Friday, September 2, 2011
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
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
Sunday, July 24, 2011
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.
Friday, July 15, 2011
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
Friday, June 17, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)