Aubade (Subah Ka Bhajan)by Daljit Nagra In Hindi/Urdu Translation Poem by Ravi Kopra

Subah Ka Bhajan
(Jap Ji Sahab Ka Paath By Guru Nanak Dev Ji)


Kahin lagataar lambi subah main
meri aankhaiN akaash ki aur,
main baDi pukki saDak k paar,
apne aap main kho jaata hoon.
Ya main us awaaz main
jo cHut nahin sakti apne bhajan se,
smaayaa hua rehta hoon.

Kya main bhatak raha hoon apni virasat main?
Guru Nanak ki saans ki parcHaaee main?
Sun raha hoon us ka bhajan 'ek um kaar'
shaant kar deeyay thay jisnay
puraanay bharat k dariyaaoN ko.
Mehsoos ho raha hai muje
k uski divya-jyoti bacHa leti hai
zakhmi logoN ko doobnay se
un ki dawaa kartay huay.

Mere gaaoN main, har taraf,
kesari peD aisay lagtay hain k kahin vo
is duniya k bahar se aaey hain,
aur vo baar baar thakkay huay musafaroN ko
sheetal hawaa apne komal haray pattoN se detay hain
un ko galay laga letay hain, asheerwaad detay hain.

-to be continued






Aubade

By Daljit Nagra


Somewhere in the sunshine of the everlasting dawn

from my airborne stance

I feel absorbed across the broad pavement.

Or am I dissolved in a voice

that can't sever from its verse.



Am I adrift in my heritage? To shadow the breath

of our dear Guru Nanak. To hear him chant

his om that balms

the rivers of old India. I sense his aura

hold the wounded over water

till they're healed.



In my suburbia, all around me,

the saffron trees are unearthly presences.

They bow turn by turn

and seem to caress or bless

with breeze and gentle leaf

each wearied pedestrian.



Have I become so numbed by routine

and the reasoned life

that flecks from my past would ascend

from within to raise my flesh

so it learns outright pain?

In my feeble conceits, am I haunted by obsessions

and can't keep off the need to revive

the lost faith?

My dire need to survive above the sphere.

The idea of the vision as practice charged into plenitude.



All that Sikhism charm from my childhood

has me span the soul of Nanak

from Lahore to Harrow. His soul uprooting concrete

so the nerves of the world are flexed

and greened by the branches of his lungs.



His soul seems everywhere, guiding us to head

for the centre of this road

where he has opened the earth

so it spreads into a river gush.

Into which, are we are being lifted by the trees?

Could Nanak's branch-arms haul us

and wallow us in his equable waters,

return us freed

from the grief-ache?

So we're built to withstand the ruin of sense.