अजनबी शहर

आज इस शहर में अकेला हु
जबकि बहुत जान मेरे जैसे
चलते है, रोते हुए, आस पास
जब देखता हूँ उन आँखों में
सब नीरस होके मुझे देखते
उनकी निगाहो में मैं सुराग ढूंढ़ता हु |

हे खुदा कब मुझे इस जीवन से
मुक्ति मिले इस अनजान शहर से
कब मैं अपने गांव को चला जावु
अगर यह मेरी चाह कुछ ज्यादा है
दफना दो, मुझे और मेरे सपनों को
इस शहर में, जहा तुम भी अब अजनबी हो |

My first attempt in Hindi.  The plight of the migrants who come to the city with a lot of dreams and a healthy soul are let down by the city so inhumanly that they crave to go back to those villages, but they are so tired and having lost their souls to the devils who linger and rule the city, now even going back seems to be a far fetched dream.

Let me know your thoughts on this. 

Rough translation is as below.

Alien City

Today, am feeling lonely in this alien city
when a lot of souls, like me, I see in pain
around and about me, crying as they pass
as I look deeply into their sad eyes,
they sense me,  with looks monotonous
i fervently search for clues in those looks
for me to survive in this city alien to me.

Oh Lord, when will you relive me of this distress
and give me solace from life and this city
when can I think of going back to my sweet village
from whence I came, if you feel this wish of mine
is too much to fulfill, bury me, my tired self
who lost his way and his dreams in this city
where, even You have been now lost to me…

Voice of a City

Credits: SoundCloud 

Tinker of the milk man whose tampering

has broken daily, fresh water records.

The chime of the fruit seller cart where

the fruits were painted in the morning.

The gas cylinders unloaded nearby when

you had ordered one, a fortnight ago.

The newspaper thrown at your door by

the boy who vanishes into thin air daily.

The school bus honking, when the lunch

of kids is still made by the half-maid.

The laundry man dropping your clothes

wearing them before he returns to you.

The fish monger who pedals his bicycle

with lot of fresh ice in his long dead fish.

The lime pickle vendor with his  jarring

having a mix of all except those lemons.

The mat seller who dusts his rugs for you

claiming the dust was picked in Kashmir.

The fire engine arriving at the front door

to contain raging fires at the back door.

The crows cawing out for their daily food

Voice of a city, a craving now, left in life. 

The Friday Market

The weekly friday market has come to life again
what was a once a desolated place till yesterday
people have converged in their hundreds today
having got a lot of wares ready to sell and barter.

From far and near many have come with hopes
to satisfy their buying instincts and daily needs
the market has become busy with noise and dust
one wonders when they will stop to walk and rest.

As a fleet of vehicles move in and out with people
on the lookout for perfect buyers and sellers alike
children crowd around the small shops with toys
egging their hesitant parents to buy one or two.

Ladies eyeing the glass bangle shops with glee
the bangle seller adorning his giggling buyers
garment shops are witnessing too much rush
all flock to these to try out their clothed dreams.

The fruit vendors are armed with their farm loads
of sweet melons and tumbling plums of all colors
vegetable vendors lend the greenery to the site
the spice shops tend to water your eyes and senses.

The earthen ware and pots getting baked in the sun
the carpets and the woven shawls swaying to the wind
the umbrellas and jute bags reminding you of the rain
the dry nuts and the dates beckoning you to have a bite.

In short you have got everything asked for and wished
it is time to take rest and enjoy freshly ground coffee
as evening sets, you leave, heavily laden with your goods
some you wished you never bought as an after thought.

The hawkers are busy tying their unsold merchandise
counting their profits and lost opportunities with time
it is time to wind up and say goodbye to the market
which will stand desolate once again till next friday…