The Road

The road travelled far and wide
Waiting for no man, time or tide.
it was born as a village street
On which children played without shoes on their feet.
As the children grew
the street changed anew.
Now it became a town road
And was made to look like one in Abroad.
But now it has become a road,
On which city life walks like a crew aboard.
Symbolising sophisticated people and their world.
But has it forgotten the time - now very blur,
When it was a village road;
And not one cared about it, not even a toad?
No! It hasn't forgotten the days
When it transformed in a thousand ways,
In the position it is ow
Discarding its 'olden things' then and now.
But it is happy with its life so far
As it is with Broadway on par.
It has helped people reach their destination
And has taught them to progress with determination.
It has shared so many joys and sorrows
Seen so many happy faces and burdened brows,
That it feels lucky to have been
Whatever he is, than Broadway be.

- 20-Sep-2000 (I wrote this poem around 13 years back.)

जिथे राबती हात

नसे राउळी वा नसे मंदिरी
जिथे राबती हात तेथे हरी

जिथे भूमीचा पुत्र गाळील घाम
तिथे अन्न होऊन ठाकेल शाम
दिसे सावळे रूप त्याचे शिवारी!

नको मंत्र त्याला मुनीब्राह्मणाचे
तया आवडे गीत श्वासा-घणाचे
वसे तो सदा स्वेदगंगेकिनारी!

शिळा फोडती संघ पाथरवटांचे
कुणी कापसा रूप देती पटांचे
तयांच्या घरी नांदतो तो मुरारी!

जिथे काम तेथे उभा श्याम आहे
नव्हे धर्म रे घर्म ते रूप आहे
असे विश्वकर्मा श्रमांचा पुजारी!

-ग. दि. माडगूळकर 

I Had a Dove

- John Keats

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of  grieving;
O, what could it grieve for?
Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving:
Sweet little red feet! why should you die--
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You liv'd alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white pease:
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

The Calf Path

-Sam Walter Foss

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.

Since then two hundred years have fled,
And I infer the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bell-wether sheep,
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bell-wethers always do.

And from that day o'er hill and glade,
Through these old wood a path was made;
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because 'twas such a crooked path,
but still they followed-do not laugh-
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way staled.
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane
That bent, and turned, and turned again;
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And travelled some three miles in one.

And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare;
And soon the central street was this
of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead;
They followed still his crooked way;
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent
To a well-established precedent.

But how the wise old wood-gods laugh
Who saw the first primeval calf!
And many things this tale might teach--
But I am not ordained to preach.

काटा रुते कुणाला

काटा रुते कुणाला, आक्रंदतात कोणी

मज फुल ही रुतावे हा दैवयोग आहे

सांगू कशी कुणाला कळ आतल्या जीवाची

चीरदाह वेदनेचा मज शाप हाच आहे

काही करू पहातो, रुजतो अनर्थ तेथे

माझे अबोलणे ही विपरीत होत आहे

हा स्नेहवंचना की काहीच आकळेना

आयुष्य ओघळोनी मी रिक्तहस्त आहे 

गीत: शांता शेळके

गायक, संगीतकार: पंडित. जितेंद्र अभिषेकी

नाटक: हे बंध रेशमाचे (१९७२)

The Road Not Taken

- Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

To Thine Own Self Be True

-William Shakespeare in Hamlet, Act I, Scene iii (Said by Polonius to his son Laertes)

Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay'd for. There; my blessing with thee!
And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,
Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!

Ode On A Grecian Urn

-John Keats (1819)

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these?  What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit?  What struggle to escape?
        What pipes and timbrels?  What wild ecstasy?


Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
        Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
        She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!


Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
        For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape!  Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

One Autumn Day

-Sanjeev Pradhan (2004)

A heavenly sprinkle the conifers cast
conceals the paths of past;
a tiny bird in the gleeful woods come out to fly,
journey far it would have with the autumn
passing by.
Orange, yellow by this small
wonder many colours worn.
Over twirling weather-cocks and flat hill-tops,
fans the moistur'd breeze,
leaving for a destination unknown;
thou messenger of love on earth!

Descends down from divergent branches
with the lone that finds its way.
Leaning sideby a window frame,
a 'hello' to them the couple old it says.
With quick eyes and a beakly nod
seems to join their talk.
How memorable were the yesteryears!
the times which were theirs,
remember'd in the stillnight
warmed by the hearth.
Stumbles then upon the whispering air;
Ah! the cradled sway
back again to nature's care.
And envy not here it slips
In the cosy retreat of the circled stacks
and the carpet of pushed-in twigs.

The Spider And The Fly

-Mary Howitt (1821)

Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, " Dear friend what can I do,
To prove the warm affection I 've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome -- will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind Sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you 're pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."


The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple -- there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue --
Thinking only of her crested head -- poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour -- but she ne'er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

त्या फुलांच्या गंधकोषी

त्या फुलांच्या गंधकोषी, सांग तू आहेस का ?
त्या प्रकाशी तारकांच्या, ओतिसी तू तेज का ?
त्या नभांच्या नीलरंगी होऊनी आहेस का ?
गात वायूच्या स्वरांनी, सांग तू आहेस का ?

मानवाच्या अंतरीचा प्राण तू आहेस का ?
वादळाच्या सागराचे घोर ते तू रुप का ?
जीवनी या वर्षणारा तू कृपेचा मेघ का ?
आसमंती नाचणारी, तू विजेची रेघ का ?

जीवनी संजिवनी तू, माऊलीचे दूध का ?
कष्टणार्‍या बांधवांच्या रंगसी नेत्रात का ?
मूर्त तू मानव्य का रे, बालकांचे हास्य का ?
या इथे अन त्या तिथे रे, सांग तू आहेस का ?

गीतकार: सूर्यकांत खांडेकर

संगीतकार: पंडित हृदयनाथ मंगेशकर 

पराधीन आहे जगती पुत्र मानवाचा

गीत रामायणातील अतिशय सुंदर काव्य

दैवजात दु:खे भरता दोष ना कुणाचा
पराधीन आहे जगती पुत्र मानवाचा

माय कैकेयी ना दोषी, नव्हे दोषी तात

राज्यत्याग, काननयात्रा, सर्व कर्मजात

खेळ चाललासे माझ्या पूर्व संचिताचा - 1

अंत उन्नतीचा पतनी होई या जगात

सर्व संग्रहाचा वत्सा, नाश हाच अंत

वियोगार्थ मीलन होते, नेम हा जगाचा - 2

जिवासवे जन्मे मृत्यु, जोड जन्मजात    

दिसे भासते ते सारे विश्व नाशवंत

काय शोक करिसी वेड्या, स्वप्नीच्या फळांचा? - 3

तात स्वर्गवासी झाले, बंधु ये वनात

अतर्क्य ना झाले काही, जरी अकस्मात

मरण-कल्पनेशी थांबे तर्क जाणत्यांचा - 4

जरामरण यातून सुटला कोण प्राणिजात?

दू:खमुक्त जगाला का रे कोणी जीवनात?

वर्धमान ते ते चाले मार्ग रे क्षयाचा - 5

दोन ओंडक्यांची होते सागरात भेट

एक लाट तोडी दोघा, पुन्हा नाही गाठ

क्षणिक तेवी आहे बाळा, मेळ माणसाचा - 6

नको आसू ढाळू आता, पूस लोचानास

तुझा आणि माझा आहे वेगळा प्रवास

अयोध्येत हो तू राजा, रंक मी वनीचा - 7

नको आग्रहाने मजसी परतवूस व्यर्थ

पितृवचन पाळून दोघे होऊ रे कृतार्थ

मुकुटकवच धारण करी, का वेष तापसाचा? - 8

संपल्याविना ही वर्षे दशोत्तरी चार

अयोध्येस नाही येणे, सत्य हे त्रिवार

तूच एक स्वामी आता राज्यसंपदेचा - 9

पुन्हा नका येऊ कोणी दूर या वनात

प्रेमभाव तुमचा माझ्या जागता मनात

मान वाढावी तू लोकी अयोध्यापुरीचा - १०

गीत: ग. दि. माडगुळकर

संगीत: सुधीर फडके