The Saloon (Madhushala) [11-20]

Continuing my ambitious project to translate Madhushala in English for the benefit of those whose first language is not Hindi. You can read the original poem in Hindi here.  

Madhushala has always fascinated me and this is my way of paying homage to Late Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan.  

The Saloon (Madhushala) [1-10] 

What follows are the next 10 quatrains [11-20] 

 

The sound of jaltarang manifests, as a glass kisses another glass,

Strings of a veena resonate, when walks the girl belonging to the dancing class.

The beats are provided by the haggling, of the barkeeper who shouts, does not croon,

The melody of the orchestra is sweetened further, by the wine of the saloon. [11]

 

The tender hands holding the ruby cup, are in mehndi color draped,

The bartender is of a golden hue, but by the grape-coloured veil is caped.

Wearing violet turbans, indigo suits, steadfast are the drinking goon,

It puts to shame the rainbow, today my colorful saloon. [12]

 

Before coming to your eager hands, the glass will but tease,

It will torment with its charm, before the wine your lips appease.

The bargirl will say no a million times, won’t come near so soon,

Don’t fret, my dear traveller, it’ll but welcome you, the saloon. [13]

 

The flame of the wine is red, don’t mistake it for the fire of hell,

The bubbles and froth of the wine, are but not the blisters that in one’s heart dwell.

The hangover of this wine is agony, the cupbearer the memory’s tight cocoon,

Only those who thrive in misery and pain, dare enter my saloon. [14]

 

Like the wine of the world, O traveller, mine doesn’t placate or soothe,

My cup burns and seethes with fire; the world’s cup is cold and sans use.

Burning wine in a scorching cup, this poem is the ignited heart’s dune,

The one who doesn’t mind incineration, dare enter my saloon. [15

 

You’ve seen the flowing wine ofttimes; now see the one that rises as a flame,

When it burns as soon as it touches your lips, don’t you dare the cup’s potency blame.

“To drink 2 sips, we’ll immolate gladly, like the chatak pining for the monsoon,’

Such madmen possessed by the wine, to them calls today my saloon. [16]

 

The one whose inner flame has engulfed, all religious scriptures and books,

The one who has broken the shackles, of temples as well as mosques,

The one who has risen above, the church as well as the commune,

Only such a madman can be today, welcomed in my saloon. [17]

 

The one who hasn’t coveted, with eager lips the wine,

With trembling hands hasn’t touched the cup, how can he be fine?

The one who didn’t pull the bargirl near, who to her charm is immune,

He has wasted life and left high and dry, his whole life’s sweet saloon. [18]

 

Let the bargirl be the priest of love, and the wine pure Gangajal,

Let me turn the rosary beads of cups, never have a moment dull,

‘Take some more, drink some more’, this mantra let me chant and croon,

Let me become the statue of Shiva, and the temple this saloon [19]

 

The bells didn’t ring in the temples, the statue remains ungarlanded,

He is sitting in his house, the maulvi, on the mosque a lock he slid.

The billionaires are brought to ruin, the fortress is vanquished and will fall soon,

But let the drunkards be blessed and provided; let it remain open, this saloon. [20]

Being Mindful

As we live on the sidelines, life moves on,

By the time we bring in focus, the moment is gone.

Our gaze fixed on the road ahead, distracted by the rear view,

We could notice the roses too, who fathomed, who knew?

 

To live life in the present, we don't need to slow down,

Only be curious about the moment, and on observing not frown.

Thoughts are but cars on the freeway, some move fast, some slow,

Will you yield to your road rage, or continue to drive in flow?

 

Can you be curious about the passengers, traveling by your side,

And by connecting with them on a deeper level, make this a joyride?

To enjoy a perfect ride, you don't need to empty the streets,

Mindfulness is actually where, curiosity with presence meets.

 

When you live in the present, you're more aware of the context,  

To enjoy a poem or a novel, listen to the pauses between the text. 

Will You Share, Please

Sharing is caring, what will you share?

Will you share the abyss, into which you daily stare?

Or will you share the sun, present a bright facade,

Instead of the hidden devil, project glimpses of God?

 

For there are parts of you, that others fear and dread,

That you are bipolar since youth, and still need to take med, 

That knowledge has to be qualified, with your success at work,

Lest a failure set off, the devils that within lurk.  

 

You can boast of your success, but that will be mostly hollow,

To cover for your illness, does success necessarily have to follow?

What if you took a risk with your career, what if you did not hold a job,

Would you be reduced to your illness, will this stigma ever stop? 

 

Sharing is caring, to break stigma one needs to share,

Will you share your struggles too, is my #WorldMentalHealth day dare.

 

PS: Written on the occasion of The World Mental Health day 2026.  

The Saloon (Madhushala) [1-10]

Today I am starting an ambitious project; to translate Madhushala in English for the benefit of those whose first language is not Hindi. You can read the original poem in Hindi here.  

Madhushala has always fascinated me and this is my way of paying homage to Late Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan.  

What follows are the first 10 quatrains. Do let me know how they work and if you'll like me to translate more?  

Madhushala 

Tender feelings processed, the molasses I convert into wine,

The first offering is reserved for you, the world can then feast fine,

I’ll make you drink the sweetness, from my own cup and spoon,

It welcomes first and foremost you, my darling, my saloon. [1]

 

I’ll churn the world upside down, to quench your thirst, my love,

Dance on one foot to woo your eyes, in your hand the glass shove,

I’ve showered you with life’s sweetness, from earth till the moon,

Today I’ll empty the barrels on you, of the world’s saloon. [2]

 

Darling, you’re but my wine, I am your pining glass,

You fill yourself in me, and claim, to be the drinking class,

I let you spill and slip and spill, you get intoxicated and swoon,

Today we are entangled such, we are each other’s saloon [3]

 

From the grapevine of sensitivity, I’ve plucked imagination’s wine,

Like the courtier, I pour into the poem’s cup; I am the poet divine.

Even if millions drink from this fountain, it’ll never get dry so soon,

All you readers are my drunkard lot, and the book is my saloon [4].

 

Daily I brew from tender feelings, the wine that is but sweet,

I fill my thirsty inner cup, and let the wine my emptiness meet,

Lifting with hands of imagination, I drink myself and croon,

I am but in myself bartender, the drunkard and saloon. [5]

 

The drunkard ventures forth from home, in the search of a bar,

Which way to go the fool is perplexed, the distance looks far.

There are many paths to take you there, but I tell this to any buffoon,

Just stick to one path and it will take, you to the destination saloon. [6]

 

Much of the life is alas spent, in traveling far and wide,

It’s still further down, the traveler says, the real distance they hide.

I don’t have strength to carry on, nor want to turn back too soon,

Leaving me transfixed and flabbergasted, makes fun from far the saloon. [7]

 

Just keep the chant on your lips, about wine and intoxicating rum,

Imagine in your hands the tempting cup, in which the wine will come.

Meditate in your mind on the beautiful nymph, who’ll pour to you soon,

Keep trotting my dear fellow traveler, you’ll find distance bridged to the saloon. [8]

 

When the desire for the wine itself, becomes the drunkenness,

When your imagination gives form, to the bartender who will caress,

When the pining of the lips, is by itself the cup and spoon,

Then let the nymph and wine and cup be damned, you’ve got your saloon [9]

 

Listen intently, for in rhythmic beats, the wine falls in the cup,

Listen and you’ll make out, the bartender walking and trotting her stuff.

It’s not too far now, just take four steps and you’ll reach there soon,

Just listening, people are getting excited, and bursting at seams is my saloon [10]

 

Constant Striving

Constantly searching for jobs, life is a living hell,

When will I get employed again, no one can tell.

I make good use of the time, write a poem a day,

No better heaven for me, if I may dare to so say.

 

I used to work in IT, heaven on earth,

Making meaningful products, of money no dearth.

The mind plays its tricks, first psychology, now poetry,

Felt like burning in hell, desperately pining to be free.

 

I've arrived at several places, the destination still eludes,

Life always keeps evolving, the current state a mere prelude.

I am eternally caught between, heaven and hell,

They are not merely out there, they are in my mind as well.

 

You can keep your heaven and hell, I'm content with my piece of earth,

Let me live a humdrum existence, sans the drama of constantly giving myself birth.

 

PS: This was first published on Medium here.  

Claiming a Full House

Success is desiring, and getting what you want,

It's writing your life story, in a bold and dynamic font. 

The constant striving, keeps you miserable and driven,

You have to actively stake your claim, it can't be just given.

 

Happiness is liking, and wanting what you get,

If it's lemons, you make lemonade, you don't cry or fret.

The constant adjustment, makes you complacent and dull,

With no unfulfilled desires, what's the point of living, you mull. 

 

The more you strive for success, the more empty you feel,

The more you pine for happiness, the more with ennui you deal.

The wise men say, it's best, to be equanimous and a Karm Yogi,

I think I've fulfilled the requirement, only to be called out a bogey.

 

Striving to be equanimous, adjusting to whatever hand I'm dealt,

I still feel hollow in my quest, and bored is all I've recently felt. 

Party Dynamics

Whenever a B'day party becomes due, scheduling it becomes a task,

You have to be careful of the Naaraz Foofas, lest someone you forgot to ask.

To ensure that everyone's voice is heard, we typically run a poll,

- That most people join and increase the bill - is our mutual unsaid goal.

 

Ram has a fast on Saturdays, Shyam on weekday works till late night,

So the Friday evening doesn't work out, nor any weekday festivity seems right.

Sunday brunch is ruled out, it's more drinks than food we covet,

Sunday evenings are challenging, Mohan has a recurring family date.

 

The above are general factors, there are seasonal reasons too,

That Navratra and pitrupaksh are dry days- who fathomed, who knew.

Some like me are always available, we click all options in the poll,

Till the time the party is finalized, our gustatory health takes a toll.   

 

In the end we always converge, although someone or other we miss,

On the rare occasion when all can make it, the party is pure bliss.