Musings (Poems By Vishwanath)

"There comes a time in most thinking people's lives when they begin to ask themselves about the meaning and purpose of their existence. I am not surprised that my friend Vishwanath, now in the 92nd year of his life and with much achieved should ask himself these very questions and put his posers for answers into lyrical prose and verse. Having questioned his own existence, the poet goes on to problems of the ego, his loneliness among milling crowds, his closeness to his mother and his partner in life. It appears that pent up emotions burst the bounds behind which they had been contained for nine decades and now flow unchecked. Other emotions also find expressions: watching a turbulent sea with wave after wave crashing on the shore, a winter's day in the mountains with snow-flakes covering the landscape and much else..."

A doyen of Indian publishing, Vishwanath has been engaged in book publishing for the last seventy years. His publishing house, Rajpal & Sons which completes 100 years in 2012, is recognised for its stellar contribution to Hindi literature and for pioneering the paperback revolution in India and setting quality benchmarks.

Vishwanath was twice elected as the President of Federation of Indian Publishers, the national apex body of publishers in India. On several occasions he visited USA, China, erstwhile USSR and France as their state guest. An avid reader, he says, "As a publisher my gteatest joy has been that I have been the first reader of the books I have published and that I have enjoyed lifelong friendship with all my authors."

Vishwanath is fluent in Hindi, English, Urdu, Sanskrit and Punjabi. A connoisseur of music and poetry, his collection of Hindi poems, Antra has received rave reviews. He is Vice- President of the DAV organisation which runs more than 700 educational institutions across the country. A true Aarmayogi he keeps himself active with his reading, writing and furthering the cause of education.

There comes a time in most thinking people's lives when they begin to ask themselves about the meaning and purpose of their existence. Who am I? What was the reason of my existence? What will happen to me after I die? Adi Shankara posed the same questions to himself :

Who am I? Where did I come from? Where will I go? Who are my real father and mother? Adi Shankara did not give any answers to these questions for the simple reason that no one knows the answers. All that has been written and said about the origin of life is in the realm of conjecture.

All that is said about what happens after death is likewise in the realm of fantasy, be it the Day of Judgement or rebirth in another form. No rational human being accepts them because they do not stand the test of reason.

I am not surprised that my friend Vishwanath, now in the 91st year of his life and with much achieved should ask himself these very questions and put his posers for answers into lyrical prose and verse. He begins in somewhat in the same tone as Adi Shankara :

Having questioned his own existence, the poet goes on to problems of the ego, his loneliness among milling crowds, his closeness to his mother and his partner in life. It appears that pent up emotions burst the bounds behind which they had been contained for nine decades and now flow unchecked. Other emotions also find expression : watching a turbulent sea with wave after wave crashing on the shore, a winter's day in the mountains with snow-flakes covering the landscape. And much else.

The collection is designed for private circulation; it should be made accessible to the public.

I have no pretensions of being a poet. I had never thought of dabbling in poetry at any time, though poetry has been my life-long passion.

It was only during the past few years that poetry happened to me. It was like the bursting of unexpected rains, like a downpour of late monsoon. I penned a large number of poems in English and Hindi during this period.

Let me confess that my mind is hyper active and it operates at more than one level most of the time. It questions everything, it reacts, it reflects on every happening. This is perhaps the genesis of these poems.

This is a selection of my poems—good, bad or indifferent. I owe no apology for these. I only wish that you may find time to browse through them. Perhaps you may like or identify with some of these poems.