Poems of the Homeland

Poems of the Homeland

The Dust of Hind

O dust of Hind, what doubt is there of your greatness?
The river of nature's bounty flows for you.
From your brow shines the light of eternal beauty;
God, what adornment, what height of honour and glory!
Every morning the radiant sun has this service:
with its rays it braids the tresses of the Himalaya.

From this beloved dust such springs flowed forth
as watered China and Arabia.
When the cloud of savagery hung over the whole world,
our land was the eye and lamp of the world.
When there was no candle of learning in the assembly of Greece,
the sun of knowledge shone in this ancient valley.

Gautama gave honour to this ancient temple;
Sarmad gave up his homeland for this land.
Akbar gave this assembly the cup of love;
Rana watered this garden with his blood.
All our brave heroes lie hidden in this dust;
these are broken ruins, or else their bones.

Their influence still shows in door and wall;
their blood still flows in our veins.
The cry of the conch is still steeped in power;
the strain of the call to prayer is still a paradise to the ear.
The colour of heaven still shows in Kashmir;
the river Ganges still flows in majesty.

The old freshness is in the flowers and fruits;
the peacocks still dance in the forests.
The same crash of lightning is still in the clouds,
but a lowness has come into the courage of the heart.
The candle of the assembly is out, though the assembly is the same;
love of the homeland is the same, the dust of the homeland is the same.

For years our scene has been in disarray;
our name and trace are being wiped from the world.
Our heavy sleep is no less than death;
our India is a corpse without a shroud.
Learning, excellence and faith are being ruined;
the slaves of pleasure and revelry lie sleeping in heedlessness.

O trumpet of love for the nation, wake us from this sleep!
Tell our ears again the forgotten tale.
Wipe away the gloom of dead spirits;
show the sparks rising from these ashes.
Let love of the homeland fill the eyes as light,
the head as intoxication, the heart as joy.

To the lover of gardens, joy of cypress and jasmine!
To colourful natures, joy of the colour of verse!
To the nightingale joy of the rose, to the rose joy of the garden!
To us helpless ones, joy of our beloved homeland!
The buds of our hearts will bloom in this garden;
from this dust we have risen, into this dust we shall go.

The light of the homeland's dawn is to us a river of milk;
the splendour of this assembly is the light of our eyes.
Every mote of this ancient abode is the envy of the sun;
even a thorn of this garden is weighed against a rose petal.
The dust and dirt of this place is a robe of honour for our bodies;
even in death we want the homeland's dust for a shroud.

Our Homeland

This India is our homeland,
the star of the eyes of love, our homeland;
our homeland, dearer than the heart, our homeland.

Those budding preparations of its trees,
those fruits, flowers and plants, those flower gardens:
our homeland, dearer than the heart, our homeland.

That swaying of the trees in the breeze,
that kissing of the leaves and flowers:
our homeland, dearer than the heart, our homeland.

That splendour of the black clouds in Sawan,
that light, light drizzle of the rains:
our homeland, dearer than the heart, our homeland.

That koel in the gardens, those peacocks of the forest,
those waves of the Ganges, that force of the Jumna:
our homeland, dearer than the heart, our homeland.

From it comes the spring of this life,
be it love of the homeland or a mother's love:
our homeland, dearer than the heart, our homeland.

The Song of the Homeland

The land of Hind is in rank the highest heaven;
this is the dawn of the hope of Home Rule.
Mrs Besant has nurtured this desire;
we are beggars of the nation, and this is our garland of song:
It is idle to ask for a thorn in place of the rose;
we would not take even paradise in place of Home Rule.

We shall bring the dust of the homeland-loving martyrs;
we shall make it the collyrium of our eyes.
For our poor mother we shall bear pain and sorrow;
this message of faithfulness we shall tell the nation:
It is idle to ask for a thorn in place of the rose;
we would not take even paradise in place of Home Rule.

For us the chain and the iron collar are jewellery,
which Gandhi has put on in his passion for faithfulness.
We have understood that we must bear grief and pain,
but with our tongues we shall say what we have to say:
It is idle to ask for a thorn in place of the rose;
we would not take even paradise in place of Home Rule.

If those who put on fetters put fetters on us,
gladly we shall make our home in the corner of the prison.
If the sentries at the prison door fall asleep,
we shall sing this song and wake them from their sleep:
It is idle to ask for a thorn in place of the rose;
we would not take even paradise in place of Home Rule.

The heedless are proud that they have bound our tongues;
let them look a little at the way the blood runs in our veins.
The burning and melting of the heart will go along with life;
after death this voice will come from the pyre:
It is idle to ask for a thorn in place of the rose;
we would not take even paradise in place of Home Rule.

This is the prayer of the homeland's broken ones,
this the longing of the young saplings:
by the white hairs of the one who leads
those who die for love, we swear:
It is idle to ask for a thorn in place of the rose;
we would not take even paradise in place of Home Rule.

This is the message of the koel in the garden;
in this same air is the force of the Ganges all day and night.
The new moon of Id has given this news to hearts;
the cloud calls it, rising again and again from the Himalaya:
It is idle to ask for a thorn in place of the rose;
we would not take even paradise in place of Home Rule.

Those by whose love the nation's homes are peopled
hold the homeland dearer than their wedded happiness.
On the breasts of those suckling infants who are India's darlings
this is written with their mother's milk:
It is idle to ask for a thorn in place of the rose;
we would not take even paradise in place of Home Rule.

Once the World Was Proud of Hind

Once the world too was proud of its Hind,
but now that height is not in learning, excellence and art.

The blood in the veins is the same, the heart the same, the spirit the same;
the tongue is the same, but that power is not in our speech.

The assembly is the same, the candle the same, the lantern the same,
but those moths devoted to the assembly are not in the gathering.

The breeze is the same, the koel the same, the *papiha* the same;
the garden is the same, but that gardener is not in the garden.

The pride of ignorance has plundered India;
except for discord, there is not even dust left in the homeland.

Love of the Nation

These days the tale of love for the nation is on every tongue;
the cup of my heart is full of the wine of affection.

Wherever you look, there is the tale of love;
every man is mad with love of his homeland.

When this is the beginning, what shall we say of the end?
This is only the first cup of the wine of affection.

The lamp of national progress that burns in this gathering:
every heart is sacrificed to it like the moth.

How can I describe this sympathy and affection?
Everyone here is mad for the nation's progress.

The delight that lies in oneness, where is it in division?
Whoever is against this, count him mad.

Those by whose effort the tree of affection has grown in the nation,
their manly courage deserves praise.

Today the garden of Kashmir is full of the rose of its aim; [TN: Chakbast's own community were the Kashmiri Pandits of Lucknow; the poem seems written for one of their gatherings.]
enmity and discord are a stranger weed.

Every tongue scatters pearls in praise of love of the homeland;
on every side the sea of manly courage surges.

This air of love has been brought about by you;
we must thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Every man trusts in your help;
the tale of your sympathies is told far and wide.

The leaders of the nation have gathered for national progress;
by their feet this wedding hall is the envy of paradise.

The Vedas

When by nature's grace the fate of the world opened,
the radiance of Oneness shone on the shore of Hind.

The night of ignorance vanished, the morning star shone;
the star of Aryavarta's fortune shone.

Upon the men of heart came the rapture of knowledge of God,
from whom the streams of faith flowed into the world.

In the special place of splendour their paths lay open;
their eyes knew the secret of Reality.

The light of God had come down for them from the heavenly throne;
they were chosen servants and received the title of *rishis* (seers).

The Vedas are pictures of their truth-loving hearts,
commentaries on the splendour of the power of the Worshipped One.

In the Vedas is this lesson of Oneness in the very midst of multitude:
it is one light that is in the mote and in the sun.

By that same essence through which the surge of youth arises in man,
the flow arises in the waves.

It is colour in the garden and open air on the skirts of the hills;
it is blood in the vein of the rose and the prick of the lancet in the thorn.

It is dignity in beauty and frenzy in the madman;
it is the brightness in the candle and the light in the moth.

It has entered the gardens as colour and scent;
it has rained on the mountains as cloud.

It has spread over the heart of the ecstatic as longing;
it has entered the heart of the poet as pain.

When the light of faith brings purity into the breast,
its reflection is seen in that mirror.