On January 18, 2003, the legendary Hindi literateur Harivansh Rai Bachchan died of a prolonged respiratory illness at his son Amitabh Bachhan’s residence Pratiksha.

Harivansh Rai Bachchan was born in Allahabad in 1907, he acquired immense popularity in the 1930s through Madhushala, a long poem inspired by the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

During a literary career spanning over 50 years, Harivanshrai published about 30 anthologies of poems and his autobiography is considered a masterpiece.

  Considered and acknowledged by his peers and his fans alike as the pioneer of the romantic and progressive movement in Hindi poetry, his death marks the end of an era of Hindi poetry.

Madhushala

 Harivansh Rai Bachhan

Seeking wine, the drinker leaves home for the tavern.
Perplexed, he asks, "Which path will take me there?"
People show him different ways, but this is what I have to say,
"Pick a path and keep walking. You will find the tavern."

Hark! The wine gurgles and splashes as it falls from the goblet.
Hark! It sounds like the tinkling of bells on the feet of an intoxicated girl.
We have reached there, a few steps are we from the tavern,
Hark! Hear the laughter of the drinkers, as the fragrance of the tavern wafts through the air.

Call it not lava, though it flows red, like a tongue of flame.
Call it not the blistered heart, for it is only foaming wine.
Lost memories serve the wine, that intoxicates with pain.
If you find happiness in suffering, come to my tavern.

He who has burnt all scriptures with his inner fire,
Has broken temples, mosques and churches with carefree abandon,
And has cut the nooses of pandits, mullahs and priests ---
Only he is welcome in my tavern.

Alas, he that with eager lips, has not kissed this wine,
Alas, he that trembling with joy, has not touched a brimming goblet,
He that has not drawn close the coy wine-maiden by her hand,
Has wasted this honey-filled tavern of Life.

My beloved wine-maiden seems a priest; her wine as pure as the Ganga`s waters.
With unbroken pace, she rotates the rosary of wine glasses.
"Drink more! Drink more!" she intones in prayer.
I am Shiva incarnate and this tavern is my temple.

Only once every year, the fires of Holi are lit.
Only once is the game played and are garlands of lamps lit.
But, O, those who are lost in the world, come and see the tavern any day,
The tavern celebrates a Holi, every morning and a Diwali every night.

Whatever the taste on my lips, it tastes like wine.
Whatever the vessel in my hands, it feels like a goblet.
Every face dissolves into the features of my wine-maiden,
And whatever be in front of my eyes, they fill only with visions of the tavern.

Ah, Beautiful, your lovely face is like a crystal bowl,
Whose precious gem is your beauty, sparkling like sweet, intoxicating wine.
I am the wine-maiden and I am the guest.
Where sit we together, there indeed is the tavern.

A mere two days she served me but the young maiden is sulking now.
She fills my goblet and passes it curtly to me.
Her coquetry and charms are lost arts;
All the tavern wishes now is to fulfil its obligations.

Life is short. How much love can I give and how much can I drink?
They say, "He departs," at the very moment that he is born.
While he is being welcomed, I have seen his farewell being prepared.
They started closing the shutters of the tavern, as soon as they were raised.

O maiden! Which burning heart has been pacified by drinking?
Every drinker repeats only one chant, "More! More!"
Seeking satisfaction, he leaves behind so many desires.
Of how many such hopes is this tavern a tomb?

Yama will come as the wine-maiden and bring his black wine,
Drink, and know no more consciousness, O carefree one.
This is the ultimate trance, the ultimate wine-maiden and the ultimate goblet.
O traveller, drink judiciously, for you will never find the tavern again.

Each day, O companion, spills more wine from my life.
Each day, O fortunate one, this goblet, my body, is burnt.
Each day, O lovely woman, this wine-maiden, my youth, distances itself from me.
Each day, O beauty, this tavern, my Life, is drying up.

When from the earthen jar of my body, the wine of life is emptied,
When the final wine-maiden comes with her bowl of poison,
When my hand forgets the touch of the goblet, and my lips the taste of wine,
Whisper in my ears, "the wine, the goblet, the tavern!"

Touch not my lips with tulasi, but with the goblet, when I die.
Touch not my tongue with the Ganga`s waters, but with wine, when I die.
When you bear my corpse, pallbearers, remember this!
Call not the name of God, but call to the truth that is the tavern.

Weep over my corpse, if you can weep tears of wine.
Sigh dejectedly for me, if you are intoxicated and carefree.
Bear me on your shoulders, if you stumble drunkenly along.
Cremate me on that land, where there once was a tavern.

Pour on my ashes, not ghee, but wine.
Tie to a vine of grapes, not a waterpot, but a wine-goblet.
And when, my darling, you must call guests for the ritual feast,
Do this - call those who will drink and have the tavern opened for them.

If anyone asks my name, say it was, "The Drunkard".
My work? I drank and passed the goblet to everyone.
O Beloved, if they ask my caste, say only that I was mad.
Say my religion worshipped goblets and then chant with your rosary, "The tavern, the tavern!"

O son, raise not water at my final rites, but wine in your palms.
And sit somewhere, having filled the Ganga with wine.
If you can wet the earth somewhere, my soul will be satisfied.
Offer your libations to your ancestral spirits by reading repeatedly, "The tavern, the tavern."

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