Maine Aahuti Bankar Dekha

Was suddenly reminded today of a poem by Agyeya that used to be a great favorite and an inspiration (all through my grad school years, I used to have a copy of the text pinned in front of my desk). Posting the text here:

मैं कब कहता हूँ जग मेरी दुर्धर गति के अनुकूल बने
मैं कब कहता हूँ जीवन-मरू नंदन-कानन का फूल बने
काँटा कठोर है तीखा है, इसमें उसकी मर्यादा है
मैं कब कहता हूँ वह घटकर प्रांतर का ओछा फूल बने

मैं कब कहता हूँ युद्ध करूँ तो मुझे न तीखी चोट मिले
मैं कब कहता हूँ प्यार करूँ तो मुझे प्राप्ति की ओट मिले
मैं कब कहता हूँ विजय करूँ, मेरा ऊँचा प्रासाद बने
या पात्र जगत की श्रद्धा की, मेरी धुंधली सी याद बने

पथ मेरा रहे प्रशस्त सदा, क्यों विकल करे यह चाह मुझे
नेतृत्व न मेरा छिन जावे, क्यों इसकी हो परवाह मुझे
मैं प्रस्तुत हूँ, चाहे मिट्टी जनपद की धूल बने
फिर उस धूलि का कण-कण भी, मेरा गति-रोधक शूल बने

अपने जीवन का रस देकर जिसको यत्नों से पाला है
क्या वह केवल अवसाद-मलिन झरते आंसू की माला है
वे रोगी होंगे प्रेम जिन्हें अनुभव-रस का कटु-प्याला है
वे मुर्दे होंगे प्रेम जिन्हें सम्मोहन-करी हाला है

मैंने विदग्ध हो जान लिया, अंतिम रहस्य पहचान लिया
मैंने आहुति बनकर देखा, यह प्रेम यज्ञ की ज्वाला है
मैं कहता हूँ, मैं बढ़ता हूँ, मैं नभ की चोटी  चढ़ता हूँ
कुचला जाकर भी धूलि-सा, आंधी-सा और उमढ़ता हूँ

मेरा जीवन ललकार बने, असफलता ही असि-धार बने
इस निर्मम रण में  पग-पग पर  रुकना ही मेरा वार बने
भव सारा तुझको है स्वाहा, सब कुछ ताप कर अँगार बने
तेरी पुकार सा दुर्निवार मेरा यह नीरव प्यार बने

Arth se pare...

I have been lazy and negligent about this blog and return to it now after over a year, spurred by a random event. Today, doing a search on Horace's Ars Poetica, I came across a blog with the following poem by Archibald MacLeish:

  Ars Poetica

 A poem should be palpable and mute
 As a globed fruit

 Dumb
 As old medallions to the thumb

 Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
 Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

 A poem should be wordless
 As the flight of birds

 A poem should be motionless in time
 As the moon climbs

 Leaving, as the moon releases
 Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

 Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
 Memory by memory the mind -

 A poem should be motionless in time
 As the moon climbs

 A poem should be equal to:
 Not true

 For all the history of grief
 An empty doorway and a maple leaf

 For love
 The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

 A poem should not mean
 But be

It is a strongly evocative poem...almost hauntingly so. In particular, my eye wandered to the last two lines before I had even read the rest fully, and  I had a sense of deja vu. I recalled a poem by Naresh Mehta that was once a favorite but which I seem to not have thought about in several years (how we drift away from things we once loved):

उल्लंघन 

कविता अर्थ नहीं अनुभव होती है

क्योंकि वह भी सत्ता है

अप्रतिहत अप्रमेय

अर्थ तो शब्द का होता है

और कविता में शब्द

सरोवर में डूबी सीढ़ी है

जहाँ हम समाप्त होते हैं

और सरोवर आरम्भ होता है

सीढियां  खड़े होने के लिए होती हैं

पर सरोवर सीढ़ी-हीन संपूर्ण समर्पण मांगता है

इसीलिए शब्द पर जाकर खड़े मत रहो

शब्द का उल्लंघन ही कविता है

Mahadevi Online

In response to one of my prior posts on Mahadevi, reader Vijay A left a comment providing a link where Mahadevi's story Gillu is available online. I am re-posting the link here to increase its visibility:

http://ncert.nic.in/book_publishing/Class%209/Sanchayan/chapter%201.pdf

Thanks to Vijay A for sharing this link.

A few Agyeya translations

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I made an attempt at translating a few excerpts from the poetry and prose works of Agyeya, and made these translations available online, in an effort to make them accessible to a wider audience. I am now moving that material here:


दूर्वाचल

पार्श्व गिरि का नम्र:
चीड़ों में डगर चढ़ती उमंगों सी.
बिची पैरों में नदी, ज्यों दर्द की रेखा.
विहग-शिशु मौन नीड़ों में.
मैंने आँख-भर देखा.
दिया मन को दिलासा--पुनः आऊंगा
भले ही बरस-दिन--अनगिन युगों के बाद.
क्षितिज ने पलक सी खोली
तमक कर दामिनी बोली:
'अरे यायावर, रहेगा याद?'


(from the anthology: 'इंद्रधनु रौंदे हुए ये')

My attempt at an English translation:

The quiet mountain background:
amidst the pines, the trail rising exuberantly.
The river spread at my feet, as though
the Earth's face were crinkled with pain.
The fledgelings were quiet in their nests.
I took it all in to my eyes' content.
Consoled myself--I would come again
though it be days-months--ages hence.
The Horizon seemed to come alive
the Lightning said derisively:
'Oh wanderer, will you remember?'


Misc. short poems
--------------------------

सांझ-सवेरे

रोज़-सवेरे मैं थोड़ा-सा अतीत में जी लेता हूँ--
क्योंकि रोज़-शाम को मैं थोड़ा-सा भविष्य में मर जाता हूँ.

(from: 'क्योंकि मैं उसे जानता हूँ')


My attempt at a translation:

Every morning I live a bit in the past--
because every evening I die a bit in the future.

------------------------------------------------------------------

एक दिन, और दिनों सा
आयु का एक बरस ले चला गया

(from: ??)


My attempt at a translation:

A day, like any other
Took away a year of life in its wake.
------------------------------------------------------------------
कैसा है यह ज़माना

कैसा है यह ज़माना
कि लोग इसे भी प्यार की कविता मानेंगे!

पर कैसा है यह ज़माना
कि हम ऐसी ही कविता में अपना प्यार पहचानेंगे

(from: 'सागर-मुद्रा')


My attempt at a translation:

What a world it is
that people will consider even this to be a love-poem

But what a world it is
that we shall indeed see the reflection of love in such a poem.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Prose works:

I would recommend that Agyeya enthusiasts read his essay मेरी पहली कविता (My First Poem), which is the opening essay in the collection आत्मनेपद, if they haven't already done so. In this essay he recounts how, at the age of four, he composed his first poem, unknowingly. He had been given a spinning top to play with by a relative, who told him that the toy was called "bhumiri". While playing with it, and reveling in his ability to make it spin, he started clapping and chanting:

"नाचत है भुमिरि, नाचत है भुमिरि।"

He did not find words beyond that, but it dawned on him that it was not merely his top ("bhumiri") that was spinning, the Earth ("bhoomi ri") is also spinning; the whole Universe is engaged in a cosmic dance of sorts. In an ordinary sentence, he isolated a profound meaning. And he realized the power of words.

An excerpt from Apne Apne Ajnabi:
"समय मात्र अनुभव है, इतिहास है. इस सन्दर्भ में 'क्षण' वही है जिसमें अनुभव तो है लेकिन जिसका इतिहास नहीं है, जिसका भूत-भविष्य कुछ नहीं है; जो शुद्ध वर्तमान है, इतिहास से परे, स्मृति के संसर्ग से अढूषित, संसार से मुक्त. अगर ऐसा नहीं है, तो वह क्षण नहीं है, क्योंकि वह काल का कितना ही छोटा खंड क्यों न हो, उसमें मेरा जीना काल-सापेक्ष जीना है, ऐतिहासिक जीना है. वह बिन्दु नहीं है, रेखा है; रेखा परम्परा है और क्षण परम्परा-मुक्त होना चाहिए."

My attempt at a translation:
Time is but experience, and history. In this context, a moment is that which has experience but no history, which has no past or future, which is purely the present, transcending history, not tainted by memory, free of the rest of the world. If it is not so, then it is not a moment, because however small an interval of time it may be, my living through it is a passage through time, with a historical context attached to it. It is not a point, but a line; a line embodies tradition and a moment must be free of tradition.

Mahadevi

I realized that I haven't posted anything about Mahadevi Varma on this blog so far. This seems like a good time to rectify this. Mahadevi was a great poetess...one of the four so-called pillars of chhayavaad. She is also often referred to as the modern Meerabai since much of her poetry addresses the soul's search for communion with the almighty. Apart from poetry she also wrote prose. I really enjoyed reading the various anthologies of vignettes regarding people she had encountered at various stages of life (Ateet ke Chalchitra, Smriti ki Rekhaen) as well as those describing her various pets (Mera Parivaar). Amongst those that stand out in my mind are the touching story of the little girl Binda, and the tale of Gillu the squirrel.

Mahadevi's use of language has a great lyrical quality, and is also able to convey great depth of emotion. Here I quote a few lines from one of her poems which illustrates why she was the आधुनिक मीराबाई:

तुम दुःख बन इस पथ से आना
शूलों में नित् मृदु पाटल सा
खिलने देना मेरा जीवन
वह हार बनेगा क्या जिसने सीखा न हृदय को बिधवाना
नित् जलता रहने दो तिल-तिल
अपनी ज्वाला में उर मेरा
उसकी विभूति में फिर आकर
अपने पद-चिह्न बना जाना।

वर देते हो तो कर दो ना
चिर आँख-मिचौनी यह अपनी
जीवन में खोज तुम्हारी है
मिटना ही तुम को छू पाना।

I am back to quoting Agyeya. Here is an excerpt from his novella "Apne-Apne Ajnabi" ("अपने-अपने अजनबी"):

समय मात्र अनुभव है, इतिहास है। इस सन्दर्भ में 'क्षण' वही है जिसमें अनुभव तो है लेकिन जिसका इतिहास नहीं है, जिसका भूत-भविष्य कुछ नहीं है; जो शुद्ध वर्तमान है, इतिहास से परे, स्मृति के संसर्ग से अढूषित, संसार से मुक्त। अगर ऐसा नहीं है, तो वह क्षण नहीं है, क्योंकि वह काल का कितना ही छोटा खंड क्यों न हो, उसमें मेरा जीना काल-सापेक्ष जीना है, ऐतिहासिक जीना है. वह बिन्दु नहीं है, रेखा है; रेखा परम्परा है और क्षण परम्परा-मुक्त होना चाहिए।

My attempt at a translation of the above:

Time is but experience, and history. In this context, a moment is that which has experience but no history, which has no past or future, which is purely the present, transcending history, not tainted by memory, free of the rest of the world. If it is not so, then it is not a moment, because however small an interval of time it may be, my living through it is a passage through time, with a historical context attached to it. It is not a point, but a line; a line embodies tradition and a moment must be free of tradition.

After a long hiatus, I am back to posting on this blog again. Instead of giving in to the temptation of quoting another poem by Agyeya, I will instead quote from another great poet who contributed immensely to Hindi poetry: Suryakant Tripathi 'Nirala'. Nirala's poetry stands out amongst his contemporaries both thematically and stylistically. I think he may have been one of the first few Hindi poets to use blank verse extensively. His poems also often highlighted social issues.

I quote here a passage from a poem by him that I read as part of school curriculum. Simple, yet eloquent, and very moving, it describes the plight of a poor beggar:

वह आता,
दो टूक कलेजे के करता
पछताता पथ पर आता।

पेट पीठ दोनों मिल कर हैं एक
चल रहा लकुटिया टेक
मुट्ठी भर दाने को
भूख मिटाने को
मुह फटी-पुरानी झोली का फैलाता।

वह आता,
दो टूक कलेजे के करता
पछताता पथ पर आता।