings at Maputo Town Hall
The Tale of Christ Revived!”
The lights were dimmed, the spotlights on
A hush fell on the crowd
And then the maestro came on
And started singing loud!
They panicked and ran amuck,
It was too much to bear.
It was too much bang for buck
That was very unfair!
They threatened him with machetes
They screamed blood-curdling cries!
They said his talents were but a
Bundle of horrid lies!
He went purple, he went red,
“What cheek, what bilious gall!”
And his sensitive heart bled
“You have no art at all!”
“The Australians are very bad,
They know not Greek technique.
Now to know it makes me sad
Unfair is Mozambique!”
He bought a ticket to Brazil
Where he would be a thrill.
He counted on his sex appeal
And perfect tenor trill.
*
They came from all over the land
From distant Amazon,
São Paulo and the Rio Grande
From Belem and Viamão.
The maestro stepped on the stage
And quietened the throng.
The hurricane began to rage
Jean-Pierre burst into song!
Now some had wisely Googled him
And therefore plugged their ears,
The others’ fate was very grim
They were reduced to tears!
“You are like a pudding’s plums
But we don’t like such stuff!
Leave us to our pipes and drums
Our Samba’s good enough!”
He went purple, he went red,
“What cheek, what bilious gall!”
And his sensitive heart bled
“You have no art at all!”
“The Australians are very bad,
And also Mozambique!
Now you Brazilians make me sad
Your taste is so antique!”
I shall go to India,
Where music is divine
And meet Himesh Reshammiya
Whose soul is kin to mine.
*
They sang a duet so unique,
It held all in its thrall:
Dominique with Greek technique,
Himesh with none at all!
His single topped every chart
On every street it played
The critics moaned the death of art,
And for his blood they bayed.
But the people, noble souls
They did not give a damn.
They said it touched their humble souls,
Like a battering ram.
And yet more hits, then hit on hit,
Jean-Pierre made history,
The government then saw it fit,
A prize for him decree!
“For introducing Greek Technique,
Thus indebted are we,
We thank Jean-Pierre Dominique,
For setting music free.”
“The tyranny of rhythm and beat
The vice of key and note
No one shall ever repeat
A song he learnt by rote.
Every man's a singer now,
every woman and child,
No master shall teach one how,
all can sing, free and wild!
Specialised in Greek technique
Who sang in Sydney Opera Hall
Called Jean-Pierre Dominique!
He sang tenor, he sang bass,
He rose to falsetto.
But not one note in its place
Oh no no no no no!
The audience was sorely tried
And they threw tomatoes
But his zeal did not subside
When faced with potatoes.
Once upon an ANZAC Day
Gathered on Taylor Square
The orchestra began to play
Advance Australia Fair!
Now our Maestro Dominique
Who was then passing by
Saw fit to use his Greek technique
And took the tune on high!
“Australians all let us rejoice,
For we are young and free;
With golden soil and wealth for toil,
Our home is girt by sea…”
He thought it fit to raise his pitch
To mezzo-soprano!
He thought it was the method which
Was right for piano!
The audience was knocked-out flat -
“A storm of gale-force ten!”
The veterans feared they’d landed at
Gallipoli again!
They stopped his song, they dragged him down,
They beat him black and blue.
“Never show up in this town
Or we shall murder you!”
He went purple, he went red,
“What cheek, what bilious gall!”
And his sensitive heart bled
“You have no art at all!”
Damning them he did scoff,
In angry righteous pique
And majestically set off
To bonny Mozambique!
*
“Listen one, and listen all
A star has just arrived!
He sings at Maputo Town Hall
The Tale of Christ Revived!”
The lights were dimmed, the spotlights on
A hush fell on the crowd
And then the maestro came on
And started singing loud!
They panicked and ran amuck,
It was too much to bear.
It was too much bang for buck
That was very unfair!
They threatened him with machetes
They screamed blood-curdling cries!
They said his talents were but a
Bundle of horrid lies!
He went purple, he went red,
“What cheek, what bilious gall!”
And his sensitive heart bled
“You have no art at all!”
“The Australians are very bad,
They know not Greek technique.
Now to know it makes me sad
Unfair is Mozambique!”
He bought a ticket to Brazil
Where he would be a thrill.
He counted on his sex appeal
And perfect tenor trill.
*
They came from all over the land
From distant Amazon,
São Paulo and the Rio Grande
From Belem and Viamão.
The maestro stepped on the stage
And quietened the throng.
The hurricane began to rage
Jean-Pierre burst into song!
Now some had wisely Googled him
And therefore plugged their ears,
The others’ fate was very grim
They were reduced to tears!
“You are like a pudding’s plums
But we don’t like such stuff!
Leave us to our pipes and drums
Our Samba’s good enough!”
He went purple, he went red,
“What cheek, what bilious gall!”
And his sensitive heart bled
“You have no art at all!”
“The Australians are very bad,
And also Mozambique!
Now you Brazilians make me sad
Your taste is so antique!”
I shall go to India,
Where music is divine
And meet Himesh Reshammiya
Whose soul is kin to mine.
*
They sang a duet so unique,
It held all in its thrall:
Dominique with Greek technique,
Himesh with none at all!
His single topped every chart
On every street it played
The critics moaned the death of art,
And for his blood they bayed.
But the people, noble souls
They did not give a damn.
They said it touched their humble souls,
Like a battering ram.
And yet more hits, then hit on hit,
Jean-Pierre made history,
The government then saw it fit,
A prize for him decree!
“For introducing Greek Technique,
Thus indebted are we,
We thank Jean-Pierre Dominique,
For setting music free.”
“The tyranny of rhythm and beat
The vice of key and note
No one shall ever repeat
A song he learnt by rote.
Every man's a singer now,
every woman and child,
No master shall teach one how,
all can sing, free and wild!
The Old Woman of Chembur
There was an Old Woman of Chembur
Who had migrated there from Singur.
With her aggressive tongue
Many Marxists were stung -
That shrewish Old Woman of Chembur.
Who had migrated there from Singur.
With her aggressive tongue
Many Marxists were stung -
That shrewish Old Woman of Chembur.
The Young Lady of Mankhurd
There was a Young Lady of Mankhurd
Who subsisted on yoghurt and curd.
She preferred it mixed up
With blood that she'd sucked up -
That anopheline Young Lady of Mankhurd.
Who subsisted on yoghurt and curd.
She preferred it mixed up
With blood that she'd sucked up -
That anopheline Young Lady of Mankhurd.
The Gentleman of Vashi
There was a Gentleman of Vashi
Whose tatses were ludicrously flashy.
He had teeth like tusks
And fed upon rusks -
That boarsih Gentleman of Vashi.
Whose tatses were ludicrously flashy.
He had teeth like tusks
And fed upon rusks -
That boarsih Gentleman of Vashi.
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