What would I scribble,

after each effacing wave, 

on sandy childhood beaches, 

if I had no name? 

The sea squirt ceases exploring,

strikes root and eats its brain.

     Will I too,

just because I have no name?

How will you know, my love,

     which grave is mine,

in the cemetery and in your mind,

if I had no name?

Would we invent God

     and souls that linger 

long after we are gone, 

if we have no names?

“When I am at the mountain, the sea, and also flowing there:

whom, Hesse,” asks the river, “is that tree mourning there?”

“My blossoms fell too soon again,” sighs the Sakura tree, “but 

when spring came flirting yesterday, I had stood blushing there.”

The sand that was a mandala, is now just sand again:

an offering to the pink river    by monks praying there.

I could have kept watching, but started sifting through 

all the stolen roles I played, and found nothing there.

I have to go now, JJ, but I wish I had more time:

to write a silly poem, and find everything there.

            I still see you run into my arms, 

            swaddle me in your laughter, 

            and hold me in unblinking eyes 

                      unruffled by thought.

I still feel     your little hands 

untangle     the cobwebs in my mind;

I again take leave of untaken turns,

and of mountains: climbed and unclimbed.

            I still wonder     whether 

                      my long-lost innocence

            was the reason you cried,

            when you came into this world;

and I still thank you     every day 

for the hope you bestowed on me:

what I once was,     perhaps,

          I could yet be.

[translation of Ghalib’s Urdu ghazal: ‘Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi’]

I pine for each desire, till there is no vitality left;

so many were fulfilled, yet there is an infinity left.

Adam’s fall from Paradise is often told, but

I, too, took leave of your lane, with no dignity left.

There is no difference between living and dying, for those in love:

her sight gives life but takes away my breath—the kafir with no pity left.

Please do not unveil the Kaaba—what if I see her kafir face—

where idols are gone, and there is only faceless Divinity left.

Forever far is the preacher from the tavern-door, Ghalib, but

I know he passed me yesterday: I still had some sobriety left. 

Thousands of desires: each worth dying for;

many were fulfilled, but they were not enough.

We have been hearing of Adam’s exile from Paradise, but

I too left your lane in deep disgrace.

There is no difference between living and dying, when in love:

I live by seeing her — the kafir who takes my breath away.

For God’s sake, do not unveil the Ka’aba, O tyrant,

What if, even here, we find my kafir love.

Where is the tavern-door and where is the preacher, Ghalib, 

But I know this: he crossed me yesterday, as I left.

[transliteration of Ghalib’s ‘Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi’]