it is here now
yet it is nowhere
it is physical
it is material
yet it is not
it can hear you
yet it doesn’t listen
it is trapped
in life’s turmoil
yet it is free
absolutely
it is the most concrete
yet it is abstract
it is tied with you
every moment
yet it is unattached
it is finite and minute
yet it is endless and vast
Strange
I cannot refuse my being
it clings, relentless
yet when I reach for “I,”
it slips, elusive.
the most concrete
the most abstract
A name stitched loosely,
a jacket ill at ease
my body writes its riddles
in scars and wrinkles.
Race, culture, origin
cupboards full, yet soul
unseen.
The sun crosses the sides,
in front of the eyes
every minute of the day
bit by bit
yet I know for sure
it doesn’t move an inch.
The horizon’s line
a seam sewn by illusion,
the desert offers mirages
castles of air that dissolve,
photographs pause time,
but time sneaks past their
frame, we plant flags on wind,
claiming smoke as homeland.
the most abstract
the most concrete
Ancestry whispers in blood,
branches broken, voices fading,
mirrors stack in drawers, each
reflection another mask.
Fights erupt for shadows, names,
borders, empty crowns
strange!
We duel for ghosts stitched in
fragile terrain.
Perhaps the “I” is a thread
of spider silk a cup held warmly
at dawn or a gaze that lingers,
unspoken, yet understood.
I stop seeking as if “I” were a coin
instead I listen: seas remembering
ships, earth holding footsteps,
strange — to exist as a witness,
an actor, strange, magnificent,
a song in between illusion on one hand
and on the other it appears real.
Étrange
Je ne puis
refuser mon être
il s’accroche, implacable.
Pourtant, quand je tends
la main vers le « je »,
il s’échappe, insaisissable.
le plus concret
le plus abstrait
Un nom cousu à
la hâte,
une veste mal ajustée ;
mon corps écrit ses énigmes
en cicatrices et en rides.
Race, culture,
origine
des armoires pleines,
mais l’âme invisible
le soleil traverse mes yeux,
minute après minute,
jour après jour, et pourtant
je sais avec certitude
qu’il ne bouge pas d’un pouce.
La ligne de l’horizon,
couture brodée d’illusions
le désert offre des mirages
châteaux d’air qui se dissolvent,
les photographies figent le temps,
mais le temps glisse hors du cadre.
le plus abstrait
le plus concret
Nous plantons
des drapeaux
dans le vent,
réclamant la fumée pour patrie,
l’ascendance murmure dans le sang,
branches brisées, voix qui s’effacent.
Des miroirs s’empilent dans
des tiroirs, chaque reflet,
un autre masque. Des luttes
éclatent pour des ombres,
des noms, des frontières,
des couronnes vides.
Étrange ! Nous
croisons le fer
pour des fantômes cousus dans
une terre fragile. Peut-être que
le « je » est un fil de soie d’araignée,
une tasse tiède tenue à l’aube,
ou un regard qui demeure
muet, mais compris.
Je cesse de
chercher,
comme si le « je » était
une pièce perdue. Je
préfère écouter : les mers se
souvenant des navires,
la terre gardant la trace des pas.
Étrange,
magnifique
un chant suspendu entre illusion
et ce qui paraît réel,
frémissement d’un mystère éternel.
পৃথিবী জ্বলছে
অশান্ত মহাসাগর ক্ষুব্ধ সব
মহাদেশ, ক্রদ্ধ পর্বতমালা
চিন্তিত আকাশ, বাতাস, আলো।
ইরাক ইরান
ইস্রায়েল নেপাল
জর্জরিত যুদ্ধে নাজেহাল
ক্ষমতার উন্মত্ত নেশা
হিংসা অনাহার অবিচার
বেভিচার অহংকার
এই ঘূর্ণিঝড়ে ঘুরপাক খাচ্ছে
মুখরা মানুষের, নির্বাক প্রাণীদের
শুনি আর্তনাদ হাহাকার।
আমাদের আদরের
সবেধন নীলমনি গ্রহ
শিক্ষা স্নেহ সভ্যতা
মুখোসে আজ বিধ্বস্ত
বিপর্যস্ত।
যে মারছে
যে মরছে
সবাই যে ডালে বসে আছে
সেই ডালই কাটছে।
বোমা, ড্রোন
আরো কত
হুঙ্কার চলছে দিনরাত
প্রতিদিন অহরহ।
আজ কার কাছে
করব প্রার্থনা
কার কাছের যাব নিয়ে
স্বার্থের ঝুলি, ফেলি দীর্ঘনিশ্বাস
বুদ্ধিহরণ হয়েছে। চলছে
সহমরণের প্রতিযোগিতা।
সেই প্রাচীন
চিন্তা, সেই বৃদ্ধ
মনোভাব কেন? নতুন প্রযুক্তি,
নতুন ভাবে পুরোনো জিঘাংসাকেই
জন্ম দিচ্ছে কেন, এই প্রশ্ন থাক
আজ মানুষের কাছে, মানুষের হাতে।
অস্ত্রশস্ত্র
কবে হবে সম্পূর্ণ বর্জন
ঘৃণা হিংসার কবে হবে বিসর্জন।
আমাদের হাওয়া
মাটি জল
আলো আজ কত ক্লান্ত, তারা
বলছে তারস্বরে একই কথা
আমাদের বাঁচাও, আমাদের বাঁচাও।
আসুক নতুন
সকাল, একটু স্বস্তি পাই।
সুখ, শান্তি, সমৃদ্ধি, যা আমরা
মনেপ্রাণে চাই, একসাথে নতুন ভাবে
গড়ি এস সকলেই।
জ্বলন্ত ধরা
ভারাক্রান্ত জীবন
আসুক ফিরে আবার শান্তি,
ওই শুদ্ধ, ওই পবিত্র মন
জ্বলজ্বল করুক আকাশের তারা
সৃষ্টির আশীর্বাদে, চারিদিক যাক ভেসে
প্রাচুর্যে পরিপূর্ণতায় নতুন সূর্য উঠুক
নতুন আলোয় হেসে।
----
Collective destruction
The
world is burning —
the oceans restless, continents
enraged, mountain ranges furious;
the sky, the wind, the light — all anxious.
Iraq,
Iran, Israel, Nepal — bruised and
gasping in war, power’s maddening
intoxication, worse than grass,
hunger for violence, injustice,
shameless cruelty, pride —
in this cyclone they whirl:
clamorous humans, mute creatures.
I hear their howls, their lamentations.
Our
beloved, tender jewel — this blue
planet of learning, of affection,
of civilization — wears a mask and
lies in ruins, undone.
Who
kills, who dies — the one who sits
on the branch cuts the very limb
they perch on. What morons!
Bombs, drones — how many roars go
on, day and night, relentless as ever.
To whom
should I offer prayer now?
To whom shall I entrust the purse
of my hopes?
We expel
long sighs; wisdom is stolen.
The contest of mutual annihilation proceeds.
Why this
ancient thinking, this senescent
attitude? Why does new technology,
new methods, keep birthing the
same old hatred?
This
question remains with humanity —
in the hands of humankind.
When
will weapons be wholly abandoned?
When will hatred and violence be cast away?
Our air,
soil, waters, light — how weary
they are; they speak with the same voice:
*Save us, save us.*
May a
new morning come; may we find
some respite. Happiness, peace,
prosperity — what we long for
in heart and soul — let us build them
together in a new way, all of us.
Let the burdened,
burning earth
and the weighted lives return to calm.
Let that pure, sacred spirit blaze anew
like a star in the sky — a blessing of creation.
Let abundance flow in every direction;
let a new sun rise, laughing in fresh light.
---
Destruction collective
Le monde brûle —
océans agités,
continents en flammes,
montagnes furieuses ;
ciel, vent, lumière —
tout tremble d’angoisse.
Irak, Iran, Israël,
Népal meurtris,
haletants de guerre,
ivres de pouvoir :
faim de violence,
orgueil insensé,
cruauté nue.
Dans ce cyclone —
humains clamants,
bêtes muettes.
J’entends leurs cris.
Notre joyau bleu,
tendre planète,
mère du savoir,
gît en ruine,
masquée, défaite.
Qui tue ? qui meurt ?
Celui qui s’assoit
sur la branche
et la tranche.
Ô insensés !
Bombes, drones,
leurs rugissements
déferlent sans trêve,
jour et nuit.
À qui prier ?
À qui confier
ma bourse d’espoir ?
Soupirs profonds —
la sagesse volée.
L’anéantissement
s’avance.
Pourquoi la pensée
si vieille, sénile ?
Pourquoi les techniques
toujours nouvelles
enfanteraient-elles
la même haine ?
La question demeure
entre nos mains.
Quand les armes
seront-elles abolies ?
Quand la haine, la violence
seront-elles rejetées ?
Air, sol, eau, lumière —
las, ils supplient :
**Sauvez-nous.**
Qu’un matin neuf
puisse surgir,
qu’un répit vienne.
Bonheur, paix, prospérité —
bâtissons-les ensemble.
Que la terre brûlée,
que les vies pesantes
retrouvent le calme.
Que l’esprit pur
flamboie encore,
tel une étoile,
bénédiction du ciel.
Que l’abondance
se répande partout.
Qu’un soleil neuf
se lève, riant
d’une lumière fraîche.
সারাদিন ধরে
মাঝি জাল ফেলছে
কিছু মাছ পড়েছে জড়িয়ে,
কিছু গেছে পালিয়ে,
যারা কিনা বন্ধনমুক্ত।
সংসারের মায়াজাল,
বহুজন পরে ধরা
ছাড়া পায় তারা
যারা হয় মুক্ত, ভক্ত
ঠাকুরের, হয়না দিশেহারা।
লাফিয়ে বেরিয়ে
আসে ঐ মাছেদের মত
সকাল সন্ধে বিকাল
করে না স্পর্শ
তাদের স্বার্থের জঞ্জাল।
----
In and Out of the Net
All day long
the fishermen cast their nets.
Some fish are held in bondage,
others slip away—
the ones who escape all binding.
In the net of worldly illusion
countless lives are caught;
yet freedom shines for those
who bond with the Lord,
never lose in delusion’s haze.
They leap away,
like fish that break the mesh—
morning, noon, and evening
untouched, unswayed
by the litter of selfish desires.
---
Entre les mailles du filet
Tout le jour
long les pêcheurs vont jetant,
Leurs lourds filets qui luisent sur les flots.
Certains poissons y tombent en bondage,
D’autres s’enfuient, déliés de tout lien.
Dans les rets
vains des mirages du monde,
Bien des humains se laissent enchaîner ;
Mais la clarté sourit à ceux qui prient,
À ceux qui vont sans s’égarer jamais.
Comme les fins
poissons qui rompent l’onde,
Ils jaillissent, libres, hors de l’écueil ;
Leur cœur, matin, midi, jusqu’à la nuit,
Reste indemne aux fardeaux de l’égoïsme.
The Sun on Top
My family, my friends — my delight,
In my heart they shine so bright.
With them I smile, with them I stay,
No shadow falls when they’re in play.
I drift through mornings, drift
through night,
I wander streets where dreams take flight.
Between the dusk and each new dawn,
I find the joy I rest upon.
When despair betrays my hope,
I cry without pause, without scope.
My eyes at once call out my mates,
They blaze like the sun at heaven’s gates.
Like the sunflower follows the sun’s
long run,
I turn toward them, thirsty for the fun.
Their gazes warm my soul in the winters,
Their voices take me to my universe.
I sing, I dance, I laugh my way
No fear, no shame to cloud the day.
I know life isn’t always kind,
But friends and family make it mine.
Le soleil au top
Ma famille et mes amis,
Ça me plaît beaucoup.
Dans mon cœur ils me font coucou,
Avec eux je souris toujours,
Y a pas de souci quand ils m’entourent.
Je balance ma vie
Les matins et les nuits,
Je glisse sur les chemins,
Je flâne dans les rues,
Entre les soirs et les bonjours
Je trouve mon bonheur, mon paradis.
Quand les désespoirs me trompent,
Je pleure sans arrêt, sans stop,
Mes yeux d’un coup cherchent mes potes,
Ils brillent comme le soleil au top.
Comme le tournesol suit le soleil dans la voie,
Je me tourne vers eux, assoiffé de leur joie,
Leurs regards réchauffent mes hivers,
Leurs voix m'emmènent vers mon univers.
Je chante, je danse, je bavarde, je plaisante,
Sans limite, sans peur, sans aucune honte.
Je sais que la vie n’est pas toujours souriante,
Ma famille, mes amis, font mon monde.
The French version came first with
this poem. I am overjoyed.
There lies a poem
from its rhythm
I hear the joy, the pain.
Its beats tell me a
thousand stories
the words failed.
Its meters there sing
the most prosaic songs
the form couldn't contain.
Hum goes the tone
grace takes the note
its sounds numb the ground
the sense falls to flow.
Là où naisse le poème
Là gise un poème,
que dans son rythme
j’entende la joie, la douleur.
Que ses battements me
disent
mille histoires
que nul mot ne pût dire.
Que ses mètres chantent
les plus prosaïques chansons
que la forme ne pût contenir.
Qu’il fredonne un ton,
que la grâce prenne la note,
que ses sons pèsent la terre,
et que le sens s’écoule en flot.
In between dignity and grace
with dignity, leave
when it’s time to leave
the breath halts
eyes close
from death to death
journey restarts
in another time and space
the curtain will raise
life will begin again
from life to life
the grace
never stops
---
entre dignité et grâce
quand vient l’heure
de partir
le souffle s’interrompt
les yeux se ferment
le voyage reprend
de mort en mort
dans un autre temps,
un autre espace
le rideau se lèvera
la vie recommencera
la grâce de la vie
ne connaît pas de point
---
মর্যাদা আর কৃপা’র মাঝে
যখন বিদায়ের আসে সময়
শ্বাস যায় থেমে
চোখ বুজে আসে
মৃত্যু থেকে মৃত্যুতে
যাত্রা আবার শুরু হয়
অন্য এক কালে,
ভিন্ন কোনো স্থানে
পর্দা পুনরায় ওঠে
জীবন থেকে জীবনের
অনুকম্পা হয় শুরু
চলে নিরন্তর
With the necklace on my neck
I’m on the lookout of gold
when I discovered it
I realized it was always there
with me shining
Yet I kept on searching
like an ignorant buyer
when I touched the gold
what did I uncover,
the gold in the necklace
I went on
and found the gold
in the necklace is the same
gold shining in the ring,
glittering in the bracelet
it is the same you in me
in me it is the same you
all the problems of the world
dissolved, though they were
just as it were
the necklace on my neck
a bonding that was lost
in the bondage
 |
| Google images |
What are we selling, or underselling
poverty or apples, is that the question?
A life whose fruition is not so tender,
a trade disguised as hunger,
a dignity bent low
beneath the dripping rim of a cart
out of rhythm, out of flow.
We sell sweetness,
but undersell the storm endured,
the countless mornings of lifting,
pushing, calling out to strangers
who seldom meet our eyes
still the ears hear the cries.
And yet the drizzle comes to
dampen his fire,
to deaden his hope,
to dull his spirit, to extinguish
the small flame of comfort.
It tries to hush the means of need,
to lull the struggle into silence,
to overawe his resolve with thunder.
But he remains, in quiet defiance,
letting the wind attempt to quieten him,
to shush his voice,
to soft pedal his courage,
to still his movement,
to tongue-tie his hunger.
Though each raindrop falls like a thought,
in the silence between traffic horns—
a pin drop moment of endurance
that no gale can erase.
What is the price of resilience?
What is the weight of a dream
measured against the weight of rain?
Society takes the fruit,
but leaves the man in shadows,
huddled in silence
where no coin's noise can reach.
Life is difficult—
but more challenging still
is the quiet bargain struck
each day:
to stand in the flood,
not utter a word to
the western world,
still believe
in tomorrow’s buyer,
to drive through hunger
without brake, without gear.
Violence walks hand in hand
on the slums of Dharavi, in Mumbai,
on the Oxford Street, in London.
Corruption talks in the renamed
places around the world.
War rages in every corner of the
enduring planet, there's none
to give a hand.
He takes a virtual tour with
a remote in his hackneyed hand.
He sits — a soft ruin in a
creaking chair,
tea gone cold beside him,
remote clenched like a rosary
in brittle hands.
Click —
the face of a child bloodied
in Gaza.
Click —
a child gunning down another child
in New York,
a woman wailing in Delhi’s
smoke-stained streets.
Click —
a river, once holy, now swallowing
corpses.
Click —
another flag, another gun, another
demon, another god.
How many channels must
a man watch before
silence speaks?
How many tongues
must scream
before the world learns
to hush?
The anchors all wear suits,
like mourners at a wedding
like business deals negotiated
during a funeral.
They smile through the slaughter,
sell grief in high-definition.
"Breaking News," they say,
but nothing breaks—
except the earth,
nothing collapses, except the bodies.
It’s a child’s play to find
out what is in tandem in
all the countries of the world; in Russia,
Ukraine, Pakistan, India, Iran, Israel,
California, and such
an ordeal to find the odd one out
because there is none, none at all.
no action to put a full stop
The soul of an old man
too drained to remember
if hope was ever more than
a rumor, if shadows ever reflected
in a mirror.
He stares
as cities fall like dominoes
across the curve of the globe,
and wonders if the world is round
so sorrow can come full circle.
Stalwarts collectively destroying
the world with cerebral finesse.
Click —
a mother digging with her hands.
Click —
a temple burning.
Click —
a boy with no legs
and a soccer dream.
Click —
advertisements.
He laughs —
a sound like paper tearing —
and switches off.
He sits in silence,
where birds still
remember songs
the news forgot.
A voice,
more than a thousand years
old, his remote song
becomes the dawn,
carried by wings
that will not rest
until peace is home again.
অর্থহীন
সবার হাতেই একটা
অদৃশ্য ঘড়ি আছে,
তার কাঁটা ঠিকই চলছে,
টিক টিক করে,
শুধু আমারটাই ঠিক,
এমন চিন্তা অর্থহীন।
সবারই একটা ধর্ম আছে,
কর্ম আছে, আছে পোশাক
আশাক, খাবার দাবার,
আত্মীয়-স্বজন, বন্ধু-বান্ধব,
ইত্যাদি, প্রভৃতি।
সব ঠিকই চলছে,
তাদের নিজের মতো করে।
নিয়ম আর অনিয়ম,
ভালো আর মন্দ,
তাল আর বেতাল একটা
ছন্দে, নিজের পছন্দে
চলাচল করে।
এই নিয়ে কথা কাটাকাটি,
হাতাহাতি, গালাগালি,
গলাগলি নিতান্তই অর্থহীন।
---
Meaningless
Everyone carries
an invisible clock,
its hands ticking,
tick by tick—
to think mine alone is right
is meaningless.
Everyone has a faith
including faithlessness,
a duty, a dress,
hopes, food to eat,
relatives, friends,
and so on, and so forth.
Everything moves along,
each in its own way.
Rules and breaches,
good and bad,
in rhythm or out of rhythm—
all move forward
in their chosen cadence.
Quarreling over this,
scuffling, abusing,
clinging and clawing—
is utterly meaningless
a worthless way of
wasting time..
---
Insensé
Nous portons
tous
une horloge invisible,
ses aiguilles battent
comme un cœur discret,
tic après tic.
Croire que
seulement la mienne,
dit l’heure juste
n’a pas de sens.
Chacun porte
une foi,
ou bien le vide d’une foi
perdue, un devoir
à accomplir,
un vêtement à revêtir,
des rêves, du pain à partager,
des visages aimés,
des amitiés fragiles—
et tant d’autres bribes de vie.
Tout avance,
chaque existence
selon sa propre voie.
Règles et
transgressions,
ombres et clartés,
rythmes accordés ou dissonants—
tous poursuivent leur chemin
au pas qu’ils ont choisi.
Se quereller
pour cela,
se débattre, se salir
de mots amers,
s’accrocher, s’arracher—
n’est qu’un néant d’efforts,
une danse stérile
où se consume le temps.
Yes—today I stand as founder
of an organization.
Let the company hold the hands,
befriend its employees until their
journey’s end.
Fresh as they are, I behold
dreams glimmering in their eyes.
Let me guard their innocence,
not shatter it with
monstrous procedures,
a cruel litany of inimical lies.
If ever I must cast them aside,
I would rather close my doors,
my head bowed in shame
for profits wrung
from such a sordid game.
And so I pray to God:
do not turn me into a terrorist,
a willing culprit
who, in the name of business,
fires upon the unarmed,
banishing them without remorse.
If I should ever succumb,
let guilt consume me
as they depart with broken steps,
odd and unsteady gaits.
In that moment,
may I not puff my chest
with the arrogance of cost
saved— but see only
a machine stripped of use,
utterly lost.
No, I will not tread upon them.
Until they choose to leave,
let me not abandon a single soul,
let that alone be my goal.
Before I destroy their journeys
midway,
let me relook at the rule book:
let it proclaim that layoffs are
failures of vision, never
successes.
This is Not What You Think
The apple floats in mid-air,
wearing a bowler hat.
It will not bruise,
no matter how far it falls.
A window opens inside a window,
each frame showing the same sky
that shifts its clouds when you blink.
You will never catch it in the act.
The pipe smiles—
its wooden mouth whispering,
You want to smoke me,
but the smoke is only chalk dust
rising from a blackboard.
The man in the mirror
turns away from you,
but his reflection stays,
chewing a bite of bread
that no one will ever swallow.
Birds made of paper
fold the horizon into a smaller square
and post it through a slot in the sun.
By the time you unfold it,
the daylight has already escaped.
Everything here is true
except the things you can touch—
and those
are the most dangerous of all.
…
Ceci n’est pas
ce que tu crois
La pomme flotte
dans l’air,
coiffée d’un chapeau melon.
Elle ne se meurtrira pas,
peu importe la hauteur de la chute.
Une fenêtre
s’ouvre dans une fenêtre,
chaque cadre montrant le même ciel
qui déplace ses nuages quand tu clignes des yeux.
Tu ne le surprendras jamais en flagrant délit.
La pipe sourit—
sa bouche de bois murmure,
Tu veux me fumer,
mais la fumée n’est que de la poussière de craie
qui s’élève d’un tableau noir.
L’homme dans le
miroir
te tourne le dos,
mais son reflet reste,
mâchant un morceau de pain
que personne n’avale jamais.
Des oiseaux de
papier
plient l’horizon en un petit carré
et le glissent dans une fente du soleil.
Quand tu l’ouvres enfin,
le jour s’est déjà enfui.
Tout ici est
vrai
sauf les choses que tu peux toucher—
et celles-là
sont les plus dangereuses de toutes.
Rise and fall
How many times has the sun
lied to me
setting and rising in front
of my eyes
planted the blue of the skies
the faulty lines of the horizon
painted boundaries like an imposter
the planet that seems to stand
are making rounds of the star
lies day and night are staged
in darkness and light
in between betrayals of the breaths,
a passing journey of memories
suffers in life and death
every dude knows it's false
even before the curtain rises
and after it inevitably falls
…
Montée et chute
Combien de fois le soleil
m’a-t-il menti
se couchant et se levant
devant mes yeux
plantant le bleu des cieux
les lignes défaillantes de
l’horizon
tracent des frontières comme
un imposteur
la planète qui semble immobile
tourne autour de l’étoile
mensonges du jour et de la
nuit
joués dans l’ombre et la lumière
entre les trahisons du souffle,
un voyage fugace de souvenirs
souffre dans la vie et la mort
chaque homme sait que
c’est faux
avant même que le rideau ne s’ouvre
et après qu’il tombe inévitablement
The Way of the Devotee
(26 qualities as mentioned in the Bhagvat Gita)
He walks softly, with kindness
for all—
a heart unclenched,
never quarrelling,
not raising dust in another’s path.
Truth is his companion,
firm and gentle,
he sees the same spark in beggar or king—
equal eyes,
faultless not in flawlessness
but in his unshakable fairness.
Coins may pass from his palm
as easily as prayers—
he is charitable,
mild,
clean in deed, body, and mind,
simple like clear water,
benevolent like a mother’s lullaby.
Peace flows through him—
he does not clutch the noise of the world.
His soul rests
in complete attachment to Krishna,
not as a clinging vine,
but as surrendering river.
Material desires have left his doorstep;
he owns no want
but the sweetness of the name.
He is meek,
not defeated,
but hollowed of ego.
Steady as a flame sheltered from wind,
he controls his senses,
governs the hungers
of flesh and mind.
His plate holds only what is needed—
not more than required.
Illusion wraps the world in silk—
he does not wear it.
He offers respect to everyone,
asks nothing in return—
no desire for respect of his own.
He is grave,
deep as a still well,
yet merciful,
a monsoon for the suffering.
His words taste like honey—
he is friendly,
poetic,
not for show,
but because beauty rests in his bones.
He is expert,
not in trickery,
but in knowing the sacred art of living.
And when silence is the truest sound,
he becomes silent.
This is the devotee—
not born,
but shaped
by the chisel of devotion.
Note:
The **26 qualities of a devotee** are mentioned in **Chapter 12** of the
*Bhagavad Gita*, titled **"Bhakti Yoga"** or *The Yoga of Devotion*. Specifically,
they appear in **verses 13 to 20** (BG 12.13–12.20), where Lord Krishna
describes the attributes of His **most dear devotee**—one who is dear to Him.
These verses are often referred to as the **"devotee’s portrait"**,
offering a practical and deeply moving guide for a spiritual aspirant.
BG 12.13
*adveṣṭā sarva-bhūtānāṁ maitraḥ
karuṇa eva ca
nirmamo nirahaṅkāraḥ sama-duḥkha-sukhaḥ kṣamī*
*He who is free from malice toward
all beings, friendly and compassionate, free from possessiveness and ego,
balanced in pleasure and pain, and forgiving—such a devotee is dear to Me.*
This poem is a lyrical homage to Queen Kuntī, a majestic yet tragic
figure from the ancient Indian epic, the *Mahābhārata*. Kuntī is not only the
mother of the heroic Pāṇḍava brothers but also a seer of astonishing spiritual
depth. In the face of repeated personal calamities—exile, attempted murder,
war, and the constant threat of annihilation—she turns not bitter, but inward,
offering prayers to the divine incarnation Krishna with unwavering devotion.
What makes her voice extraordinary is its paradoxical strength: she *asks* for
more suffering—not out of martyrdom, but because in suffering she sees the
divine most clearly. Her wisdom cuts across time and culture, echoing the human
longing for meaning amidst chaos. This poem distills her ancient Sanskrit
prayers into rhythmic verses, inviting readers—whether spiritual seekers or
lovers of poetic insight—into the intimate and transcendent world of a queen
who chose surrender over despair, and divinity over despair.
Ce poème est un hommage lyrique à la reine Kuntī, une figure majestueuse
mais tragique de l’ancien épopée indienne, le *Mahābhārata*. Kuntī n’est pas
seulement la mère des héros Pāṇḍava, elle est aussi une visionnaire d’une
profondeur spirituelle saisissante. Face à des calamités répétées — exil,
tentatives d’assassinat, guerre, et menace constante d’anéantissement — elle ne
cède ni à l’amertume ni au désespoir, mais se tourne vers l’intérieur, offrant
à Krishna, incarnation du divin, des prières d’une dévotion inébranlable. Ce
qui rend sa voix si exceptionnelle, c’est ce paradoxe bouleversant : elle
*demande* plus de souffrances — non par masochisme, mais parce que c’est dans
l’épreuve qu’elle perçoit le divin le plus clairement. Sa sagesse dépasse le
temps et la culture, faisant écho au désir humain de trouver un sens au cœur du
chaos. Ce poème condense ses prières sanskrites ancestrales en vers rythmés, et
invite le lecteur — qu’il soit chercheur spirituel ou amateur de poésie — à
pénétrer dans l’univers intime et transcendant d’une reine qui a choisi la
reddition plutôt que le désespoir, et le divin plutôt que l’oubli.
I
I bow to You, O Lord beyond all birth and death,
You reign within and without, unseen by mortal breath.
II
Veiled by maya’s curtain, You remain untouched,
An actor hidden in the play, by fools not thought of much.
III
You appear to teach bhakti to minds that know the goal,
Yet I, humble woman, find it hard to glimpse Your soul.
IV
To Krishna, son of Vasudeva, Devakī’s joy and grace,
To Govinda of the cowherds, I offer endless praise.
V
Your lotus‑marked abdomen, Your garland, eyes, and feet,
In every petal’s beauty, divine perfections meet.
VI
O Hṛṣīkeśa, Lord of lords, from envious bonds You freed
Your mother, me, my sons and Draupadī in dire need.
VII
From poison‑cake, from fiery doom, from cannibalistic wrath,
Through exile’s pain and fierce war’s edge, You cleared our path.
VIII
Now even Asvatthāmā’s brahmāstra failed to harm Your grace;
And thus You saved our whole clan from total earthly erace.
IX
I wish—let calamities return, if by them I may
Be drawn to You again and again, and leave samsāra’s way.
X
The Lord is ever reachable—but only by the poor,
Not by those proud with pedigree, wealth, learning, or décor.
XI
To impoverished in ego, to humble souls You yield;
Free from material compulsions, in peace Your heart is sealed.
XII
Eternal Time, Supreme Controller, unbounded in Your roam,
Your mercy flows alike to all, disunity to comb.
XIII
No mortal mind can grasp Your play—Your human form deceives;
You favor none, envy none, all glory due to who believes.
XIV
You act though You do not act, You live yet are unborn;
You dwell among all living things—none from Your grace is torn.
XV
If You depart from us, O Lord, all fame and life would cease;
Like senses dead without the soul, all life would find no peace.
XVI
Thus Kuntī’s heart poured forth in love, her praises uncontrolled,
And Krishna heard that tender voice—as scripture leaves it told.
XVII
Though the text records no speech, the Lord’s silent answer shone—
He stayed with love, the mother’s plea, her deepest grief thus known.
I
জন্ম-মৃত্যু ঊর্ধ্বে হে
প্রভু,
তোমায়
নমন
করি,
ভিতরে
বাহিরে
বিরাজ,
চোখে
পড়ো
না
যে
ধরি।
II
মায়ার
পর্দা
টেনে
তুমি
থেকো
অচল,
দূর,
নাট্যগৃহে লুকাও
তুমি,
বোকারা
জানে
না
সুর।
III
ভক্তির
মর্ম
শেখাও
যাঁরা
জানেন
লক্ষ্য
ঠিক,
আমি
এক
নারী,
পাই
না
তোমার
রূপের
দীক্ষ।
IV
বাসুদেবের পুত্র
হে
কৃষ্ণ,
দেবকীর
আনন্দ,
গোপাল
তুমি,
প্রেমময়, তোমায়
কই
বন্দন।
V
পদ্মচিহ্ন বুকে
তোমার,
চরণ,
চোখ,
মালা,
একেকটি
পত্রে
যেন
পূর্ণ
দেবভাল।
VI
হৃষীকেশ, প্রভুদের প্রভু,
মুক্তি
দিলে
হিংসা
হতে,
তোমার
মা,
আমায়
তুমি,
পাণ্ডব
ও দ্রৌপদী তটে।
VII
বিষময়
ভোজ,
আগুন-যন্ত্রণা, রাক্ষসের কঠিন হাত,
বনবাসের ব্যথা,
যুদ্ধে—তুমি দিলে নিরাপদ
পথ।
VIII
অশ্বত্থামার ব্রহ্মাস্ত্রও হার
মানে
তোমার
জ্যোতি,
আমাদের
কুল
রক্ষা
করে
দিলে
ধরণীর
লুপ্তি
থেকে
সুরভি।
IX
আসুক
আবার
বিপদ
যদি
তোমায়
পেতে
পারি,
বারংবার তোমায়
দেখি—সংসার হতে ছাড়ি।
X
দরিদ্র
হৃদয়
পৌঁছায় যেখানে
প্রভুর
দেউল,
বংশ,
ধন,
বিদ্যা,
গর্বে
থাকে
না
সেই
কূল।
XI
অহঙ্কার শূন্য
হৃদয়ে
তুমি
করো
আশ্রয়,
বস্তু-বাসনার ঊর্ধ্বে তুমি,
শান্তিতে অনন্তময়।
XII
অপরিমেয় কাল
তুমি,
নিয়ন্তা শ্রেষ্ঠগণ,
সবার
মাঝে
বয়ে
যায়
তোমার
করুণা
ধন।
XIII
কোনো
মর্ত্যবুদ্ধি পায়
না
খেলা
তোমার
রূপ,
তুমি
কাউকে
পক্ষপাত করো
না,
যিনি
ভক্ত,
তিনিই
সুখ।
XIV
অকর্মেও করো
কর্ম,
জন্মহীন জীব,
সকল
জীবের
মাঝে
থেকো,
কেহ
তোমার
থেকে
বিভক্ত
নয়
হৃদি।
XV
যদি
চলে
যাও
তুমি
প্রভু,
হবে
শান্তি
বিলুপ্ত,
প্রাণহীন দেহের
মতো,
সংসার
হবে
রিক্ত।
XVI
তখন
কুন্তীর হৃদয়
হতে
ঝরে
প্রেম-গান,
শ্রুতি
বলে,
কৃষ্ণ
শুনেছিলেন, গভীর
শ্রদ্ধার তান।
XVII
শব্দে
নয়,
নীরব
থেকেও
ছিল
তাঁর
উত্তর,
ভক্তির
টানে
থেকে
গেছিলেন, মাতৃবেদনায় পরিপূর্ণ অন্তর।
I
Je te salue, Seigneur, hors de la mort, du néant,
Présent dedans, dehors — mais caché aux vivants.
II
Voilé par le rideau de māyā redoutée,
Acteur dans le décor, aux fous méconnu, tué.
III
Tu viens pour enseigner la bhakti, noble foi,
Mais moi, femme humble, ton âme échappe à moi.
IV
À Krishna, fils de Vasudeva, pur éclat,
À Govinda des vaches, mes louanges vont là.
V
Ton nombril marqué fleurit du lotus éternel,
Tes pieds, tes yeux, ta guirlande brillent au ciel.
VI
Ô Hrishikesh, ô Roi des rois, tu nous délivres,
Ta mère, moi, mes fils, Draupadī — tous à vivre.
VII
Du feu, du venin, du démon carnassier,
De l’exil, de la guerre — tu sus tout effacer.
VIII
Même l’arme d’Ashvatthāmā perdit son éclat,
Car tu sauvas notre lignée d’un funeste trépas.
IX
Je prie — que les malheurs reviennent s’il le faut,
S’ils m’amènent vers toi, loin de ce monde faux.
X
Le Seigneur se révèle aux cœurs simples et nus,
Non aux fiers de naissance, d’or, de savoirs reçus.
XI
Tu viens à ceux qui n’ont ni fierté, ni désir,
Ton cœur est libre, en paix, hors des mondes à fuir.
XII
Ô Temps sans fin, Seigneur des cieux et des saisons,
Ta grâce inonde tous, dissipe divisions.
XIII
Ton jeu divin échappe à l’homme, à sa pensée —
Ton corps humain déroute, par illusion masqué.
XIV
Tu n’agis point, mais tout se meut sous ton regard,
Tu vis en chaque être — nul n’est mis à l’écart.
XV
Si tu pars, ô Seigneur, tout honneur meurt aussi,
Comme un corps sans son âme — la vie perd son abri.
XVI
Alors, du cœur de Kuntī jaillissent les chansons,
Et Krishna, silencieux, goûte ces oraisons.
XVII
Aucun mot dans le texte — mais sa réponse est claire :
Il resta, par amour, à la douleur d’une mère.
Special significance of prayer IX
Prayer IX from Kuntī’s Stuti (prayers) is one of the most paradoxical and
spiritually profound verses in all of the Śrīmad Bhāgavatam. In the poem, it
reads:
I
wish—let calamities return, if by them I may
Be drawn to You again and again, and leave saṁsāra’s way.
This
verse is inspired by Śrīmad Bhāgavatam 1.8.25, in Sanskrit:
vipadah santu tāh śaśvat
tatra tatra jagad-guro
bhavato darśanam yat syād
apunar bhava-darśanam
🔍 Literal meaning:
Kuntī
says:
“Let those calamities happen again and again, O universal
master, because when we see You, we no longer have to see the repeated
suffering of birth and death (saṁsāra).”
🪔
Deeper Explanation:
At first glance, this prayer seems completely
counterintuitive. Who would want misfortune to return? But what Kuntī is
expressing here is an advanced level of spiritual realization:
Calamity
as a Gateway to God:
Kuntī recognizes that during moments of greatest pain and
helplessness—when their kingdom was stolen, their lives threatened, their
family dishonored—it was Krishna who always came to their aid. In those
moments, her mind was wholly focused on Him. She didn’t turn to politics,
pride, or possessions—she turned to Krishna.
Vision
of the Divine as Liberation:
She says that when Krishna is present—when the mind is
absorbed in Him—there is no more rebirth. “Darśanam” (seeing Krishna) is not
mere physical vision. It is spiritual insight, the inward eye that beholds
truth. Once one truly sees God, there is no return to illusion, no return to
suffering.
Spiritual
Psychology of the Devotee:
For most of us, comfort leads to complacency. When life
is easy, we tend to forget the divine. But hardship often awakens the soul.
Kuntī, in her honesty, acknowledges this reality: that her devotion deepened
because of her suffering. So, rather than pray for comfort or peace, she prays
for whatever circumstances will keep her connected to Krishna.
Rejecting
Material Relief for Spiritual Joy:
Kuntī is not asking for freedom from suffering—she is
asking for the grace that suffering brings. This is a radical reversal of
worldly values. In essence, she is saying:
“Let sorrow come, if through it I can behold You, my
Lord. For that vision is worth more than lifetimes of pleasure without You.”
🌊 The Message for Us Today:
Even modern readers can find relevance here. Kuntī’s
prayer asks us to reframe pain—not as punishment, but as opportunity. When life
strips us of what we thought was important, we often discover what truly is.
Kuntī’s insight is that our deepest trials can become our deepest turning
points—if they bring us face to face with the eternal.
Source:
vaniquotes.org+13Vedabase+13The
Hare Krishna Movement+13Scribd+4vaniquotes.org+4ISKCON
Desire Tree+4
Scribd+3Vedabase+3Red
Zambala |+3
harekrsna.de+15Vedabase+15Vedabase+15
Vidyaadaanam+2vaniquotes.org+2PrabhupadaBooks.com+2
mahavishnugoswami.comsastracaksu.nlitn.in
Interpretive notes:
