Narsihn Mehta was a great Gujrati saint and a poet. Born somewhere in 15th century, he was a pioneer of Gujrati literature but little is known about his life and time. Most of his life has kind of become a folklore with several writers writing about it differently and then Bollywood making movie on it.
There are no manuscripts of his work but they were carried down orally across generations and were later put on paper first time (most probably due to non-availability of any earlier ones) somewhere in 17th century. "Vaishnav jan to" has nearly become a synonymous to his work due to its immense popularity.
वैष्णव जन तो तेने कहिये, जे पीड़ परायी जाने रे
पर दुखे उपकार करे तोये, मन अभिमान न आने रे
सकल लोक मान सुहाने वन्दे, निंदा ना करी केनी रे
वाच काछ मन निश्चल रखे, धन धन जननी तेनी रे
सम-दृष्टी ने तृष्णा त्यागी, परस्त्री जेने मात रे
जिह्वा थके, असत्य ना बोले, पर-धन नव झाले हाथ रे
मोह माया व्यापे नहीं जेने, दृढ वैराग्य जेना मन मा रे
राम नाम शु ताल रे लागी, सकल तीरथ तेना तन मा रे
वा ना लोभी ना कपट रहे रहित छे, काम क्रोध निवार्या रे
भने नारसैयो तेनो दर्शन करता, कुल एकोतर तरया रे
Rough English Translation
He is the true Vaishnav who knows and feels another's woes as his own.
While he serves those who are suffering, he does not entertain pride in his mind about it.
He respects everyone, and denounce nobody.
He keeps his speech, deeds, and thoughts pure; blessed is his mother.
Viewing all equally, he rids himself of covetousness, and reveres every woman as though she were his mother.
His tongue would fail him if he were to attempt to speak an untruth. He does not covet another person's wealth.
Material attachments do not occupy his mind, it being deeply rooted in renunciation.
Every moment he is intent on reciting the name of Rama. All the holy places are ever present in his body.
He has conquered greed, deceit, lust, and anger.
Says Narasi, the sight of such a Vaishnav saves a family through seventy-one generations.
Showing posts with label Literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Literature. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Sahir Ludhianvi - One Of The Greatest Poet Ever
No doubt.
The most difficult thing for a poet is to come out of the traditional poetry things like beauty, god and liquor, and to write about the social ailments. But Sahir was a champion of that cause. At a time when the country was still hallucinating itself on the independence and the changes it had inspired in a decade, he wrote something like this in 'Pyasa' (filmed on Guru Dutt while he is passing through a red light area):-
ये कुचे, नीलाम घर दिलकशी के
ये लुटते हुए कारवां जिंदगी के
कहाँ हैं, कहाँ हैं, मुहाफ़िज़ खुदी के
जिन्हें नाज़ है हिंद पर, वो कहाँ हैं
How easy it could have been for Sahir to write about brighter future and prosperity for everyone after the independence but such was his writing style to raise bitter but sensitive issues all the time.
The most difficult thing for a poet is to come out of the traditional poetry things like beauty, god and liquor, and to write about the social ailments. But Sahir was a champion of that cause. At a time when the country was still hallucinating itself on the independence and the changes it had inspired in a decade, he wrote something like this in 'Pyasa' (filmed on Guru Dutt while he is passing through a red light area):-
ये कुचे, नीलाम घर दिलकशी के
ये लुटते हुए कारवां जिंदगी के
कहाँ हैं, कहाँ हैं, मुहाफ़िज़ खुदी के
जिन्हें नाज़ है हिंद पर, वो कहाँ हैं
How easy it could have been for Sahir to write about brighter future and prosperity for everyone after the independence but such was his writing style to raise bitter but sensitive issues all the time.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Joy And Sorrow - From "The Prophet" By Khalil Gibran
From one of the most read books of 20th century - The Prophet By Khalil Gibran.
Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow. And
he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the
selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes
filled with your tears.
And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into
your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was
burned in the potter’s oven? And is not the lute that soothes
your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are Joyous, look deep into your heart and you
shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is
giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you
shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been
your delight.
Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and others say,
‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’ But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at
your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and
your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at stand still and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold
and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
To read more about Khalil Gibran, go to here
To download and read 'The Prophet' as ebook, go The Prophet eBook Site
Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow. And
he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the
selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes
filled with your tears.
And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into
your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was
burned in the potter’s oven? And is not the lute that soothes
your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are Joyous, look deep into your heart and you
shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is
giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you
shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been
your delight.
Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and others say,
‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’ But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at
your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and
your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at stand still and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold
and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
To read more about Khalil Gibran, go to here
To download and read 'The Prophet' as ebook, go The Prophet eBook Site
Monday, April 12, 2010
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Have always liked this poem. This poem, written by Robert Frost, was first published in a 1923 Pulitzer prize winning volume of poems titled 'New Hampshire'.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Book Review: "My Name Is Red" By Orhan Pamuk
Reading novels from Nobel Literature winners is not my cup of tea. So, when a friend suggested "My Name Is Red" to me, I was apprehensive to start. After all, it is written by Orhan Pamuk, Turkish writer and winner of Nobel Prize in Literature 2006 for his novel titled "Snow". My Name Is Red was written much earlier (in 2001) but still it would be an effort to read it - so as I thought. And, I was indeed correct. It is not effortless reading but it is surely worthwhile.
In general, Orhan Pamuk has been vocal about freedom of expression issues. In year 2005, he was forced to flee from his country due to the hate campaigns against him after he made a statement regarding the mass killings of Armenians and Kurds in Antolia. There were criminal charges brought against him for these remarks but they were subsequently dropped. I have earlier read some part of his Nobel lecture and his thoughts touched me a lot. An excerpt from his Nobel lecture is as follows (translation by Maureen Freely) :-
What literature needs most to tell and investigate today are humanity's basic fears: the fear of being left outside, and the fear of counting for nothing, and the feelings of worthlessness that come with such fears; the collective humiliations, vulnerabilities, slights, grievances, sensitivities, and imagined insults, and the nationalist boasts and inflations that are their next of kind ... Whenever I am confronted by such sentiments, and by the irrational, overstated language in which they are usually expressed, I know they touch on a darkness inside me. We have often witnessed peoples, societies and nations outside the Western world–and I can identify with them easily–succumbing to fears that sometimes lead them to commit stupidities, all because of their fears of humiliation and their sensitivities. I also know that in the West–a world with which I can identify with the same ease–nations and peoples taking an excessive pride in their wealth, and in their having brought us the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and Modernism, have, from time to time, succumbed to a self-satisfaction that is almost as stupid.
My Name Is Red is a kind of murder mystery set in 1591, when the murder of Elegant Effendi, a painter in the Ottoman Empire, threatens to expose a blasphemy that has infected Ottoman court painters. It is rumored that a secret book commissioned by the sultan is dedicated to European artistic styles, which favours figurative arts (prohibited in Islam). Four miniaturists, under the guidance of a rival to the sultan, have been painting it secretly. Consumed by guilt, Elegant confesses one evening, inciting someone to murder him. The clue to which miniaturist murdered him hinges upon the nostrils of a horse: In a drawing found on the dead man's body, these nostrils displayed a distinct style. This story of the sultan's secret book and the murder is told in the first person from the point of view of various narrators, not all of them human. So we hear from the corpse, the lovers and the murderer, a gold coin, the color red, and many more. The characters talk with the reader directly, and nearly each chapter has its own narrator starting with the murdered painter himself in the first chapter.
Wonderfully written book.
In general, Orhan Pamuk has been vocal about freedom of expression issues. In year 2005, he was forced to flee from his country due to the hate campaigns against him after he made a statement regarding the mass killings of Armenians and Kurds in Antolia. There were criminal charges brought against him for these remarks but they were subsequently dropped. I have earlier read some part of his Nobel lecture and his thoughts touched me a lot. An excerpt from his Nobel lecture is as follows (translation by Maureen Freely) :-
What literature needs most to tell and investigate today are humanity's basic fears: the fear of being left outside, and the fear of counting for nothing, and the feelings of worthlessness that come with such fears; the collective humiliations, vulnerabilities, slights, grievances, sensitivities, and imagined insults, and the nationalist boasts and inflations that are their next of kind ... Whenever I am confronted by such sentiments, and by the irrational, overstated language in which they are usually expressed, I know they touch on a darkness inside me. We have often witnessed peoples, societies and nations outside the Western world–and I can identify with them easily–succumbing to fears that sometimes lead them to commit stupidities, all because of their fears of humiliation and their sensitivities. I also know that in the West–a world with which I can identify with the same ease–nations and peoples taking an excessive pride in their wealth, and in their having brought us the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and Modernism, have, from time to time, succumbed to a self-satisfaction that is almost as stupid.
My Name Is Red is a kind of murder mystery set in 1591, when the murder of Elegant Effendi, a painter in the Ottoman Empire, threatens to expose a blasphemy that has infected Ottoman court painters. It is rumored that a secret book commissioned by the sultan is dedicated to European artistic styles, which favours figurative arts (prohibited in Islam). Four miniaturists, under the guidance of a rival to the sultan, have been painting it secretly. Consumed by guilt, Elegant confesses one evening, inciting someone to murder him. The clue to which miniaturist murdered him hinges upon the nostrils of a horse: In a drawing found on the dead man's body, these nostrils displayed a distinct style. This story of the sultan's secret book and the murder is told in the first person from the point of view of various narrators, not all of them human. So we hear from the corpse, the lovers and the murderer, a gold coin, the color red, and many more. The characters talk with the reader directly, and nearly each chapter has its own narrator starting with the murdered painter himself in the first chapter.
Wonderfully written book.
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