Dreams of Desire: From a Friend’s Facebook Page

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for
And if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
For love
For your dream
For the adventure of being alive.

 

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
If you have been opened by life’s betrayals
Or become shrivelled and closed
From fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
Mine or your own
Without moving to hide it
Or fade it
Or fix it.

 

I want to know if you can be with joy
Mine or your own
If you can dance with wildness
And let the ecstasy fill you to the tips

Of your fingers and toes
Without cautioning us to
Be careful
Be realistic
To remember the limitations of being human.

 

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
And not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
And therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
Even when it is not pretty
Every day.
And if you can source your own life
From its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
Yours and mine
And still stand on the edge of the lake
And shout to the silver of the full moon,
‘Yes.’

It doesn’t interest me
To know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
After a night of grief and despair
Weary and bruised to the bone
And do what it needs to be done
To feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
Or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
In the centre of the fire
With me
And not shrink back.

 

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
You have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
From the inside
When all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
With yourself
And if you truly like the company you keep
In the empty moments.

 

हो गई है पीर पर्वत-सी पिघलनी चाहिए: दुष्यन्त कुमार

Here is another one of my Dushyant Kumar favorites. Is ghazal ka har sher lajawab hai, par pehla sher mere all time favorites mein se hai. Enjoy!

हो गई है पीर पर्वत-सी पिघलनी चाहिए,
इस हिमालय से कोई गंगा निकलनी चाहिए।

आज यह दीवार, परदों की तरह हिलने लगी,
शर्त लेकिन थी कि ये बुनियाद हिलनी चाहिए।

हर सड़क पर, हर गली में, हर नगर, हर गाँव में,
हाथ लहराते हुए हर लाश चलनी चाहिए।

सिर्फ हंगामा खड़ा करना मेरा मकसद नहीं,
मेरी कोशिश है कि ये सूरत बदलनी चाहिए।

मेरे सीने में नहीं तो तेरे सीने में सही,
हो कहीं भी आग, लेकिन आग जलनी चाहिए।

मैं जिसे ओढ़ता—बिछाता हूँ: दुष्यंत कुमार

Posting my first Dushyant Kumar’s poem, I promised a long series of Dushyant Kumar favorites on this blog. But then I did not follow up on my promise.  My apologies.  Here is another one of his beauties.

मैं जिसे ओढ़ता—बिछाता हूँ
वो ग़ज़ल आपको सुनाता हूँ

एक जंगल है तेरी आँखों में
मैं जहाँ राह भूल जाता हूँ

तू किसी रेल—सी गुज़रती है
मैं किसी पुल—सा थरथराता हूँ

हर तरफ़ ऐतराज़ होता है
मैं अगर रौशनी में आता हूँ

एक बाज़ू उखड़ गया जबसे
और ज़्यादा वज़न उठाता हूँ

मैं तुझे भूलने की कोशिश में
आज कितने क़रीब पाता हूँ

कौन ये फ़ासला निभाएगा
मैं फ़रिश्ता हूँ सच बताता हूँ

How did Maa do It?

My father got me interested in history and my Maa in Hindi literature. Yes! I have wonderful parents: poor but resourceful, simple but inspiring. I often wonder how Maa managed it. I wonder, because we could not afford books, magazines or even newspapers–nor did we have access to a library in the small town I grew up in.

 

I do not intend this to be a lesson in parenting or in pedagogy. Looking back, I do not even think that Maa did it deliberately as a part of her parenting strategy. For one, she did not read to us in bed as mothers often do. She would still be working in the kitchen when didi and I would fall asleep after a long day in the school. I think what did the trick was her sheer love for good writing, in any form, anywhere, and the way she expressed it. It inspired me. I acquired my taste through osmosis, as it were. Though we did not have books at home, Maa had read a lot during her school days and she had tremendous memory. She still has. She loves to talk, share and discuss when she reads or remembers something interesting. I have inherited this from her.

 

 

Second, Maa is always proactive in her search for good poetry, good dialogues and good literature. Authors and their reputation were unimportant to her. What was important were the content – the dialogues, the lyrics, the lines and the stanzas. I have never seen anyone paying so much attention to lyrics of songs, be it a folk songs or a Bollywood number or a popular bhajan. She also paid very close attention to dialogues. To her, dialogues were the soul of a play, a film or TV soap. She loved BR Chopra’s Mahabharat just for Rahi Masoom Raja’s wonderful dialogues. She still remembers those dialogues and quotes them all the time. She paid attention to things no one else noticed. And then she would talk about it, again and again.

 

 

There is another amazing thing she used to do that sparked my interest in literature. Unlike many others I know, she did not read only for amusement. She drew inspiration and she would constantly link the books and characters she had come across in fiction with people around us, with people we knew. She would always draw parallels, cite, quote and draw analogies. It still impresses me when I see someone linking lessons from one field of life or learning to another field. Maa did it all the time. Some in my family used to make fun of her for this, especially when she did it with Hindi movies, but she did it nevertheless.

 

 

Maa is also a very good teacher. She used to teach me Hindi till I was in class 10th and I liked her teaching way more than I liked my school teacher’s. She enjoyed teaching. At times she would struggle, but seeing her struggle with a poem was instructive too. If she liked a poem, she would reciting it to herself and to anyone who cared to listen. I did. Her favorite lines would stay on with her and often she would come back to me after a few days with a new interpretation. In the meanwhile we would keep talking about that poem, and its best lines, many times during the day: while she cleaned the courtyard (aangan), cooked our meals, or just before her fifteen minutes afternoon nap.

 

 

She did not like everything though. She had little tolerance for blank verse, even at its finest. For example she could not stop laughing when we were studying Nagarjun’s famous poem, Gulabi Choodiyaan. It failed to move her. Similarly, she had little patience with the leftist, revolutionary kind of poems. I too have imbibed her dislike for this kind of poetry.

 

कहीं एक मासूम नाज़ुक सी लड़की: जां निसार अख्तर

फ़िल्म शंकर हुसैन का ये गाना मेरी माँ के प्रिया गानों में से है| अक्सर इस गाने की चर्चा करती| बेकार फ़िल्म, मगर बेजोड़ गाने का उसका ये पेट उदाहरण था| माँ को गाने की दो-चार लाइने ही याद थीं| मुझे वो लाइंस अच्छे लगते थे, पर पूरा गाना कभी नही सुन पाया| हमारे घर में रेडियो था नहीं और टीवी पर इस फ़िल्म का कोई भी गाना कभी आया नही| कम से कम मुझे तो याद नहीं| पर यु-ट्यूब जिंदाबाद! पूरा का पूरा गाना मिल गया| मुझे गाने के बोल बेहद अच्छे लगे, सो गीत यहाँ ट्रांसक्राईब करके डाल रहा हूँ|  और अगर खय्याम के सादे मगर सुरीले संगीत पर मोहम्मद रफी की बेजोड़ आवाज में गाना सुनना हो तो यु-ट्यूब पर यहाँ सुनिए| गाने के गीतकार जां निसार अख्तर, आज के मशहूर फिल्मी गीतकार और पटकथा लेखक जावेद अख्तर के पिता थे|

कहीं एक मासूम नाज़ुक सी लड़की
बहुत ख़ूबसूरत मगर सांवली सी
मुझे अपने खाबों के बाहों में पाकर
कभी नींद में मुस्कुराती तो होगी
उसी नींद में कसमसाकसमसाकर
सिरहाने से तकिया गिराती तो होगी
वोही खाब दिन की मुंडेरों पे आके
उसे मन ही मन में लुभाते तो होंगे
कई साज़ सीने की खामोशियों में
मेरी याद से झनझनाते तो होंगे
वो बेसाख्ता धीमे-धीमे सुरों में
मेरी धुन में कुछ गुनगुनाती तो होगी
कहीं एक मासूम  ….

चलो ख़त लिखें जी में आता तो होगा
मगर उंगलियाँ कंपकंपाती तो होंगी
कलम हाथ से छूट जाता तो होगा
उमंगें कलम फ़िर उठाती तो होंगी
मेरा नाम अपनी किताबों में लिखकर
वो दातों में ऊँगली दबाती तो होगी
जबाँ से कभी उफ्फ निकलती तो होगी
बदन धीमे-धीमे सुलगता तो होगा
कहीं के कहीं पाँव पड़ते तो होंगे
ज़मीन पर दुपट्टा लटकता तो होगा
कभी सुबह को शाम कहती तो होगी
कभी रात को दिन बताती तो होगी
कहीं एक मासूम
 
हरेक चीज़ हाथों से गिरती तो होगी
तबियत पे हर काम खलता तो होगा
प्लेटें कभी टूट जातीं तो होंगी
कभी दूध चूल्हे पे जलता तो होगा
गरज अपने मासूम नादानियों पर
वो नाज़ुक बदन झेंप जाती तो होगी
कहीं एक मासूम….

रक्स करने का मिला हुक्म जो दरियाओं में: क़तील शिफाई (1919-2001)

Qateel Shifaai was a popular Urdu poet. He enjoyed a long and successful career as a lyricist in Pakistan’s film industry. He also penned lyrics for a few bollywood films, mostly Mahesh Bhatt’s productions, like Phir Teri Kahani Yaad Aayi and Sir. However, his most popular song is “Ghunghroo Toot Gaye”  used in several films and independent albums in both countries. My favorite Qateel Shifai ghazal is “Zindagi Mein to Sabhi Pyar Kia Karte hain, Main to Markar bhi Meri Jaan Tujhe Chaahoonga” , sung beautifully by Mehndi Hasan.

Here I present a rather long but beautiful ghazal by Qateel. Some of the shers are absolutely beautiful. Enjoy.

रक्स* करने का मिला हुक्म जो दरियाओं में
हमने खुश हो के भंवर बाँध लिए पाँव में

उनको भी है किसी भीगे हुए मंजर की तलाश
बूँद तक हो न सके जो कभी सहराओं* में

ए मेरे हमसफ़रों तुम भी थके-हारे हो
धूप की तुम तो मिलावट न करो छांव में

जो भी आता है बताता है नया कोई ईलाज
बँट न जाए तेरा बीमार मसीहाओं में

हौसला किसमे  है युसुफ़ की खरीदारी का
अब तो महंगाई के चर्चे हैं ज़ुलेखाओं में*

जिस बिरहमन ने कहा है कि ये साल अच्छा है
उसको दफनाओ मेरे हाथ की रेखाओं में

वो ख़ुदा है, किसी टूटे हुए दिल में होगा
मस्जिदों में उसे ढूंढो न कलीसाओं* में

हमको आपस में मोहब्बत नहीं करने देते
एक यही ऐब है इस शहर के दानाओं* में

मुझसे करते हैं क़तील इसलिए कुछ लोग हसद*
क्यों मेरे शेर हैं मक़बूल* हसीनाओं में

रक्स = Dance;  सहराओं = Deserts; कलीसा = Church;  दानाओं = wise men;  हसद = envy; मक़बूल = popular

युसुफ़-ज़ुलेखा = Famous biblical characters; ; Yusuf (Joseph), son of Yaqub (Jacob) was a very handsome man. He was sold in the slave-market of Egypt after being thrown into a well by his jealous bothers.  Zulaikha, a rich merchant’s wife, bought him as a slave, fell passionately in love with him and eventually married him after her husband died.