Zinda Kaul

Zinda Kaul Poems

Zinda Kaul Biography

Pandit 'Zinda Kaul is a well-known Indian poet, writer & teacher. He composed in Persian, Hindi, Urdu & Kashmiri. Personal Life Zinda Kaul was also known as MasterJi by his students and friends. He came to be called 'Masterji' because he used to teach many Kashmiris, both in school as well as at his home. Zinda was born into a Kashmiri Pandit family, & his father Pandit Lakshman Pandit was indifferent to his formal education. Masterji had to face many difficulties in his life. He was a school teacher for a long time. After that, he worked as an ordinary clerk. In 1939, Kaul retired from the Publicity office of Kashmir as a translator. He died in Jammu in the winter of 1965. Literary Work Zinda Kaul was the first Kashmiri poet to win the Sahitya Academy award in 1956, for his book of poetry compilations Sumran. It was first published in Devanagari, and later the government had it printed in the Persio-Arabic script. The Sahitya Academy of India gave Pandit Zinda Koul an award of five thousand rupees for this book. In the beginning 'Masterji' wrote in Persian, Hindi, and Urdu. Masterji started writing in Kashmiri in 1942. In his Kashmiri poetry, he has written primarily on devotion, philosophy & peace. Masterji's poetry has been published in all these four languages. However, he made his name by writing in Kashmiri. His poetry was greatly influenced by Lal Ded and Parmanand. His writing style is mystical & is influenced by bhakta tradition. Masterji composed poetry only for (his own) pleasure. Those who know say that Masterji's poems in Kashmiri were better than those in Hindi and Urdu. Masterji translated the poems of the famous Kashmiri poet Parmanand into English. These poems have been published in three volumes. Kashmiri poetry suffered a great loss upon Masterji's death.)

The Best Poem Of Zinda Kaul

Sumran

Listen, my friend! He gave me His rosary as a token of His love, but alas!
I failed to take care of it and lost it! I was unworthy.
I have no hope to recover those precious beads by groping in my blindness.
To be so lucky one must have donated valuable gifts to the poor in one's past lives, which I have not.

I ought to have treasured it in my heart but I held it in my hand to make a show of it.
So no one else is to blame; I myself am responsible for such grievous loss.
To show one's treasure is to lose it; impatience leads to imperfection;
people keep lids on their kettles so that the rice may be cooked perfectly.

Since I have lost this token, I go, like one out of wits, from shop to shop without meaning to buy or beg anything.
(Those who go from faith to faith grasp none.) How can I explain my lapses, slips and falls?
How can I face Him during the day?
And I cannot go to Him alone also in the dark, dangerous night.

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