Mohammad Huzaifa Pandit
Badan dareeda huun aaj
ki ghata bain karti hui aayi hai
Yeh sham ki kasini chaon, dehleez pay pukartay saaye
Aur dareechon ki na-beena tatolti aankhain
Khoonrez hawaao.n main, boo-e-gham ki muntazir
Ki aaj qatalgahon say shayad phir teray kakulon ki mehak aayi hai.
Haan wohi mehak hai –
Surukh khoon say labrez:
Ki wo khaak nasheen teri ik nigaah kay qayil hai
Ki munsalik teri chasm-e-shobadasaaz say hai
wo marasim jo waqt kay sitam say beniyaz
shab-o-roz apni aah-o-fughaan say
teray aks ki paziraayi kiya kartay hain.
un tahoor chhatanon main
jo humari tumhari andheri cheekhon kay gesuoon main pali hai.
Badan dareeda huun aaj
ki in chatano.n pay naqash hui hai khoon-e-humnasheena say
ik maazi-e-zood faramosh
jis main dastaan-e-ushaq ab bhi rang-e-sarforshan main lehlehaati hai.
Badan dareeda huun aaj ki
ye daastaan shayad phir rang laayi hai
ki maqtal say teray zikr ki boo aayi tau thi.
Aaj saleebon pay phir mansoor ki kasak taari hai
Shayad ki ab qarz-e-humnasheenan ada hua hai
Ki aaj ufaq pay nohagar mahtaab
Shafaq ki lali main nehlaye ubhra hai.
Shayad ki ab chaak-e-badan sil jaaye.
Badan dareeda huun
Ki ik khyaal aa aakay reh jaata hai
Ki khoon-e-mansoor say kab dast-e-zaalim ki qaza aayi hai?
Ki har zulm ki taufeeq zaalim ki wirasat hai
Khaaknasheenon nay, humnahsheenon say kab rasm-e-wafa ada hopayi hai?
Ki yeh zard zameen cheekh cheekh kay bol uthegi hashr kay din
Ki khizaan say hum mardoodan-e-haram pay kya guzar aayi hai.
Wo din ki hai maqdoor ik roz tau zaroor
Par badan dareeda huun aaj ki
Gar chi sau bar gham-e-hijr say jaan guzri hai
Phir bhi ji jo dil pay guzarni hai kahaan guzri hai
Intisaab – Dedicated to the memory of dead of Kashmir
Today, my bulleted body is a gaping hole:
Borrows clichéd elegies.
on bruised doors.
Cataracted windows stare in undignified hope
For the scent of smoked blood
That clings to the savage breeze.
The fragrance of your locks,
Tiptoes today from the execution yards.
Yes! The very scent
mined from crimson blood.
They bartered their skeltons
for censored maps
on dirty roads to your kind glance.
The gazelle spells in your cobalt eyes seek them:
of the massacre of Time.
Each elegaic morning and mangy night
they worship your imagined shadow imprisoned in pious stones.
nursed by the scented tresses of our blind laments.
Today my bulleted body is a gaping hole:
Scriptures of a forgotten-past chiseled in the blood of friends on these stones.
Long dead friends recount merry tales of bravado
In anecdotes stamped on silent stone.
I am a gaping hole:
Perhaps, today the anecdotes might triumph over our memory.
The breeze was rife
with scent of conversations on you in the execution yard.
The scaffold is again afflicted with the thrist of Mansoor
Perhaps, the debt of friends has been settled:
The bereaved moon rises
bathed in the blood of dusk.
Perhaps, our seeping wounds will be sealed today.
I am a gaping hole,
A question torments me:
Has Mansoor’s blood ever contributed to the tyrant’s decline?
Tyrants are destined to inherit tyranny.
Those heirs of dust, friends in the journey:
When were they equal to the ritual of loyalty?
One fine day, this insipid land will shout and recount:
The woes wreaked by autumn on us – the outcasts of harem.
That promised day will dawn one day,
But I am a gaping hole today:
Though, life has hung on my lips a thousand times
From the sorrow of separation.
Yet, all that is promised to befall
is yet to befall.
Huzaifa blogs here