मुबारक उनको सुल्तानी अदब की

30 दिन की छुट्टियाँ. शायद 30 ही लेखक जिनसे मिलना हुआ. 5 शहर. 5 यादें. शीन काफ़ निज़ाम, चंद्रप्रकाश देवल और आलोक भल्ला का कविता पाठ. एक बेहद केयरिंग पिता के रूप में प्रभात रंजन के एक नये सुखद अवतार से भेंट. इंडिया इंटरनेशनल के कॉफी लाउन्ज में एकदम बौड़म-से घुसे आ रहे चेतन भगत का अविस्मरणीय मुखमंडल! बहुत दिनों बाद एकदम मेड फॉर इच अदर किस्म के कपल असद ज़ैदी व नलिनीजी की जुगलबंदी. और महीना ख़त्म होते होते अपने नवजात भतीजे से मुलाकात. 

तीन मुख़्तलिफ जब़ानों के इन बुजुर्ग दोस्त-शायरों को एक ही शाम एक साथ सुनना कई तरह से प्रेरक था. चित्र फ्रांसिस बेकन का है, ‘द स्क्रीमिंग पोप’ (1953). 

 

 

दो ग़ज़लें : शीन काफ़ निज़ाम

मंगल मातम मंदर आंख

अख़गर अजगर आज़र आंख

ख़िलअत ख़ातिर ख़ंजर आंख

ख़ुत्बा ख़्वाहिश ख़ुदसर आंख

मरकज़ मरकज़ मातिर माक़

मौसम मौसम मज़हर आंख

पुष्कर पानी पीपल पाठ

इम्कां इम्कां अक्षर आंख

पानी पेड़ परिंदा पाप

मंज़र ता पसमंज़र आंख

हर पर्दे का पहरा चाक

जब ठहरी पैगम्बर आंख

आब, सराब, मुक़ाम, ‘निज़ाम’

अन्दर मंज़र बाहर आंख

(अख़गर= चिंगारी, आज़र= हज़रत इब्राहीम के पिता या चाचा, आज़र की बनाई मूर्तियों को हज़रत इब्राहीम ने तोड़ा. काबे की नींव आपने रक्खी. ख़िलअत= राजा की ओर से सम्मान के रूप में दिये जाने वाले वस्त्रादि ख़ातिर= वह विचार जो मन में पैदा हो ख़ुत्बा= प्राक्कथन, धर्मोपदेश ख़ुदसर= उद्दण्ड, विद्रोही मरक़ज=केंद्र मातिर=बरसने वाला माक़= आंख का कोया मज़हर= प्रकट होने का स्थान इम्कां=सम्भावना पसमंज़र=पृष्ठभूमि चाक= फटना सराब=मृगतृष्णा मुक़ाम= प्रतिष्ठा)

2

निगाहों पर निगहबानी बहुत है

नवाज़िश ज़िल्ले-सुब्हानी बहुत है

यहां ऐसे ही हम कब बैठ जाते

तिरे कूचे में वीरानी बहुत है

अभी क़स्दे-सफ़र का क़िस्सा कैसा

अभी राहों में आसानी बहुत है

तिरी आंखें ख़ुदा महफ़ूज़ रक्खे

तिरी आंखों में हैरानी बहुत है

मुबारक उनको सुल्तानी अदब की

मुझे तो उसकी दरबानी बहुत है

(क़स्दे-सफ़र= यात्रा का संकल्प)

एक कवि की उम्र: चंद्रप्रकाश देवल

उस दिन

किसी के विदा लेते समय

मेरी नम आँख के कोर से

टपकने को आतुर बूंद को

किसी ने नहीं देखा

न जगत ने न जगतारण ने

धीरे से उठाकर

चुपचाप रख लिया अपनी स्मृति में

नहीं, सपने में

या कल्पना में तो नहीं?

बाद में वह मिला मुझे

मेरी कविता में

देखते ही जिसे

सिहर उठा मैं

और वह कण-कण का वासी, अंतर्यामी भी

मेरे पास खड़ा काँपता रहा

मुझे देखते हुए

वृक्ष हवा में हिलते रहे

नदियाँ बहती रही कल-कल

पृथ्वी घूमती रही अवाक् अपनी धुरी पर

सूर्य को अपनी खुली आँखों से भी

कुछ नज़र नहीं आया

प्रिय पाठकों!

मुझे पता है

आपको जरूर दिखाई देगी

अपनी सुन्दरता में लहूलुहान वह बूंद

पर काँपना मत

मैं वहाँ आपके पास ही होऊंगा

सपेरा जैसे साँप को पकड़ता है

वैसे लपक कर उठाऊंगा उसे

फिर से अपनी आँख में रख लूंगा

एक कवि की उम्र

बस इतनी ही होती है

जितने में वह अपने आँसू को ढूंढ

उसे फिर से अपनी आँख को सौंपकर

चुप हो जाता है

(राजस्थानी से अनुवादः स्वयं कवि जिनकी अनुमति से कुछ फेरबदल मैंने भी किये हैं)

INTIFADA POEMS: FROM MY ISRAELI JOURNAL

A NIGHTMARE VISION IN JERUSALEM: ALOK BHALLA

“Among the thoughts that always came to plague her, a new one appeared – solitary, foreign, and dangerous as a winter wolf.” – Ismail Kadare, Three Elegies for Kososvo

Like the wolf after a kill
the victorious always feel
they are just

but how can the wolf know
what lurks in the forests ahead

or in the forests of the past
lost in the dark depths of memory

the wolf cannot know
there are other creatures
swifter
with sharper claws, bloodier teeth

perhaps only a poet
watching a tense hawk
hovering over hard stones
or a painter of olive trees
still shimmering in strange days
can understand
that there are gardens with white houses
outside the forest
where the eyes in dazzled sunlight
are not a puzzle
and the owl’s hoot in moonlight
is only a startled delight

or perhaps
some haunted Sybil reads
in the runes of mirrors
dark cindered paths
which turn back to forests
and lead
always and forever
only to the circle
ringed by snarling wolves.

 

IN THE VILLAGE AL-NUAMAN ISOLATED BY SUPER-HIGHWAYS

“Oh, she was beautiful as no one else
has been, but was unfortunate like all.”
– Calderon, Life is a Dream.

The air is nourishing
the morning has borrowed some blue
from a medieval Book of Hours.

The mosque calls for payers.
The synagogue is quiet with awe.
The Armenian church is dark with incense.

Death glides in on chemical wings.

The bull-dozers cross
the limits of hubris
cut through prophetic hills
see mythic enemies
from some shoah of the past
in every small village.

     Should we not
     each of us
     corrupt the pharmacopeias of myths
     where birds in fire sing sorrow
               sorrow

     Should we not
each of us
disorient the dragons of flint-sharpened morals
whose eyes are silhouettes of smoldering ash
and claws made of stolen gold

     Should we not
each of us
under the sky of blackbirds
be minstrels clothed in sorrow
sing curses in ancient songs

     Should we not
each of us
sing sorrow
sorrow
sing sorrow
for mourning is interminable.

     We’d be saved
     perhaps
     if we could canonize Fools
     if out of the fierce wilderness of words
     we could build a new city of the mind
     where our secret longings could remain in the shadows
     or roam the streets like sunlight or dusty winds
     if we could mark our time with
     the fall of waves on shores of sand
     the fall of leaves on grey stones
     and finally the fall of green wings on soft ash
     for a new city of the mind must know past sorrows.

The daughter with a red hijab
and blue jeans
plays in the shadow of the mulberry tree.

Her father
sky-clad
grey eyes
supervises the threshing of wheat
as the wind carries the chaff
and spreads it over his earthly sanctuary
of grape vines, shy smiles, sweeping hills,
popular songs, basil, camels, lonely memories,
and sunlit sand streaming through the leaves.

He cups his hands
the blue sky fills them
green fields lie in their depths.

     There are springs, he says,
     under the ground.

          The earth whispers again and again
          “I want you
          I want you to be…
          I want you…
               to be…
               always…”

“It’s Friday, I know,” he murmurs,
“But security forces give permits
for threshing machines
only when the villages are empty
and men at prayers…
and tomorrow is Sabbath.”

     On the hill of flint-stone and thyme
     in the sun-burnt horizon
     the Herodian is a vague mound
     of shadows and sun-baked walls.

     News of an imperial grave
somewhere in that valley of rubble
slides past fences and check-posts like
ancestral whispers of other deaths.

     Salome dances on marble floors
with a prophet’s head

     blood seeps into the earth

          a peacock calls from another age
               from another palace.

“The field across lies fallow.
My brother was refused permission
to till his field this year.”

An armoured car
with two soldiers in ray-ban sun-glasses
keeps watch.

Blue stars float on white flags
fluttering between two rivers.

An armoured car
keeps watch.

     How quickly we forget ancient psalms
     prophesying nightmares in furnace fires.

     Religious braggarts, calling upon their gods,
     find in stars and crescent moons, flags and banners,
     signs and prayers and excuses
               for executions and wars.

Wherever the girl skips
barbed wires trailing behind
entangle her, coil into her smile
writhe in her hair
till their steel blades cut into her dreams
her skipping songs
her weaving hands
and in ever-widening circles
imprison other children
in other villages.

     and still lingers in the crevices
     of temple walls where mothers and daughters
     fathers in fedora hats and tasselled sashes
     leave scribbled wishes.

     Mourning is interminable.
Humiliation is never enough.

     No son shall ever read a prayer for the dead
where words are grey with bone-ash and acrid smoke.

     No girl walk walk in beauty
nor offer wine to the dead
bought from some seraph of the soul.

     Histories of genocide
memories of nakaba
refuse such gestures.

     There are willing executioners everywhere.

Her brother
only a few years older
rides up on his donkey
hooting with laughter
mocking the armoured car
with two soldiers in Ray-Ban sun glasses.

He dares us to ride like him
bare-backed and without a stirrup
delighted as he traces fear in our eyes.

He knows a kind of American English
enough to follow Die Hard With Vengeance
with the bravado of all children of stone
but is keen to learn Arabic, Hebrew and French.

     “Why French?”

He rubs the donkey’s ears
makes a theatrical
sweep with his arms
and with the infectious smile
of a suave journalist
or a cautious diplomat:

“So I can tell the world
that we live in this prison
under an open sky
watched forever
by Druze, Bedouin and Jewish soldiers
our brothers in
Ray-Ban sun glasses!”

The mocking laughter of religious wars
is often lost on visitors
who can neither ride a donkey
nor till the field.

The boy has lived in the shadow
of the Herodian all his life.
Fatal stones of the intifada
fit easily in his hands.

     The sage of future time
     slips through two fleeting smiles
     and looks beyond the bulldozed house.

     Ten cypress trees form a circle
around the burial ground
like the last good men of Moses
condemned forever
to testify

          “…who does the killing and the dying
          and spread an evil report of the land
          that eateth up the children thereof.”

Still, he wants to learn French
so he can tell the world –

     

There are still prisons under our open skies.


2 विचार “मुबारक उनको सुल्तानी अदब की&rdquo पर;

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