Intezar Mai Manzil

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डर कर कांटो से तू फूल से दूर रह गया।

महरूम ख़ुश्बू से मगर रूह तेरी रह गई।।

इन्तज़ार में तेरे मन्ज़िल राह तकती रह गई।

तू ना आया ऐ मुसाफ़िर रौशनी भी ढह गई।।

 

इधर राह पर तू अकेले मुश्किलों से लड़ न सका।

उधर मन्ज़िल तेरे बग़ैर यक ओ तन्हा रह गई।।

इन्तज़ार में तेरे मन्ज़िल राह तकती रह गई।

तू ना आया ऐ मुसाफ़िर रौशनी भी ढह गई।।

 

तू क़दम बढ़ाने को हर दम सोचता रहा।

और मन्ज़िल तेरी दुआएं रब से करती रह गई।।

इन्तज़ार में तेरे मन्ज़िल राह तकती रह गई।

तू ना आया ऐ मुसाफ़िर रौशनी भी ढह गई।।

 

तू ने बढ़ाया न क़दम तू बैठा ही रहा।

और मन्ज़िल अपने पास तुझ को बुलाती रह गई।।

इन्तज़ार में तेरे मन्ज़िल राह तकती रह गई।

तू ना आया ऐ मुसाफ़िर रौशनी भी ढह गई।।

 

वक़्त रहते ही उठाले अपना तू पहला क़दम।

ऐ  रज़ा  फिर न कहना मन्ज़िल तो दूर रह गई।।

इन्तज़ार में तेरे मन्ज़िल राह तकती रह गई।

तू ना आया ऐ मुसाफ़िर रौशनी भी ढह गई।।

Dr Shafaat Faheem Amrohvi – a poet with a difference

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You don’t have to be an erudite intellectual to appreciate the beauty of Urdu poetry. When an illiterate truck driver asks a painter to write on the back of his truck: “Ya Elahi gharat kare truck banane wale ko,

ghar se beghar kar diya truck chalane wale ko.”

You won’t fail to appreciate the dry curt humor and sense of helpless of the truck-driver that he had expressed through this couplet. When an antique dealer offers you a pillow cushion with a couplet on it developed with threads telling:

“Takiye pa sir rakha a kisi mast khwab ka,
goya ke qasr-e-husn pa gumbad shabab ka.”

You don’t have to be Moulana Hali or Aley Ahmed Surror to delve the deeper meanings of a lover who might have once gifted that pillow cover to her beloved with the feelings that emanated from the bottom of his heart. You don’t have be Moulvi Abdul Haque to enjoy the fainted line of an old post-card that had an inscription: “Bedard zamane ko bahana sa banakar, main toot ke roya hoon teri yad men aksar” that you had discovered in the discarded cupboard of an attic of a newly rented house. You simply love, respect and salute the last Moughal Emperor Bhahdur Shah Zafar when you read: “Hindiyoun me boo rahe gee jab talak Eman ke, Takht-e-London per chale gee taigh Hindustan ke.” It was composed by him in response spontaneously when he had opened the cover of the platter on which the head of Shahzada Moughal, his brave son, was sent by Col Hudson with a couplet:

“Dam damon main dum naheen, aab khair mango jan ke,
Aey Zafar bus ho chuki Shamsheer Hindustan ki.”

Here I can’t help but reproduce some parts of my article “The Rise and Fall of Urdu Language” that is still available on internet.

“When Kalyan Singh, the famous Aya Ram Gaya Ram of BJP, the fellow who had masterminded the demolition of Babri Masjid, was shown the door for the first time, he used the Urdu language to express his true feelings: ‘Hum Wafa sha-ar the nazron se gir gaye unki. Shayad unhen talash kisi Bewafa Ki Thee’ – meaning, I was loyal and fell in his esteem. Perhaps he was looking for a treacherous buddy.

“Humko unse wafa ki hai umeed, jo nahi jaante wafa kya hai (We hope for loyalty from those who do not know the meaning of the word),” quoting famous Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib.

Sushma Swaraj, the Leader of Opposition stood up with a smile. She quoted the famous Urdu poet Bashir Badr: “Kuch to majbooriya rahi hongi yun koi bewafa nahi hota (There must have been some compulsions, one is not disloyal for no reason at all).”

She then broke into a second verse: “Tumhe wafa yaad nahee, Humein jafa yaad nahee, Zindagi or maut ke toh do hee tarane hain, ek tumhein yaad nahee, ek humein yaad naheen (You don’t remember loyalty, we don’t remember disloyalty, life and death have two rhythms, you don’t remember one, we don’t remember the other).”
Sushma Swaraj too got a thunderous response from her party members. The prime minister just smiled. This is not the first time both have exchanged Urdu and Hindi verses to hit out at each other.

This brouhaha reminded me the famous line that reflects the wounded spirit of an Urdu poet: “Urdu ka Janazah hai baree dhoom se uththe….” It is the coffin of Urdu, let it be shouldered with all the pomp and gaity. To write about this unfortunate language is a painful exercise. This complex and thorny subject can’t be met justice within a short article. For a rational mind it would be a pathetic sight and heartrending scenario to witness a most enchanting seductress, an animated Venus of Languages being dragged to the altar of Fanaticism, Islamophobia, Prejudice and Ignorance – an unprecedented historical callous ritual of SATI inflicted upon a ‘Medium of Expression’. A Language murder de-jure in broad day light of civilization.

The lovers of this beautiful damsel had given her several names: Hindi, Hindavi, Dakni, Lashkari, Rekhta and the last in this chronology is Urdu. Ameer Khusrau, the famous sufi saint, poet, musician, inventor and warrior is supposed to be the father and ‘Khari Boli’ has adopted this baby of Khusrua as its own daughter. Born and brought in pure Indian environment it had taken the impact of Persian or Farsi somehow, the language of Kings and courtiers. It is interesting to learn that with the death of Emperor Aourengzeb, the use of Persian declined in Indian sub-continent. A new language was finding its entry in the towering shoes of Farsi. It was Urdu.

Most of the experts of Lingua Franca agree that no living language of the world could match the power of command, respect, clout and visceral stirring that is imbibed in the two magical Urdu words – “INQALAB ZINDABAD” It was the idiom of Indian Independence.

“Sarfaroshi ki tamannah ab hamarey dil men hai, dekhna hai zor kitna bazooey qatil men hai” I covet to offer my head today, Let me test the strength of my executioner.
Urdu was a language that was common among all faiths of Indians. The Christians missionaries used this medium to preach, propagate and proselytize the north Indians. It is used for the same purpose by missionaries in Pakistan even today.

It is a language that was adored, nurtured and disseminated by Whites, Hindus and Sikhs. The great novelists and short story writers of Urdu were Premchand, Krishanchandar and Rajendra Singh Bedi; the greatest poet of Urdu Masnawi was Pandit Daya Shankar ‘Naseem’. The most versatile and novel Urdu poets were Brij Narayan ‘Chakbast’, Tilwak Chand ‘Mehroom’, Pandit Raghu Pati Sahay ‘Firaq Gorakhpuri’. The all times great critics of Urdu Literature are Gopi Chand ‘Narang’ and Jagan Nath ‘Azad’. Even today the two intellectuals who are the embodiment of all that is fine with Urdu are two Gulzars and both of them are Hindus or Sikhs. One from Delhi, Gulzar Dehelwi and other from Punjab, our very own ‘Jai Ho’ wale Gulzar. This is just the tip of the iceberg. I am forgetting thousands of names of non-Muslims who are and who were proud of their language – Urdu. The famous stalwart of Urdu, Pandit Anand Narain ‘Mulla’ Ex-Chief Justice of Allahabad High Court has once said,” I could forsake my religion but not my language Urdu.” Let me narrate here his famed couplet:

“Woh aour hain jinhen touba ki mil gayee fursat,
hamen gunah bhee karne ko zindagi kum hai.”

Those may be others who got time to seek forgiveness, for me, the allotted time is very short to commit even the Sins.

Today the fake proponents of Hindi Language, along with the band of Islamophobic fanatics claim that Urdu is a language of Muslims only; a language of Pakistan; a language of terrorists.

Nothing is farther from truth! Before the establishment of Pakistan none of the entities that would become West and East Pakistan spoke Urdu language. The languages prevalent in those regions were Bengali, Punjabi, Pushto, Baluchi and Sindhi. The mass migration of Muslims from UP, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Delhi and Hyderabad effectively changed the demography of those regions. The Sindhi majority of Karachi was reduced to a minority and Urdu was proclaimed as National language of Pakistan. What is happening to the language of Mohajirs, the migrants from India, in Bangla Desh and Pakistan makes a pathetic study for any aspirant to think of those areas.

After independence, Congress played the vicious game of ‘play with the hares and hunt with the hounds.’ To questionable role played by Sardar Patel and Govind Ballabh Pant to marginalize Urdu from the national scene is now buried in the history books. The subject how Moulana Abul Kalam Azad was craftily isolated in banishing Urdu would earn galore of Ph. D’s for the aspirants of history, social and political science.

But still there is a silver lining for the dark clouds of Urdu. The young generation of Non-Muslim youth who don’t carry the heavy burdens of history, are taking the bull by the horns. For them Lata Mangeshkar, Jagjeet Singh, Punkaj Udhas, Sonu Nigam, Peenaz Masani, Ghulam and Mehdi Hasan with their superb pronunciation and renditons are the maestros of their fields of Ghazals, Sufiana kalms and geets. Hindi is coming with the new most popular component – Hindi Ghazal.” End quote

And all this background I’d prepared to tell the readers that I simply enjoy and love Urdu in all forms and undoubtedly certainly I’ve no claims over the knowledge and versatility of this beautiful language.

Over the last three centuries Urdu has produced great poets of super intelligence and excellence of presentation. However the 18th century was the century of Meer, the 19th belonged to Ghalib and the 20th was the century Eqbal and Faiz. There is a plethora of twinkling stars in the galaxy of Urdu but there are no moons. Whether this trend will continue in the present century, I if don’t know. Parveen Shakir died young and left a mark but is nothing more than skin deep if we consider the Urdu poetry as a body. This is my opinion. I’m a tyro, a green horn and illiterate whose opinion counts for nothing.

Meer was a natural poet who used the metaphor of the broken, shattered, distraught heart to describe both his own personal loss as also the pillage and destruction of Delhi. He loved Delhi from the bottom of his heart. It was his adopted capital and the deserted streets and empty houses of Delhi became symbols of the passing away of a lifestyle and an aesthetic urbane milieu of his works.

Ghalib was a philosopher, a versatile and learned intellectual who infused the Ghazal with a depth and multi – layers of the form had not hitherto seen. Ghalib also contributed significantly to freeing the Ghazal from the constricting grip of a cold heartless beloved, a successful rival and the perpetually unsuccessful lover-the poet-drowning himself in wine or wallowing in masochistic self pity. He tried to put across the realities of life; challenged the worn out concepts of traditions and beliefs. He was a daring explorer of language and thought. He was a perfectionist and there is no confusion in his thinking. Ghalib raised fundamental questions of existence and being, raised doubts about received world views and established that the Ghazal was capable of tackling complex ideas. The imagery of Ghalib’s poetry drew as much from his immediate surroundings and the rich cultural heritage of South Central Asia that had in turn drawn from the myths of ancient Greece and Egypt, tales and fables that also resonated in the Torah, the Bible and the Quraan. Ghalib lived in strange times, an order was dying and the new was yet to replace it. Ghalib was a witness to these cataclysmic times. The rapid collapse of the Mughal court led to the replacement of a system of patronage with unending uncertainty and penury. The Mutiny of 1857 took away with it the last vestiges of an order that India had known and the ruthless crushing of the uprising led to an era of unprecedented changes whose impact was to inform the creation of literature in a fundamental and far reaching manner. Ghalib, like many of his contemporaries, was deeply shaken by these events and suffered the consequences of this upheaval.

Eqbal is a poet who has left an indelible and everlasting impression upon mankind. It is wrong to assume that Eqbal is the poet of Muslims or he belongs to Urdu literature alone. Eqbal transcends all boundaries. You cannot put him in any category. Like all great poets, he belongs to the whole mankind.

‘Sare Jahan se achcha Hindustan Hamara,
Hum bulbulen hain iski yeh gulsitan hamara.’

MY INDIA is the best amongst all the nations of the world. We are its nightingales and this is our garden. That’s how ‘the poet of East – Allama Sheikh Mohammed Eqbal’ showered his unlimited love for his country. – India.

‘Khake witan ka humko har zarra devta hai” (Each dust particle of my motherland is god to me).

In Focus Eqbal has a great and unique vision of India and he had described his dream of a new India in these words:

“Sach keh doon aye Brahmin gar tu bura na mane. (Should I speak the truth Oh Brahmin if you aren’t offended?)”

Aa ek naya shiwali hum phir se yan bana de’n. (Let us make new temples again)

Shakti bhi shanty bhi bhakto ke geet me hai. (There is strength and peace in the hymns of worshippers)

Dharti ke waasiyon ki mukti preet me hai. (Peace of inhabitants of the world lies in love)

MULLAHS HAVE issued a fatwa on Eqbal for daring to see this dream for a new India.

Eqbal, like so many Muslim intellectuals was disillusioned with the policies of Congress and suggested a federation of Muslim states to protect the culture and civilization of Muslims. The purpose of this article is not to re-open the old controversial chapters of history as Allama Eqbal had died long before independence in 1938. The least I can say is he loved India. That he belongs to Pakistan is travesty of truth. “This is not the whole Truth,” said Professor Abdul Haq, an eminent Urdu critic. “Eqbal foresaw a federal structure for a free India, in which a Muslim-dominated north-western region could be a cultural unit like many others,” he said. As far as the idea of Pakistan is concerned, Iqbal denied that he was the originator of this idea. “Eqbal has clearly denied this in his letters to Raghib Hussain. People don’t talk about these letters since they don’t favor their point of view,” said Dr Haq.

Dr Abdul Haq said that Eqbal is the most misunderstood poet of the 20th century. “We must look at Eqbal in totality if we want to understand him,” he said. Eqbal’s tragedy was that his poetry was used by different groups to serve their own interests. His poetry had so many facets that he seemed to assume different roles in different phases of his poetry: he was a staunch nationalist, a vocal communist, an advocate of Hindu-Muslim unity, a humanist, a believer in Islamic revivalism, a freedom fighter, and an advocate of international brotherhood. No poet in Urdu, and I’m sure in any other Indian language too, has shed as many tears on India’s misery and colonial captivity.

Uth ke ab dore jahan ka aur hi andaz hai
Mashroq-o-maghrib me tere dour ka aghaz hai

“Get up now that the style of the world has changed. It is the beginning of your age in the East and West.”

Faiz Ahmed Faiz is a poet I find nearest to my inner feelings which I’ve no ability or intellect to express. He says what I think; he says what I want to say. I need a separate space to talk about Faiz. He lived a troubled and restless life, Faiz’s work, political ideology, and poetry became immortal and remained an extremely popular and influential figure in the literary development of Pakistan’s arts, literature, and drama and theatre adaptation. Faiz’s work is considered the backbone of development of new Urdu literature, arts and poetry. Along with Allama Eqbal, Faiz is often known as the “Poet of the East” While commenting on his legacy, classical singer Tina Sani said:
Faiz Ahmad Faiz… (was) like a comrade, his thoughts were soft but effective and inspired the classical singers as it did others in the plays we did… Faiz’s poetry never gets old because the problems and situations in this country have not changed. Today we sing him because of his beautiful poetry, missing out on the reasons behind his poems that had predictions..

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To conclude this article, I’ve like to talk about my friend Dr. Shafaat Faheem Amrohvi. He is few years senior to me in this world and we had played the same games; drank the same water and breathed the same air till we parted and joined again in Aligarh Muslim University. He has always had a poetic temperament. My Urdu was between poor and weak. I had been below average and low brow in the fields of study – somehow managed to survive and have nothing to boast about. However, I liked his poems when he was a beginner and do still like him when he is transformed into reputed poet.
He has been a lucky inheritor of creative writing. His father, grand-father and forefathers were scholars of religion and Urdu, Persian and Arabic languages. He never had to struggle to recall the appropriated words for his poetry. Words would line up for him at his command. He has the mastery to play around and create new terms – a rare trait in his genre. In some of his works I can see my face.

“Yeh raaz na samjha hai na samjhe ga zamana, 
hum jeetey hue khel ko kyuon haar gaye hain.”

I’ve not been happy when he came to my house with his latest couplet:

“Mere har dost ke lafzon se tapakta hai lahoo, mera khoon pee ke mere dost paley hon jaise;
Meri sanson se nikalta hai ummedon ka dhuyan, mere jazbat mere saath jaley hon jaise.”

I’s dumb founded; I didn’t like what he had said. For me, the friendship is unbroken divine relationship, always pristine, pure and bright. I can’t believe that a friend could ever be an adversary. Friendship is a proof of Godliness.

And I had also imbibed some streaks of poetry by then. I asked him to let me rest for a while. While leaving the room I asked him to complete the couplet that began with my words – “Kamzarf chirghon ne dhuyan chor diya hai…………………………” Next time he came to my room in Ziauddin Hostel and reassured me that blood did never ever wring out of my words in any form. It was, according to him, was written in a different situation. He had completed my lead with the following stanza:

“Ummed-e-Sahar hote he tareek-e-iye shab men,
Kam zarf chiraghon ne dhuyan chor diya hai.”

I was left with nothing to disagree except that he did never confessed that the lead line was given by me.

Naim Naqvi

Did his graduation in Science discipline from AMU in 1972-73. He was Secretary of University Ali Society in 1970 and M.M. Hall Literary Society in early 70 's and member of Tayyabji Literary Society. Did his Diploma in Bakery Administration from HTT College Oxford Street London in 1987. Worked with National Herald - Delhi, Blitz - Bombay as Trainee Journalist and in Production Department with 'Naya Sansar Pictures' of Khwaja Ahmed Abbas at Bombay in early 70's. Traveled for study and training purposes to Germany, U.K., Switzerland, France, Dubai, Oman, AbuDhabi, Bahrain and Philepines.

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As the Candle Burns

Part – 1

Our’s was not such an advance society but we were a mixed gathering usually consisted juniors and seniors of all ages of our mohalla and used to sit together and enjoy under the shadows of Neem and Pilkhan trees that had survived the edge of blade. While senior ladies were there as guardians, our old men avoided such flirtations of joviality and preferred to inhabit the ‘Dewankhanas’ with hubble bubble in their free time. All used to enjoy the ropes and swings in spring as the pleasant breeze blew and forced the branches of Pilkhan and Neem trees to dance in all gyrations.


It was pleasant day of a festival and we were enjoying our own chorus of folk songs meant for the occasion. Good singer among us were valued but quality of singing was not the strict standard.  Fruit buds of Pilkhan, known as ‘Tushtis’ were dropping from the tree as the wind blew. Some of these tushtis made a wafting fall from the tree and landed at the tress of Zahabiya’s head and got entangled in the cascade of her auburn hair. Standing a short distance, a handsome boy Yavar gathered the instant courage and showed the audacity to brush them off from her hair before the full view with his shivering hand. Zahabiya didn’t take umbrage against this acts of valor and the first arrow of Cupid struck the right place. For months Yavar was finding himself innocently and emotionally attracted toward the girl as she rolled the Bidis from the bamboo platter known as Soof. Yavar considered it was the most beautiful frame of ‘beauty in action’ that he could ever capture upon earth. Liberty had its limits and it was not expected or accepted to express the feeling in a romantic prelude. All nuptial matters were the sole prerogatives of elders.

Zahabiya hated the smell of smoke and abhorred the smokers style also. She often looked up at the sky with hope and prayer that one day Allah would ask someone to remove this platter from her lap, full of scorching tobacco and green leaves which would pile up before her everyday to make a living.

Part – 2

The Clock Tower is one that doesn’t sleep. Three bells rang and echoed about in the overwhelming solitude of darkness. For Yavar sleep was a commodity snatched away from him for weeks. The marriage celebration in the ‘Upper Hill’ was slowly acquiring low decibels and tired participants were also falling sleep. Few stray shouts, low tide laughs and falling of some utensils could only be heard.

He got up from his bed and set down on a wooden platform, his elbows resting at his knees and his lopping head tumbled on the parallel palms, his fingers wide splayed and inserted into the strings of his disheveled hair. His eyes were shut and he was looking at the floor in the dark.

Someone placed a hand with a soft touch. Mom was standing before him. “Yaver try to sleep and let others also sleep. More than half of the night is already passed.” Request, concern and command of a mother all rolled into an appeal of love. She gave a glass of water and asked him to drink. Yavar took the water and poured into his mouth, half falling on his shirt and rest spilling over his mouth and some of it going into his throat straight. He begged mother to sit down.

“Ma…”
“Yes Yavar….”
“Have I ever been disrespectful to you ?”
“Who said that ? No.”
“Have I ever been hard upon you ? Have I ever been unkind with you ?”
“Never.”
“Were you not the one who loved me the most after my God. Were you not the one who had sacrificed her youth to bring us up after father’s death ?”
“It was my duty.”
“Were you not the kindest of mother upon earth ?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know it mother. Then why did you inflict the sharpest of the cut upon the sapling you had planted ?”
She pulled his head to her bosom and kissed his cheek.
“Yavar..”
“Yes mom…”
“Do you believe in religion?
“Yes mom….but not much as you do. Of course I’m a believer.”
“The Holy Book says you must obey your parents’ the holy traditions say that marriage is always suitable in the families of HUM KUFF.”
“What does Hum Kuff mean mom ?”
“It means equality in status of both the families who are joining in marriage. I know more of this world than you know. I know what is good for you and what is bad. My hair has not turned grey in the sun. I can’t allow my son to marry a girl which would be a stigma for the grace for a family I’d sacrificed my everything.”
“But Zahabiya is one of us mom. Her family is related to us. Zahabiya is not a loose character mom.”
“Did I say that? I know his father was a senior officer when he prematurely died of heart attack. Her mom messed up everything including the name and left-over fortunes. Now she is not respected in the company of Bidi winders of Bidi rollers. I didn’t compromise with the family honor when your father died. I went door to door and asked if someone wanted the kids to learn Quran. I maintained my dignity and brought up you all in toughest times.”

“Mom…”
“Yes Yaver……”
“But is was none of Zahabiya’s fault.”
“In our society faults percolated down the generations and I’d not designed this society.”
“Mom, you knew I loved Zahabiya. I promised you that I shall help their whole family to rise up. Mom…a rising tide raises all boats. I’d promised you that I would be that rising tide.”
“Yaver, a rising tide brings back a lot of silt and garbage also. You are still immature, inexperienced and innocent. In your age love is a passing emotion of the weak, a misguided spell, an ephemeral idea. And now what is left to discuss ? She is going to Pakistan on Thursday. Today MEHNDI and RATJAGA (celebration before the wedding night) both are over.”
‘Mom…”
“Yes Yaver……”
“I still love Zahabiya…”
“Your love would be a sin from tomorrow once she is tied in religion with her husband.”
“Mom…”
“Yes Yave….”
“Pious love could never be a sin mom.”
“There is no any such thing as pious love between the man and women if they are not related by blood and still…………”

“But mom, once you also liked Zahabiya”
“Liking doesn’t mean that I would invite her to be my daughter- in- law. I like Taj Mahal but it doesn’t mean that I want my grave to be there in it.”
She wiped the tears from Yavar’s eye with her dopatta and kissed again the face of her son.
“Mom…”
“Yes Yavar….”
“Zahabiya is poor but she is elegant, she is different, she is respected by everyone.”
“It is a cliché now. Now she is getting married to a very good boy from our own relations. The boy is a good employee in a big company in Karachi. Oh God I’m so thankful to you as you have managed the situation for everyone’s satisfaction. Not for nothing the seniors of the family are loved and respected for their sagacity and wisdom, their powers of command and their farsightedness. Now you have not to worry about her future. She would have all the comforts. Happy Life & Safe Distance.”

“Mom…”
“Yes yaver….”
“You were never that cruel.”
“I’m still unknown to the word ‘cruelty.’
“Than what its mom ?”
“Discretion…which is always the better part of valour.”
“Mom it was my life and I were to live with her.”
‘But it was your life, with God’s grace, I’d given to you.”

The sound of Express Train passing over the River Soat bombed the discussion. It trundled past over the bridge and Yavar recalled the night when in his childhood the same sound had disturbed him and asked his father as to why the sound becomes so intense when the trains passes over the bridge. It was silence after the noise now receded and gone. But now there was again a emotional atom bomb that exploded between mother and son.

Someone in the neighborhood was begging to join for the last GHAZAL of the night.
“Get up babies, just one last song and then there would be the Azan (Morning Prayer) time….I’m making the nice tea with cardamom and mint.”
The host organizer was no other than Zahabiya’s mother. Yaver and mother were silent and now they could listen the chorus.

“Jo dil ke pas hote hain woh kaheen jaya naheen karte,
Mohabbat karne wale ghum se ghabraya naheen karte…”

Those who are near to heart they never disappear, those who love, sorrows make them never fear. Each and every line of Ghazal was repeated again. It was the third time that the rendition of the same ghazal was done in the wedding house.
‘Yaver…”
“Yes Mom……”
‘It is time to pray. Go to mosque.”
‘Yes Mom….”

Everyone in the house was sleeping when he returned from the prayers. This morning he just recited the Arabic in silence. He didn’t ask God for anything. He went to his room and after some time the sleep visited him.

Part – 3

Around 10 A.M. Abiha, his cousin sister and friend stepped into his room. She was 5 autmuns senior to him. She sat down on the chair lying next to his bed. She put her hand at his forehead. It was wet with sweat. The warmth of fingers were known to Yaver. He put hands over her ringed fingers.

“Baji…”
“Yes Yaver….”
“I’d never bargained for it.”
“All that happens, happens for the best Yavar.”
“No baji, is there still a way to invent and apply the time machine ?”
“No Yavar. Our society is too powerful, our parents are too strong and our guardians are too strict.”
“Baji….”
“Yes Yavar…”
“Zahabiya will go Pakistan on Thursday ?”
“Yes Yavar.”
“What is the day today ?”
“Tuesday…”
“Baji..”
“She has never read Urdu. She speaks Urdu but she writes Hindi.”
“She is not going to write you a letter Yavar…”
“Yes Baji…..’
“Tempus fugit…”
“Time flows Yavar. Did you listen the last song of the night ?”
“Yes baji. It was a message for you that Zahabiya had requested her mother to convey through ghazal. Life is the precious gift of God. You are not allowed to destroy it for the sake of one girl.

Meanwhile, Yaver’s mother entered in a delicate gait. She took another chair and sat down.
Both the children got up in respect and sat down after salams.
“yavar…”
“Yes mom….”
‘I’ve sent a telegram to your uncle that you are coming to Bombay.”
“Yes mom….”
“You go by the earliest train from here for Delhi and from Delhi you can a catch an early flight. The ticket is only Rs 440 /-.”
“Yes Mom.”
“All the items and clothes you need are packed. I’ve talked your boss. He has asked you to report after a fortnight.”
‘Yes mom.”

When the breakfast was over, one could hear the trot of a horse. A tonga reported at the door for station. Someone put his bag and suitcase in the carriage. He looked around his house. He felt he was deserting a poor old friend. Here, when the going was good, Zahabiya used to visit often; here just under the Jamun tree she had looked into her eyes and felt their transparence; here when the going was good between the two families, Zahabiya’s father was still alive they had taken dinners together. Here just next to rose bushes he remembered Zahabia curled up in her father’s arm when she was a kid. Here her mother had once given the sprinkler in Zahabiya’s delicate small hands to water the plants. But it was when Zahabiya’s family was HUM KUFF, equal in status.

“Mom….”
“Yes Yavar…”
“May I go…”
“We have to tie the IMAM ZAMIN round your arm.”
“Yes Mom.” Mom tied the the cloth ribbon that had prayers for safety with some currency.
“Mom….”
“Yes Yaver…”
“You have crossed the threshold Mom !”
“No Yaver..”
“Yes Mom….”
Khuda Hafiz !”
‘Khuda Hafiz !!”

Part – 4

He stepped into the tonga. Modest preparations for Zahabiya’s Nikah were in full swing. Some kids came near the horse and one or two elderly wished him Good Bye from distance. Abiah kissed his fore head ! He embarked upon a new journey, an escape invented for him – this time the itenerary was open-ended.

It is story with vintage tag.
The End

 

Naim Naqvi

Did his graduation in Science discipline from AMU in 1972-73. He was Secretary of University Ali Society in 1970 and M.M. Hall Literary Society in early 70 's and member of Tayyabji Literary Society. Did his Diploma in Bakery Administration from HTT College Oxford Street London in 1987. Worked with National Herald - Delhi, Blitz - Bombay as Trainee Journalist and in Production Department with 'Naya Sansar Pictures' of Khwaja Ahmed Abbas at Bombay in early 70's. Traveled for study and training purposes to Germany, U.K., Switzerland, France, Dubai, Oman, AbuDhabi, Bahrain and Philepines.

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“Dard-e-dil Likhoon Kab Tak”

Rukhsar Amrohvi, author of "Dard-e-dil Likhoon Kab TaK"

Rukhsar Amrohvi, author of “Dard-e-dil Likhoon Kab TaK”

“Aiyey aap se ek sachchi kahani keh den,
Hum pe jo beet chuki apni zabani keh den.”

Dard-e-dil Likhoon Kabtak” is a collection of essays, memoires, poetry, impressions of Rukhsar Amrohvi, the worthy daughter of grand Producer Director Kamal Amrohvi who was himself a mile stone of Indian Film Industry, an institution unto himself. The book is written in the finest and chaste Urdu. It is a rich compendium of Urdu literature, a golden treasure of literary masterpieces – the letters of Kamal Amrohvi also to his daughter. Going through the letters of Kamal you will get a flavor of the famous letters written by our beloved Prime Minister Jawahar Lal Nehru to his daughter, our beloved Prime Minister, Indra Gandhi. There are some novel photographs that would add value to any collector’s flanks.

From Amir Khusro to Rukhsar Amrohvi this beautiful groom, the Urdu language, caparisoned different attires and took many shapes. The lovers of this beautiful damsel had given her several names: Hindi, Hindavi, Dakni, Lashkari, Rekhta and the last in this chronology is Urdu. Literature in Urdu grew at three different centres: Deccan, Delhi and Lucknow. Urdu is a melting pot of most of the Indian languages and the languages that were spoken in Islamic countries. It has words of Persian, Arabo-Persian and Sanskrit -derived Prakrit with a sprinkle of every Indian language. Ameer Khusrau, the famous sufi saint, poet, musician, inventor and warrior is supposed to be the father and ‘Khari Boli’ has adopted this baby of Khusrua as its own daughter. Born and brought in pure Indian environment it had taken the impact of Persian or Farsi somehow, the language of Kings and courtiers. Lapse of a century after his death Quli Qutab Shah was considered speaking a language that thought to have possibly been Urdu. It is interesting to learn that with the death of Emperor Aourengzeb, the use of Persian declined in Indian sub-continent. A new language was finding its entry in the towering shoes of Farsi. It was Urdu. Mohammed Shah ‘Rangeela’ another Moghal King helped to catapult this language to pedestal of National Language which effective replaced Persian. Shanshah Bahadur Shah Zafar gave respect to the language it deserved.

From the Mughals courts of Red Fort to the Mughals of Film Industry it was a journey that makes a beautiful but painful bumpy literary story. Sohrab Modi, K Asif and Kamal Amrohi are the few names that conjure up when we talk of Bollywood. Poetess Rukhsar Amrohvi is the only daughter, the beloved daughter and the real heir of Kamal Amrohvi’s creative artistic heritage. She is gifted with all those assets that could have made the indelible marks upon any field of film industry she would have chosen to embark. She used her discretion and decided to confine to literary side only. Name, fame, pomp and pelf, these were the part of life of the family life where Rukhsar opened her eyes. Rais Amrohvi and Jaun Elia as uncles, Meena Kumari as step-mother and Kamal Amrohvi as father, what else upon earth you need to define yourself.

Rukhsar Kamal Amrohi

Rukhsar Kamal Amrohi

Rushsar was so close to her father that even today he exists and beckons her at every turn of her life. She is a poet who speaks her heart without disturbing your rhythm. She shares her experiences as you move along. You are no longer a distant observer as the boat sails. When you read her poetry you both travel on the same wave length. She had a loaded and painful past and a lot to complain about. She doesn’t. She asks for understanding and not your sympathy.

“Be sabab sir jhuka rahe ho tum,
Kya tumhen mujhse kuch nadamat hai ?”
For no reason your head is being lowered. Have u got any reason to feel sorry to me? Words with deepest expressions come simple and natural to her.

“Who jo jism-o-jan men tha rabta, mujhe kya khabar tujhe kya pata,
Mere dil ko kaise mila sukun ? Meri jan kaise nikal gayee ?”

You can’t flower these verses without the command over the language and style.

“The link that existed between body and soul, neither you nor I am aware; How my heart attained its peace and how did my soul depart?”

It is a book which has its cover designed by world famous artist Sadiqain, preface by Dr. Mohd Ali Siddiqui, Vice Chancellor – BZ University, famous Urdu critique and renowned Urdu poet Munawwar Rana. The book is beautifully binded and spread over 432 pages. It is published by:

“Takhliqkar Publishers”
C / 5 – 54, J – Extension, Laxmi Nagar, Delhi – 110092 Price Rs 350 / -.
You can consult the author for your literary curiosity at the following land-line number: 26352873.

Naim Naqvi

Did his graduation in Science discipline from AMU in 1972-73. He was Secretary of University Ali Society in 1970 and M.M. Hall Literary Society in early 70 's and member of Tayyabji Literary Society. Did his Diploma in Bakery Administration from HTT College Oxford Street London in 1987. Worked with National Herald - Delhi, Blitz - Bombay as Trainee Journalist and in Production Department with 'Naya Sansar Pictures' of Khwaja Ahmed Abbas at Bombay in early 70's. Traveled for study and training purposes to Germany, U.K., Switzerland, France, Dubai, Oman, AbuDhabi, Bahrain and Philepines.

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GOOD-MEN

By- Kaleem Sibtain ‘Kaleem’

Good-men do not puff by power,
Bend down trees of fruit and flower.
Do not lament for the past,
Look forward struggling fast.

Good-men are the captains of fate,
March they ever never get late.
All the fears they keep away,
No defeat stops their way.

Good-men have the clean mind,
For each in world they are kind.
Destination itself looks for them,
They sail the truth with active helm.

Good-men have the pious soul,
Their path of truth has certain goal.
They do not aspire for the wealth,
But mend the spiritual -health.

Good-men are great indeed,
Courage, honesty, truth, they feed.
Mend their ways and train the souls,
They love the Creator and created whole.

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