Old Pains Are Awakened

What easterly wind is blowing today! The old pains are awakened Sitting under the passing shade of time, I was writing my story, Laughing and weeping, Had forgotten the old pain. But tell me my dear, What easterly wind is blowing today! The old pains are awakened. Me, the crazy one, was driven out of the town, What had I to do with the town? The burden of pain should have been left behind, Why it should have been carried on? Rizwan, was that burden not enough? What easterly wind is blowing today! The old pains are awakened. Some old dreams are awakened in the wet eyes, Some wounds are opened, some pains increased. Some old pains are awakened. What easterly wind is blowing today! Tell me my dear!

Following The Trail

Where all the people are running to Riding the shoulders of the air? Don't look back even, A crowd is running behind them. Whom should I ask where you are going to? What is the destination, With no address or a sign? If want to know, accompany them, But who knows, Where they might lead to. And never to return, Tell nothing to the people, And in the same way people continue to walk Like an endless caravan.

The Legacy

This show of luxurious things, The crowd of charming faces, Or the death of hopes of hundreds of thousands. Who does not want a comfortable living? Who does not seek comforts? Which is not the season of love? But those are the seasons of injuries. If the show brightens with silver and gold, Then the sight of the world is worth seeing, Otherwise the moonlight is deathly pale. For a time the heart was restless in the side, There was a turmoil and craze. But this adversity be damned! Carrying my ego on my palm, Which was my blood-money. What will I do with this valueless thing! God forbid! It becomes the legacy, That bites my children

Dilli Nama

In Lighter Vein

In Lighter Vein

GAJAL A PHARSI RECIPE
by Rizwan ullah


Originally patented as 'Ghazal' in Pharsi is vociferated as 'gajal' in desi bhasa. It is a sort of khichri prepared according to a Pharsi recipe. The blend was introduced in Hindustan by Mogul confectioners, wanderers and peddlers of various sorts just as we have pepsi, cola, pizza among the recent taste teasers. The Pharsi khichri was originally cooked in arrack much hyped by Hafiz and Khayyam and others of their tribe. It reached Hindustani mandi high and dry, again like cola concentrate, and was received with great acclaim sans Mnadi House courtesy. The original colour of the mash was pink and violet.

As we Hindustanis have developed a great liking for hot and strong tastes which is one of the surviving vestiges of Mogul diversities, Lots of mussala was added to prepare wide varieties of the original preparation so as to make it presentable and acceptable to all tastes. Early experiments were made with waters fetched from the Dajla (Tigris) and the Farat (Euphrate). Later, waters of the Ravi and the Chenab of Punjab were experimented with, but waters of the Ganga and the Jamuna, not so much polluted then, proved to be the most suitable indigenous ingredients and more digestible as well. These waters have proved their excellence when milk is mingled with it or when it is sprinkled, of course with a devotional intent, over a large variety of commodities as far apart as sugar, coal and firewood.

History has from the time immemorial used Hindustan as a vast caldron for mixing all sorts of things such as races, religions, languages, cultures, traditions to prepare an acceptable social ketchup. Similarly the Khichri of gajal was prepared by mixing all sorts of ingredients in the Hindustani climes such as rose, thorn, stone sweat. Even non-veg ingredients like blood, pieces of broken heart and minced liver were added. Surprisingly, the preparation was relished by the veg and the non-veg alike. Sweet, sour and bitter tastes were abundantly available to be served on all occasions either in earthenware made by the kumhar the potter and sold at a throw away price, and hence preferred by our great Galib Sahab, or in goblets made in European potteries for the class conscious. However, the muck was prepared widely from the lanes of Dilli to every Urdu medium primary school anywhere, thankfully they are on the decline.

As the days passed the commodity changed hands with generations of traders. Our traders have proved their enterprising excellence in selling all sort of commodities including language and religion. So after promoting preparations like idli, dosa, papad, pickle, pakora in the West they took to exporting the khichri called gajal to the Middle East, West and far West and fetched hard currency. For this they had to hire the services of promoters from amongst the Hindustani diaspora who formed societies and organized contests for vocal presentation of gajal. Reportedly they are doing good business as the people with surplus money in the des of plenty can spend on anything just for the sake of a change.

The choice of colour has also been taken good care of so it is available in rosy, tulip, red, emerald green, saffron and marigold colours. In fact Galib Sahab and before him Mir Sahab were the best producers of the original brand. But for the succeeding promoters like Hali and Azad the brew would have fallen on dull tastes after the fall of their Mogul patrons and Nawab followers.

God bless our law makers they relish all old and new brands of the khichri, that is gajal, with that they get their strained nerves soothed and agitated emotions relaxed, in a state of rage it can be splashed on the rival's face without causing any damage to the person or property. Thus provision of a khichri cafe adjacent to the houses seems to be a sound suggestion.

GROWING THE BEARD


The razor's edge as usual,
Was face to face with my beard,
Quizzed rather harshly,
For the first time in fifty years,
The barbs should you grow and pop
the speckle fins?
To prick the arms at night?
And frighten the mirror at dawn?
Presto cam the answer!
Why not quiz the whiskers, trimmed to size,
To snoop and spy
On the in and out of the nostrils?
That blow with gusto;
The vile mustache that grow and align along the lip,
Propped by the façade of dwindling teeth
That bare in anger and shiver in pain?
The poor beared!
Fumed froth and vanished.

NEXT DAY


The razor been shy the other morn,
For what had passed, its edge was worn;
It made a break from the yester past,
And the break for days did last;
Thus the beard got respite,
Dropped the quarrel and the fight;
Played in sun with rays that shine,
Chummed with chin, with neck did whine;
The shady sheep, the few w're happier,
As they too were reaped with rapier;
The saying goes that the poor weevil,
If ground with wheat, is not evil,
Askance looked the men around,
Look miserable as they found;
Rushed relatives feigned their sorrow,
Friends promised to come 'tomorrow';
Urchins called me Baba Baba!
Alla, Alla; Toba, Toaba!!

Where does the heart mix?

Where does the heart mix with everyone?
It does mix with you only.

You did not come so I came,
Whether the sea goes to meet with the river?

The experience that could never be described,
Is gotten at the end of life.

The moth attains the (exalted) state non-existence,
From the intense heat of love.

My eyes are fixed for a long time on the one,
Whose face resembles with someone.

Adversity may take one anywhere,
Who goes to meat with someone with pleasure!

Rizwan who is humble like me?
Who meets with such humility?

Urdu Journalism of Calcutta and me

Mata-i-Sahar

Persians Poet of Awadh

Opening Quatrains

Picturesque Pages

UNITE FOR A NOBEL CAUSE

The Nobel Prize for literature this year has gone to a Swedish poet. Writers and poets of various languages have been similarly honoured in the past. We had Rabindra Nath Tagore almost a century ago. Urdu, like English, had its origin in a particular era and in a particular area, then the language began expanding and spreading in all dimensions and directions, and at the same time went on borrowing, bartering and assimilating words and ideas from other languages that came in close contact. Through this process of give and take Urdu has already assumed an exalted position in the comity of languages. Is it not the time for the Urdu world to start the exercise for finding, proposing and promoting a suitable name for a Nobel Prize? Desire is a powerful engine to drive upto the desired goal.

Rizwanullah

Oct. 12, 2011

The Division And After

The Division - I
The Division - II
The Division - III
The Division - IV

Calcutta Riots (August 1946)

The wickedness of politics splurged all around,
Fireballs rained, the whole city was wailing.
The city aware of the mysteries of stars movement,
Fell a wounded prey in the trap of time.
The one that could see the large wings of Gabriel,
Was a sure sign of dust, rubble and ruine,
Raised flags demanding a separate land,
Separate flower-beds and separate gardens;
Separate quarters for roses and thorns,
The air of the garden must be divided.
Who has seen roses separate from thorns?
Bough has always bowed with the weight of both.
If one is hurt by petals' edge.
Poor thorn is blamed for the scar
But the number of sheep grew in the crowed
The bitter creeper curled on the Neem.
After sowing thorns how can one reap flowers?
How can principles of nature be wiped?
There was fire of hatred and oil of politics,
Death danced on roads and rowdism played its game.
It was a brother's hand and throat too of a brother.
Cry for mercy had no effect on anyone.
Goods, houses and shops were consigned to fire,
Owners of goods and houses because wanderers.
Married women lost their marital bliss,
Like plants in forest fire.
Children orphaned, fathers lost the light of eyes,
Mother's womb reduced to dust, lost pieces of their heart.
Ruins replaced buildings,
Men turned into marks on earth in a moment.
There was so much turmoil in the city,
The havoc turned everyone out of his senses.
Listen! That was the holy month of Ramadan,
There was no rain, heat was soaking blood.
It was a severe testing time for the faithful,
Test of patience, submission, faith and life.
Missed fast, nightly prayers,
Some took early breakfast with blood,
Some became martyers after fasting over fasting
Some peeped from the dead body shroud to see the Id
There were heeps of limbs at places,
As if it was sure repeat of Karbala
It was man's story told by dagger's tongue
There was a canopy of smoke with leaping flames there under.
Rulers in their seats turned stones
The bloody story was written on the streets.
They woke up when things went out of hand
But then they took the devil's side.
People were killed by dagger then, killed by bullets now,
Those who could flee then are trapped now
The same bullet pierced through Wahidi's* chest,
It was victory of bullet and defeat of journalism
Those hiding in homes could not scape,
Troops stormed into houses to flush them out.
Migration began within the city,
It was beginning of the story, division was the end.
Title of the story was written by one's own blood
The rest was written by fate in black.
Culture bowed its head, tore its shirt,
Clean hearts became soiled.
As the time passed the evil bore fruits,
The seed of hatred grew to become a big tree
What a friendly air had the city!
It suddenly turned into poisonous one
The mirror of Hoghly was clean and glistening
Carried dead bodies with shattered hopes.
"Write the luck again in glowing red"
"Nothing is beyond the grasp of my Lord"
"Turn the current of doom anyway"
"Join broken hearts firmly"
But one who doesn't stand on his own, tumbles
When one is bent on falling what God can do?
Moreover, the evildoers of politics,
Free from all bonds, not bound by blood money.
Showed dreams of paradise to the poor,
So that they don't wash their wounds, don't weep over bad luck
At last, they wept over bad luck
Good luck of many went to sleep.

*Abdul Jabbar Waheedi, editor Daily Asre Jadid was shot dead by p atrolling army at the door step of his office.
Urdu version - I
Urdu version - II
Urdu version - III
Urdu version - IV

In Lighter Vein: Coexistence of corruption and democracy

There is nothing to wonder about the symbioticism of corruption and democracy. In fact, a democracy is the melting pot of corruption, that is why corruption is quite democratic in its functioning and approach. Corruption makes no distinction or discrimination on any grounds whatsoever. Money is the only criterion. One has to donate for smooth functioning of the institution. It is proportionate to the objective in sight. Thus it seems that the spirit of proportional representation motivates in a corruptive culture. Corruption is a sort of NGO having an unannounced licence for functioning freely and thus having a respectable place in society. It is disturbed by those elements only that are deprived of its benefits exactly like the opposition in a democracy.

In fact corruption is so flexible in its nature that it fits in and makes comradery with any and every form of democracy, such as, imperial or monarchical democracy, dictatorial or martial democracy, oligarchical or just a functional democracy of any hue red, green or orange.

The real objective of corruption is harmonious development of society and evolution of a culture of abundance, prosperity and power. That is the declared objective of a democracy also but the difference in approaches make things difficult in a democracy. While objectives are easily, smoothly and in no time are achieved in a corruption oriented or corruption infested society which may take a life time in a conceptual democracy.

Corruption believes in taking a selected group, just like VIPs in a democratic society, to the highest position in no time. And just like democracy corruption believes in transparently dividing the society in two sections of haves and have-nots with an ever widening schism between the two.

One fails to understand why with so many similarities and common features they do not seem to pull together. In fact, they do. It is the mischievous few who try to show it otherwise. Both carry on side by side just like the opposition and the party in power in a democracy. Why not recognize the eventuality and inevitability of corruption and set all controversies at rest. And let the elderly non-beneficiaries live in peace. And let the pious hoard both spiritual and material wealth. And let the naïve incapable of understanding realities suffer for their ignorance.

There is one definite difference between the two. While democracy is corruptible corruption is incorruptible.

How many structures

How Many structures would you Demolish?

(on the demolition of Babri Masjid in 1992)

The mosque and the mineret, the dome and the monastery,

The bridge, Well, tavern and the highway,

Madrasa, schools, thousands of seats of learning,

After all, how many structures would you demolish?

You are demolishing dwellings! Do it.

You are making the nation sick! Do it.

You are doing everything useless! Do it.

You’ll stremble at every step.

After all, how many structures would you demolish?

Every leaf of history is a stone sill,

You may read it if you have a dering heart,

You’ll repeat on your wrong deeds,

Against how many rocks will you dash your head?

After all, how many structure would you demolish?

I’ve come to settle the heart’s dwellings,

I’ve come to tell you what is good and bad,

I’ve come to show you the straight path,

I tell you, you’ll be decived.

After all how many structures will you demolish

Urdu version

Bread

If you don’t have a bread today, don’t worry

Your wealth is, after all, safe,

Locked in steel almirahs,

Read its account in every paper,

See on TVs also.

If you don’t have a bread, you do have a TV,

What do you say, you don’t have a TV?

Do your children not go to school?

You naïve! How could you be satisfied?

Come, let me tell you the secret of bread,

Got a suit on hire from somewhere,

And rent a car too,

Arrange for a dinner,

And forget the bread,

It will come itself along with every leader.

The Urdu version

Joys That Did Not Suit

Since the joys bit me,

‘Am frightened and scared,

For, a joy,

Somewhere,

Jotted in my luck

May be hiding in ambush.

O God! Save me!

The share of my joy

May be bestowed upon your slave,

Whom it suits.

The Urdu version

Forgetfulness

How long it is when the thought took leave,

Don’t remember since when this audacious tongue

Is voiceless,

Longing for words and speech,

How long it is that the keen eye has no fondness

For the fun,

Don’t remember how long the ears are deaf,

Not listening a song or the groan,

How long I had forgotten about the lips and cheeks,

How long it is that the lock is the keeper of every

Door of pleasure,

How long it is that the ship of every dream is caught

in the whirl,

Since when the skirt of life is rosy and glowing,

How long it is that the wise have forgotten

The manners of madness.

Truly speaking, since that time I don’t remember anything.

Returned shocked and disturbed from the

Celebration of civilization,

With the pangs of life pressed to the bosom,

The crazy brokenheart is living with a life on fire.

The Taste of Pain Persists

Are the chains broken?

Are the prisoners set free?

Are the accounts of pain closed?

Is there none broken by cruelty?

Is there none suffering from hunger?

Does the tiller owns the land?

Are the poets left heart-broken?

Are the flames of poetry dead?

Or lost in increasing din?

Who will now put lamps (of heads) on the killing post?

As the night of tyranny lingers on,

Will a Masiah come again?

Or would carry his own Cross?

Every sufferer of pain

The Urdu version

The Whisper of Happiness

Breeze’s gentle thumping of the flower,

Shower of the dew on petals,

The peace offer of the pleasant stroll,

Or a pleasant and intoxicating act,

For recapturing a refreshing dream,

Or a flowery hands’ thumping of the heart.

What is this! My God!

Who is looking for sparks?

Opening the book of life,

Turning it leaf by leaf!

Chapters of the book have slept,

Dreams of beauty spots have slept,

The pangs of youth have slept,

Questions are awake,

 but all the answers have slept.

Whose finger it is on life’s violin?

Tinkering like a stroke,

The tunes that have slept in the string,

Who has come to wake them up?

Is it the mad tide or a storm?

Breaking the silence of Hoogly,

Shaking the boat,

That had, a long time ago, crossed the river,

Carrying the tired boatsman,

In the arms of the quiet bank,

Waiting for the sure appearance

Of the trustworthy morning star.

The Urdu Version
The Urdu Version P2

The Pinch

O my pen! Come! Let me kiss you

A pain has woken up, perhaps,

For the pinch in my heart is increasing today.

Pains knocked at earlier also, but,

Wept hiding behind the door and the wall

Were not the sinners among the old, but

The world of anguish was alive, anyway, but

If one was in anguish there were sympathisers too

Behind curtains used to be the sinners,

An ointment used to be prescribed for every injury,

There used to be pains but with breaks and less severe.

The Urdu version

The Journey Continues

Blistered feet and wild frenzy,

Are co-travellers and colleagues

Got along with innocently.

And the childhood, an innocent bird,

Passed by somewhere on the way,

I saw it in despair.

Then there was a deceptive moonlight

Or a mirage,

Or say, it was an unheady wine.

It was youth or a curse

Passed by with a smile

But my co-travellers and colleagues are

Blistered feet and wild frenzy

The hell of a journey

Still continues.


The Urdu Version

The Gift of Injuries

I am the buyer,

I love every injury.

The gift I got from my fans

Is treasured in the vault of my heart,

Close to the lifeline.

And those given by the time are hidden

‘neath the shirt’s skirt

And where could I hide the injuries

That are all around me

Their traders entice me with?

Is there no buyer for them except me?

None is unwise, none is wiser?

I am the only buyer,

Is there no buyer at all?

The Urdu version

The Autumn

There were fruits and flowers on this tree,

Stones came from children

As if showers of flowers!

What a shadow! What a wall!

Many a tired and stricken,

Many a lovely and the sad,

Stopped here for a while and then moved on.

As if it was the path mark.

They stretched here

With youthful excitement,

With sweet smelling breath,

With wild gossips,

Came and sat under the shadow,

Chattering.

But as the autumn arrived

Neither children, nor the older ones

Nor the tired traders anymore.

In a matter of days,

They will come with hatchets

The Urdu version

The Subdued Fire

The spring is withering though,

That very autumn will be celebrated

Must be remembering the days,

Of spring celebrations every day.

Don’t believe the leaves and twigs,

Dried and parched,

They still hide the fire within,

Flames are still asleep,

Asleep is the outburst of sparks.

Don’t provoke them,

Don’t provoke now


The Urdu Vesion

Sacred Hands

How sacred are my hands!

That touch the Heavenly Height while praying,

The trustees of my tears,

That dropped on them before the skirt,

My hands are above all

That have been making my luck,

That have been writing my future.

The line in my hand,

I kiss.

They need no support and cover,

Neither they are in the vault beyond reach,

They are free from the world of miracles,

They are unscared of talks and tales,

They are guides to Paradise,

Great wings of prayers,

How sacred are my hands!

The Urdu version

Rediscovery

As if stung by a nightmare,

Shaterred, wiping the meaningless dreams

Off my eyes,

Went out in the morning in quest of poverty.

I found amazement gripping me

Streets full of uncontrolled crowds,

Chattering, twittering children

Bending under the burden of backpacks,

Unaware of the doom,

In ambush waiting for them

O God! Where is the vision!

So, my face covered with the dust of dismay,

I had left my home in quest of poverty

Long lines of evildoers’ cars,

Barring my path on all sides,

Fixing me on the cross of smoke,

Went on to an unseen world,

The world of those unaware of sorrow

Of pretty, beautiful and glistening bodies

On the sideways tents of torn rags,

Crowds of urchins nearby,

Dirty, filthy women too in proximity

Beside the men in marketplace

An example of social equality.

They are totally unaware of

What the devil is poverty

That everything under the sky

Is their world

At last, shattered I returned home

As I stopped hesitantly at the doorstep,

A desolate world across

Drowned in the murky light of nights’ deceit,

Clasping poverty to the bosom

As if waiting for me

And there were unbloomed gardens of prayers,

And withering buds of hopes,

And intellect with lowered head

And the wisdom too weeping there. 

The Urdu version
The Urdu version P2

Making of The New Man

Men rolling out of the hatcheries,

You’ll see one day

A mould will be made first, to be tested later

Race will be observed and colour refined

Parts will be chesilled to match with the size

Man will be making a man, quite a new one

And chains of creating the same will follow

All moulds will be smashed after that creation

Single colour, height and size; single creation and race

All unaware of the past and future,

Living in the present and dying too

Humanity, friendship, justice and security

That is, the rotten words

Knowledge, learning, teaching, altogether,

Dumped in the deepest ditch of history,

Will get rid of them

And then, there’ll be the world of stars

To fly there


The Urdu version

The Solitary Book

The difficulty is that

The Book of Life

Can be written only once,

Or else, I would write

Several chapters again and again,

Would kiss every letter,

Would graze every leaf with my eyes,

Would read aloud several chapters

For others to listen

Would wash with tears several pages.

And none would know,

Why it was so.

But the difficulty is that

The Book of Life

Can be written only once.

Several excerpts from this Book,

I repeat in my solitude,

Then to listen it closely,

Stars descend on my eye-lashes,

Then I shut my lips tightly

And then, the heart, grain by grain,

Drains out with every breath

Then, in the pursuit of slumber,

I stray far far away,

And read a page in my solitude.


The Urdu version