Dina... Waiting for Gulzar

Tweet

Gulzar at Dina Railway Station. Picture Courtesy: Mirza Baig

About a hundred kilometers from the capital city of Islamabad in Pakistan, by the G.T.Road, in district Jhelum, sits the historic town of Dina.

The same Dina, on whom Gulzar penned his immortal lines:

Zikr Jhelum ka, baat ho Dine ki. 
Chand Pukhraj ka, raat Pashminey ki

Dina is the birthplace of renowned south Asian poet Sampooran Singh Kalra. Popularly known as Gulzar, he was born in Kurla, a village some 3 kilometers away from Dina, on the 18th of August in the year 1936. Gulzar’s father Makkhan Singh, set up his business and home in the main market of Dina and settled here with his family.

The house where Gulzar spent most of his childhood and the shop attached to it still stands as a witness to history. Here in Dina, the square on which Gulzar’s home is located and once called Purana Dakkhana Chowk, is known today as Pakistani Chowk.

The Return Home

Gulzar was born in Dina, of Jhelum, Pakistan

Last year, when Gulzar returned to visit his birthplace, for the first time after the Partition, he could not hold back his tears on seeing the home he had left many years ago, and broke down. The ancestral home of Gulzar now belongs to one Sheikh family and the members of this family say that they were tenants of the Kalra’s before Partition and was allotted the house post Partition.

An elderly member of the Sheikh family, advocate Sheikh Abdul Qayum, who is of the same age as the poet was Gulzar’s childhood friend as well. He reminisces, “our homes stood side by side and we went to the same school”.  Sheikh Abdul Qayum further adds “when Gulzar came down here, I suggested this lane be named as Gulzar Street, to which Gulzar responded that it would be really great if that did happen!”

According to Sheikh Abdul Qayum, this lane has remained unchanged for the last seventy years and a part of the Kalras’ house still remained in its original condition. This is where Gulzar’s father Makkhan Singh had once set up his textile shop.

This is where Gulzar started his primary education. The school has a block named after him too.

The ancestral home is located in a lane about 4 feet wide.  In the other part of this house, new buildings have been constructed. Residents of Dina comment that when Gulzar came visiting, there was a suggestion to buy this building and turn it into a library, but in the long run, nothing could be done about it. However, after his visit, this street is addressed as Gulzar Street nowadays.

The government run high school, where Gulzar received his primary education is located in Miyan Mohallah of Dina. Unfortunately, his classroom no longer exists! Javed Ahmed, the current headmaster of the school informs that the part of the old structure which housed Gulzar’s classroom no longer exists. However, he adds that there is a new school block built on what was earlier(during the time Gulzar studied here) the school playground and has been named Gulzar Kalra Block.

He says “we wish Gulzar to visit again and spend more time with us at the school.” Stating that the school is proud that a student from this institution has won such accolades all over South Asia, Javed goes on to add “the academic records of this school have always been superb but at the same time students from the school have also excelled in the fields of Literature, Art and Sports at the district level.”

The Good Old School Days

This lane, the location of Gulzar’s ancestral home, is now known as Gulzar Street

The Government High School of Dina had initially started off as a primary school in 1921. It was later converted into a middle school in 1941. It was during this time that Gulzar studied here. Finally, in 1989, the school was awarded the status of a high school.

Sheikh Abdul fondly remembers that during his Pakistan Yatra(tour), while Gulzar went visiting his alma mater with some of his friends, he was in very high spirits and led the way. To Abdul Qayum, he seemed almost like a little boy happily trotting off to his school. Qayum quipped “ I told him you forgot to carry something, and when Gulzar asked “what?” I replied “your satchel”, to which he smiled ”

The relation between Gulzar and Dina is a well-known fact today. But it is also equally true that the literary heritage of Dina and the district Jhelum goes a long way back in history. Speaking of the literary scholars, poet Shahzad Qamar from Dina told me that this area had gifted us with some of the most amazingly talented writers and the specialty of these authors lied in the literature of resistance.

The Literature of Resistance

Starting from the revolutionary poet and trade union leader Darshan Singh Awara to contemporary poets like Tanveer Sapra, Iqbal Kausar and other writers, the literary style is that of resistance. Through their works, they had always raised their voices against all forms of injustice.

In Qamar’s view, even today, many a poet and writer from Dina are still related to the literature of resistance. When asked about Gulzar’s popularity in Dina, poet Siddique Suraj replied that though everybody knew about Gulzar, his connection to Dina has came into light only after his recent visit to the town.

In naming a school block and a street after her famous son, Dina and her people express their love for Gulzar. The people of Dina look forward to another trip from the poet, sometime soon. With hope in their hearts and a fervent wish, they eagerly wait for Gulzar!


This article was originally published in  BBC Hindi and BBC Urdu

Tweet

Four Poems in Four Languages

Tweet

ایک دوپہر

قدم قدم تنہائی میں
صحرا کی پہنائی میں
پیلا زرد سکوت سماں
دشت کا آْئینہ ہے

 एक दोपहर
 कदम कदम तनहाई में
 सहरा की पहनाई में
 पीला ज़र्द स्कूत समां
 दश्त का आईना है

A NOON

Step by step
in solitude
of the desert's profound depth
the pale-yellow
Silent spectacle around
Is a true mirror
of terror!


Ekti Dupur

Ek pa ek pa koray
E morubhoomir gobhir ekakitye doobay jaoa
Norom Holuder Nishtobdho Drissho
Atonker Ashol Protifolon


***

استفسار

چھاؤں کا چھلاوا بھی
دھوپ کی خباثت ہے
لہر کا بلاوا بھی
ریت کی سیاست ہے
خشک ریگزاروں میں
تیری کیا فراست ہے

प्रश्न
छाओं का छलावा भी
धूप की खबासत है
लहर का बलावा भी
रेत की सिआसत है
शुष्क रीगज़ारों में
तेरी किया फ़्रासत है

QUESTION

The shadowy Elfin
is also a villainy
of sunshine
The call of a tidalwave
is another clever strategy of sand
What do you fathom
is the vast dy desert?

Proshno

Chhayapori roudreri ek chholona
Jowar bha(n)tar daak, baalir ek chotur niti
Morubhoomir atawl gobhirey, tawl ki melay?

***

وصال

جاگا سپنا جیون کا
برسا بادل ساون کا
پیاس کی ماری دھرتی پر
سُدھ بُدھ ہاری دھرتی پر
تن من کے اسرار کھلے
اپنے بھید ہزار کھُلے

वसाल

जागा सपना जीवन का
बरसा बादल सावन का
प्यास की मारी धरती पर
सुध बुध हारी धरती पर
तन मन के इसरार खुले
अपने भेद हजार खुले

UNION

The dream of life
came to an end
to its fill
The thirsty Earth
confounded and baffled
by the long drought,
had lost its wit.
Presently,
the mystries of Body
and Soul
and a thousand other secrets
of its own
were revealed to it.

Milon

Shawpner sheshey borshar jawlbhora megh
Moosholdharay jamon bhashay deergho khawray trishnarto, bibhranto prithibikay,
Theek temoni ekhon shorir o moner rohossho aar prithibir nijer hajar gopon kawtha,
Tar shamney ujarrh korey day nijeder

***

رشتہ

سرسبز شاخوں میں
پھر جو کُوک اُٹھتی ہے
اک برہ جلی کوئل
کون ہوگیا بے کُل
کس کی ہوک اٹھی ہے آہنی


रिश्ता

सरसबज़ शाखाओं में
फिर जो कूक उठती है
इक बिरह जली कोइल
कौन हो गया बे कुल
किसकी हूक उठी है आहनी

RELATIONSHIP

Smouldering in a separation,
a Koel has coo-cooed
behind lush green
leafy branches
of some tree.
Simultaneously,
a ground rises in agony
who is so restless
behind the iron bars?

Shawmpawrko

Biccheder agoonay jwoley, jhawlmawley shoboojer patabhawra daaley boshey kuhu shawrawb hoy baarbaar,
Tawkhoni ek tibro jawntronar gongani,
Temoni ghawnoghawno,
Garoder arrhalay lookono, adhoirjo karoor nisshashey

***

Thanks to Namita Gupta for Bangla Translation

Tweet

10 Poems by Arthur Rimbaud

Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud (20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891) was a French poet. Born in Charleville, Ardennes, he produced his best known works while still in his late teens—Victor Hugo described him at the time as "an infant Shakespeare"—and gave up creative writing altogether before the age of 21. As part of the decadent movement, Rimbaud influenced modern literature, music and art. He was known to have been a libertine and a restless soul, traveling extensively on three continents before his death from cancer less than a month after his 37th birthday.

Rimbaud's poetry is often seen as influential to the Symbolist, Dadaist and Surrealist movements, not only for its various themes, but also for its inventive use of form and language. French poet Paul Valéry stated that "all known literature is written in the language of common sense—except Rimbaud's."

A Winter Dream

In winter we’ll travel in a little pink carriage

With cushions of blue.

We’ll be fine. A nest of mad kisses waits

In each corner too.

You’ll shut your eyes, not to see, through the glass,

Grimacing shadows of evening,

Those snarling monsters, a crowd going past

Of black wolves and black demons.

Then you’ll feel your cheek tickled quite hard…

A little kiss, like a maddened spider,

Will run over your neck…

And you’ll say: “Catch it!” bowing your head,

–        And we’ll take our time finding that creature

–        Who travels so far…?

Dawn

I kissed the dawn of summer.

 

Nothing stirred before the palace. 

Water was motionless. 

Shadow claimed the woodland road. 

I walked, lively and with warm breath, noticing precious stones along the way; 

and wings rose without a sound.

 

First, I encountered a form full of freshness and light--a flower who told me her name.

 

I laughed at the bright waterfall pounding trees into disarray: 

at the silver summit, I perceived the goddess.

 

I lifted her veils, one by one. 

My arms trembled with delight. 

But across the plain,I denounced her to the cock. In the city, she fled among steeples and domes,

and I chased after like a beggar on the banks of marble.

 

On a little road near the forest, I bound her with gathered veils,

and gathered my courage to touch her colossal body.

At once, both dawn and child fell down at the woodpile.

 

On waking, I found that it was noon.

Departure

All is seen...
The vision gleams in the air.
All is had...
The distant sound of cities at night,
In sunlight, always.
All is known...
Chaos! Disorder!
These are the stuff of life.
Departure while love yet lingers,
And bright sounds.

Eternity

It's revealed once more. 
What? Eternity.
It's the sea run off 
with the sun.

 

Sentinel soul, 
Whisper your confession 
Of the empty night 
And the burning day.

 

From human approval, 
From common urges 
You must free yourself, 
And make your own way.

 

For from you alone, 
Satiny embers, 
Duty breathes 
Without anyone saying: finally!

There's no hope, 
No enlightenment. 
In the quest for knowledge, 
Only pain is certain.

 

It's revealed once more.
What? Eternity. 
It is the sea run off 
With the sun.

 

The First Encounter

 

She was only half-dressed
And equally bare trees tossed
Their few leaves against the window pane
Playfully and with reckless abandon.

 

Sprawling half naked in my desk chair,
Hands pressed modestly against her pale breasts,
She tapped small, delicate feet on the floor
Betraying sweet anticipation.

 

Her body was the color of wax, and I watched
As an eager little ray of light
Fluttered across her laughing lips,
Across her peeking breast, like an insect on the rose-bush.

 

I knelt and kissed her little ankles.
She laughed softly and produced
A perfect string of clear trills,
A delightful crystal laugh.

 

Her delicate feet disappeared 
Underneath her: "Stop! You're so naughty!"
Yet the first act of daring permitted,
She pretended to punish me only with a laugh!

 

I rose and kissed her eyelids softly.
They trembled beneath my lips, poor things:
And she tossed her head back, eyes shining...
"You're not trying to take advantage of me ... are you?

 

"If you are, darling, you know I'll have to--"
But I silenced the protest, dipping my mouth to her breast,
Which caused an explosion of ringing laughter
And she opened herself willingly...

 

She was only half-dressed
And equally bare trees tossed
Their few leaves against the window pane
Playfully and with reckless abandon.

Being Beauteous

Against a fall of snow, a Being Beautiful, and very tall.
Whistlings of death and circles of faint music
Make this adored body, swelling and trembling
Like a specter, rise...
Black and scarlet gashes burst in the gleaming flesh.
The true colors of life grow dark, 
Shimmering and separate
In the scaffolding, around the Vision.

Shiverings mutter and rise, 
And the furious taste of these effects is charged
With deadly whistlings and the raucous music
That the world, far behind us, hurls at our mother of beauty...
She retreats, she rises up...
Oh! Our bones have put on new flesh, for love.

Oh ash-white face

Oh tousled hair

O crystal arms! 

On this cannot I mean to destroy myself
In a swirling of trees and soft air

Friends

Come, the Wines are off to the seaside,

and the waves by the million!

Look at wild bitter rolling from the mountain tops!

Let us reach, like good pilgrims, green-pillared Absinthe…

Myself: No more of these landscapes.

What is drunkenness, friends?

I had soon - rather, even - rot in the pond,

beneath the horrible scum, near the floating driftwood.

Romance

l

When you are seventeen you aren't really serious.
- One fine evening, you've had enough of beer and lemonade,
And the rowdy cafes with their dazzling lights!
- You go walking beneath the green lime trees of the promenade.

The lime trees smell good on fine evenings in June!
The air is so soft sometimes, you close your eyelids;
The wind, full of sounds, - the town's not far away -
Carries odors of vines, and odors of beer...

II

- Then you see a very tiny rag
Of dark blue, framed by a small branch,
Pierced by an unlucky star which is melting away
With soft little shivers, small, perfectly white...

June night! Seventeen! - You let yourself get drunk.
The sap is champagne and goes straight to your head...
You are wandering; you feel a kiss on your lips
Which quivers there like something small and alive...

III

Your mad heart goes Crusoeing through all the romances,
- When, under the light of a pale street lamp,
Passes a young girl with charming little airs,
In the shadow of her father's terrifying stiff collar...

And because you strike her as absurdly naif,
As she trots along in her little ankle boots,
She turns, wide awake, with a brisk movement...
And then cavatinas die on your lips...

IV

You're in love. Taken until the month of August.
You're in love - Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends disappear; you are not quite the thing.
- Then your adored one, one evening, condescends to write to you...!

That evening,... - you go back again to the dazzling cafes,
You ask for beer or for lemonade...
- You are not really serious when you are seventeen
And there are green lime trees on the promenade...

Shame

So long as the blade has not 
Cut off that brain, 
That white, green and fatty parcel, 
Whose steam is never fresh, 
Ah ! He, should cut off his 
Nose, his lips, his ears, 
His belly! And abandon 
But no, truly, I believe that so long as 
The blade to his head, 
And the stone to his side, 
And the flame to his guts 
Have not done execution, the tiresome 
Child, the so stupid animal, 
Must never for an instant cease 
To cheat and betray 
And like a Rocky Mountain cat ; 
To make all places stink ! 
But still when he dies, 
O my God! 
May there rise up some prayer! 

Novel

I.

No one's serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds--the town is near--
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .

II.

--Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .

June nights! Seventeen!--Drink it in.
Sap is champagne; it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders; you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .

III.

The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
--And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp's pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father's starched collar. . .

Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide, 
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
--And cavatinas die on your lips.

IV.

You're in love. Off the market till August.
You're in love.--Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you're bad news.
--Then, one night, your beloved, writes . . .!

That night . . . you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
--No one's serious at seventeen 
When lindens line the promenade

Palestine!

فلسطینی شاعر سمیع القاسم کی ایک نظم

نہیں سلاخوں کے بس میں مجھ کو ہلاک کرنا

فصیلِ زنداں نہ روک پائے گی راہ میری

 

فضول ہے یہ شبِ سیہ کی تباہ کاری

 

کہ میرے خوں میں چمکتے دن کی نفیریاں ہیں

نظر میں اپنے ہی رنگ چھائے ہیں

اور ہونٹوں پہ جو صدا ہے وہ حرف جاں ہے

گئے ہوں کی عزیز روحو

کبھی تو برزخ کی سرحدوں سے نکل کے آ

کبھی تو میرے زفاف کی شب میں مجھ کو دیکھو

کبھی تو دیکھو کہ کیسے میں نے فنا کی شب میں

جبین اپنی بلند رکھی

کبھی تو دیکھو کہ کیسے میں نے

 

سپیدئہ غم میں جانے والوں کی مغفرت کی دعائیں مانگیں 

مغنیوں کی صدائیں راتوں میں گونجتی ہیں 

لرز رہے ہیں تمام سازوں کے تار جیسے

 

کبھی نہ سوئیں گے اہل نغمہ

مرے وطن، اے متاع ہستی۔۔۔ کبھی تو سن لے

کہ ذرا ذرہ تری سماعت کا منتظر ہے

قبول کرلے ہمارا نغمہ

جو پھول بن کر نواحِ زنداں کی شور مٹی میں کھل اٹھاہے

بہت بڑی ہیں قفس نشینوں کی داستانیں

 

اور ایک بے باک قہقہہ ہے یہ گیت ان پر

 

جو اس کی بندش کے مدعی ہیں

بہت بڑی ہیں قفس نشینوں کی داستانیں

میں ان کے آخر کے ظلم صفحوں کو ایک اک کر کے پھاڑتا ہوں

کبھی کبھی جب مری بصیرت شکست کھاتی ہے

 

اور سوچیں، جہت بھلا کر بھٹکنے لگتی ہیں،

 

میری آنکھوں میں کوندجاتا ہے اپنے والد کا وہ تبسم

 

جو موت لمحے میں اس کے چہرے پہ ضو فگن تھا

دکھائی دیتے ہیں قاتلوں کے سیاہ چہرے

 

جو خوف ودہشت کے سرد جالے میں کانپتے ہیں

مجھے قفس کے محافظوں سے خطرہی کیا ہے

کہ ان کے بس میں نہ گیت میرے نہ پھول میرے،

نہ میری چاہت

 

مجھے قفس کے محافظوں سے خطر ہی کیا ہے!

کہ دستر س میں نہیں ہیں ان کی

وہ کنجیاں، جن سے میری جیبیں بھری ہوئی ہیں

مجھے کسی عارضے کا ڈر ہے

نہ ان فیصلوں میں بربریت کے شاہکاروں کاخوف کوئی

کہ جب بھی چاہوں

نئی مسرت سے پرزمینوں کی سرخ مٹی میں منہ چھپانا

ہے میرے بس میں

نہیں ہے کہ کچھ بھی سلاک زنداں کی دسترس میں

کہ میری ساری حیات لمحہ ہے۔۔۔ ایک لمحہ

زمان چاہت کے لاکھ قرنوں میں ایک لمحہ 

یہ قید میری ، مرے لیے ہے فقط تماشا

قضا ہے جس طرح کھیل کوئی

Enigmas! by Pablo Neruda

Tweet

Pablo Neruda (July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973) was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean writer and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. With his works translated into many languages, Pablo Neruda is considered one of the greatest and most influential poets of the 20th century. He chose his pen name in honour of the famous Czech poet Jan Neruda.

Neruda was accomplished in a variety of styles ranging from erotically charged love poems like his collection Twenty Poems of Love and a Song of Despair, surrealist poems, historical epics, and overtly political manifestos. In 1971 Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez once called him "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language

He is my favorite poet. Enjoy his beautiful piece of poetry!

Enigmas


You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with
his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this.
You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent
bell? What is it waiting for?
I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.
You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms?
Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.
You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal,
and I reply by describing
how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies.
You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers,
which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides?
Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on
the crystal architecture
of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now?
You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean
spines?
The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks?
The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out
in the deep places like a thread in the water?

I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its
jewel boxes
is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure,
and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the
petal
hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light
and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall
from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl.

I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead
of human eyes, dead in those darknesses,
of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes
on the timid globe of an orange.

I walked around as you do, investigating
the endless star,
and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.


(Translated by Robert Bly)

Tweet