Rakeeb ka hoshemand hona (with translation)

वो शुक्रिया कहता गया, रकीब कहता था जो मुझको कभी,
मैं हँसता गया उसकी ख़ुशफ़हमियों पर

नादान वो समझता नहीं, मर्ज़ ना मैं था, ना मैं हूँ
गुणगान करता है जिसका वो शमा शातीर है
बेहिसाबि से क़त्ल करती है इल्ज़ाम फिर चाहे किसके सर हो,

कहती है "मैं ही तो रोशन हूँ
मैं जलती हूँ ताकि मेरे नूर में तुम, पल भर या बरसों
मोहब्बत में फ़ना होने की ख़वाइश पाओ
परवाना भसम होता है कब कहने से मेरे मिट-ता है
मुझपर ना यूँ ही इल्ज़ाम-ए-ग़लत लगाओ"

यह सुनता आया हूँ मैं पर वो कहाँ समझता है
इकारस सा आफ़ताब के निकट उड़ता है
और जलने के लिए बहाना राकीब का मुझको बना
सुरमिश्रित गरल सी नफ़रत जो उठती है मुहब्बत भरे सीने में
मुझ ही को गुनाहों का फ़रिश्ता समझ लेता है

और जब वहम ख़त्म हो जाते है
आकर शुक्रिया अदा करता है

In roman script

Wo shukriya kahta gaya, rkeeb kahta tha jo mujhko kabhi,
main hansta gaya uski khushfhmiyon par

nadaan wo samajhta nahin, marz na main tha, na main hun
gungan karta hai jiska wo shama shaa teer hai
behisaabi se katl karti hai, ilzaam fir chahe kiske sar ho,

kahti hai "main hi to roshan hun,
main jalti hun, taaki mere noor mein tum, pal bhar ya barson
mohabbat mein fanaa hone ki khawaaish pao
parwana bhasam hota hai, kab kahne se mere mit-taa hai
mujhpar na yun hi ilzaam-e-galat lagao"

yah sunta aaya hun main, par wo kahan samajhtaa hai
ikaras sa aaftaab ke nikat udta hai
aur jalne ke liye bahana rakeeb ka mujhko bana
suramishrit gar l si nafrat jo uthti hai muhabbat bhare seene mein
mujh hi ko gunahon ka farishta samajh leta hai,

aur jab vah m khatm ho jaate hai
aakar shukriya adaa karta hai.

Translation (I have killed an ordinary poem, by a hasty translation - Its meant for people who cannot understand Hindi/Urdu as it is):

He left after thanking me -
competition who used to consider me,
I kept grinning at his misconceptions.

He's naive, doesn't see,
I never ailed him, never will.
' Tis the candlelight he adulates
thats duplicitous -
She counts not, just kills,
and cares not, who's blamed.

Says, "I am the luminous,
I burn to dazzle with my halo.
For an instant or years, pine
for my love, ache to die for my love

the moth turns to ash,
but does he at my bidding?
Why accuse me -
with crimes I ain't committing?"

I have been hearing all this,
but does or can he ever comprehend?
Like Icarus, he flies too close to sun
and for his burns he blames his competition, (me!),
like (Hindus say) poison in mingled with nectar,
in his heart, the love is interwoven with hate,
ah! his heart, in its hate
pursues me as the demigod of crimes

and once his qualms are quelled
he comes and thanks me.

(Inspired by The Idiot by Dostovesky)