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Old 01-31-2013, 07:04 AM   #374
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Listening to a wonderful song composed by the Nawab of Awadh in 1857 when he was banished from Lucknow to Calcutta by the Brits.

My father! I'm leaving home.
The four bearers lift my doli (palanquin) (here it can also mean the four coffin bearers). I'm leaving those who were my own.
Your courtyard is now like a mountain, and the threshold, a foreign country.
I leave your house, father, I am going to my beloved.
I don't negotiate with trolls, I have them for breakfast.
With maple syrup.
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