The menfolk and womenfolk
Praying as thus,
Blessing as thus
The would-be expecting mothers?
God, give her a son,
Not a daughter
As the son
The candle-light
Of the family, the clan
And to be the father of a daughter
Is to be lowly before
And the dowry too matters it?
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My love, you are singing and weeping,
Your eyelashes smeared with teardropsAnd the eyes red with.Still you are singing the song of love.God, save you!
Who am I, what my name, where my house, who my own, where to go,
The clown and the fool said to me,How silly is it to ask about these!
Kashmir is not of the pundits,
But of theirs,Only theirsWho are demanding for azadi,Azadi for Kashmir,Wanting to liberate for themselves,Not for them tooWho too are the membersAnd whose consensus too matters on it?
Where is Khushwant Singh
At some roadside dhaba,Tadaka, munga pulse unhuskedAnd fat handmade breadBut oiled and fried and sauced.And with salad?Where is he taking tadaka and tandooriAnd gossiping aboutGirls, love, sex and marriageAnd jokes,Unbridled jokes too,Boxing below the bellyAnd bursting into a laughter?Taking it all with salad, chutney, sauceSpices and pickle,Kucch khattei-kucch mitthei,Something sweet, something sourAs do the memories…
Bob Dylan,
Are you you,Are youPlaying the guitar,Strumming and strumming,Strumming it soulfully,Dylan, Dylan,Bob DylanIn reminiscent ofThe masters acknowledgedOr unacknowledgedof the musical traditionCarried farOver the years?
God, it is my prayer to You,
A manAnd then anything elseYou want to give to meAnd if You can’t, give You notWhat you want to.