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Kite Seller: Who listens to your complaints and grievances here? (seeing tazkiranawis approaching bookseller’s shop
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Kite Seller: Who listens to your complaints and grievances here? (seeing tazkiranawis approaching bookseller’s shop.) Behold, there he comes sporting a beard as though made of jute! (They both laugh) Utensil Seller: (taking sweets to Kite Seller) Here, some sweets for you. Come on, have some. They are really nice. Did you take the parrot along while swimming? Kite Seller: I swim across the river with the cage in hand, what do you know! God, how the Jamuna was packed with people! All the way from Chhatri to Braj Khoti and Dara, and even beyond that. Everywhere you saw only heads! It looked as though melons were afloat. Really, friend, our fellow citizens of Agra are absolutely remarkable! There were people who crossed the river with a nightingale perched on their heads! Amazing, these people! Bookseller: Did you hear, sir? Mian Nazir had gone to the river bank to see the spectacle of semi-naked mermaids. Old age has made no difference to his tastes. Tazkiranawis: Old age cannot alter a man’s character. Old habits die hard. When he had the strength, he used to participate in the swimming. Now he goes to the Jamuna with old memories and desires, and derives vicarious pleasure from seeing others perform what he can no longer accomplish himself. Companion: But, sir, this swimming festival is really quite remarkable! And it is peculiar to Agra. What a splendid, poetic sight it is! To tell you the truth, even I feel a strong urge to participate, and even to write a poem on this beautiful subject. But I do not know how to do it. Poet: It’s simple. Just start writing like this: Some swim with tears, some swim with glee, Every one in Agra swims and swims wonderfully. (All laugh.) Companion: But it should be possible to write a proper poem on this subject. Poet: On swimming? Companion: Why not? Poet: How? Companion: If I knew that I would have written it. Poet: What is the point of glorifying as “poetic” a subject on which you cannot write poetry? Companion: I only said that I wish I could write on the subject. I never said that it is easy or even possible to write on it. Poet: How sensible, do you think, is it to want to write on a subject on which it is impossible to write verse? Laddoo Seller: You barging in again? Go and sit beside your favorite friend. Kakri Seller:Are you out of your mind? Always tilting against windmills! Two policemen come to the paan shop to eat paan. Melon Seller: Mates, don’t start quarrelling again. Otherwise there will be nothing left of us or our wares. Hamid, a young lad, enters and goes to the kite shop. Hamid: Where were you yesterday? Kite Seller: I had gone to the swimming fair. Hamid: I thought you had quit selling kites. Kite Seller: Who, me? I give up kite flying or kite selling? Impossible! Which kite do you want? I have them in every colour, every shape, every style, every character, every humour—which one do you want, sir? Do-dharia, gilahria, dowaaz, lalpara, ghayal. langotia, chand-tara, bagula, dopanna, dhir, kharbuzia, pendipaan, dokonia, kalsara, kakri, chaughara, bajra, kajkulaah, chamchaka, tawakkul, jhanjar, maangdar.... Hamid: Please, stop! I have never even heard the names of these kites in my life. Kite Seller: What kind of a kite flyer are you if you don’t even know their names? Hamid: Well, never mind that. I am some kind of a kite flyer. Just give me the simple dodharia. Kite Seller: Here! Hamid: How much? Kite Seller: 25 kauris.31 Hamid: Here. (Takes the kite and leaves.) Bookseller: (to Hamid) Come here, lad! (Hamid goes out, the bookseller leaps after him) Boy, come here a moment! (returns to the shop followed by Hamid.) Sit down. (points to a place close to himself, but the boy sits away from him.) You are called Hamid, aren’t you? Hamid: Yes. Book Seller: Maulana, you should listen to the works of the classical poets sung by this boy. Believe me, his voice is as silky and sweet as his face! Tazkiranawis: Really! Hamid: What would you like to hear, Maulana? Bookseller: You know the works of the great masters by heart! Why do you ask us? Just choose something yourself. Tazkiranawis: That’s right, boy. Hamid: I will sing a ghazal. Messenger, go tell her without mentioning me, The one who loves you is dying, so sick is he. The moment in anger she went away from me, Why didn’t lightning strike me and I cease to be. It must be she who goes out all dressed at this hour, From her radiant face alone can issue the light I see. No one shed tears as I wandered in the wilderness, Except blisters on my feet which wept openly. When others fell she rushed to help them up again, But when I fell there was neither help nor sympathy. Ah Nazir, we advised you but you listened not, You perused the book of love too keenly.
Mir, he looks at me with eyes of raining fire, Alas, this poisoned cup, was meant just for me. And listen to this too. What wonderful use of the “weeping blister” image! Thorns in that wilderness are still bathed in blood, Where blisters on my feet had burst and wept openly. This is how the great masters write!
Make me wander so through the harsh wilderness of love That blisters of tears on the feet of my eyes may flow openly.
No one shed tears as I wandered in the wilderness, Except blisters on my feet which wept openly.
We are all set to go whenever comes the call, Many have gone ahead, rest await the curtain’s fall.
There is no room for the abject, so unique is our pack, We are all kings and queens here, and not a single Jack.
The select few do not belong to common humanity, Though sold with slaves, Joseph wasn’t one, was he?
The poor, the lowly, and persons of high degree, Everyone in Agra swims and swims wonderfully! Some float with eyes closed, dozing all the way, Others hold cages, or on their head a popinjay.
Many swim flying kites, or stringing a bead, Some smoke hookahs, and look happy indeed, Such marvelous things they do, and do so easily, Everyone in Agra swims, and swims wonderfully!
O Wine-giver, if it is destined that I drink this wine, On its own, it’ll find its way into this cup of mine. Young man, why didn’t you tell me that you know Nazir’s poetry by heart? Hamid: I had come here to buy kites, sir. Giving recitals of poetry was not my purpose. Kite Seller: But, my friend, you know that Mian Nazir and I have been friends for a long time. If you were going to recite his poetry, you should have done it at my shop. By singing there, you insulted him as well as me. Nazir has an apt couplet to describe this situation: This orphaned pearl of my heart was sold dirt cheap, Well, it is the buyer’s good fortune is all I can say? Alright, now sing something for us. Hamid: Which one would you like to hear? Kite Seller: Sing the same poem—the one about the swimming fair—what else! Hamid: The poor, the lowly, and persons of high degree Everyone in Agra swims, and swims wonderfully!
Others hold cages, or on their head a popinjay. Many swim flying kites, or stringing a bead, Some smoke hookahs, and look happy indeed Such marvelous things they do, and do so easily, Everyone in Agra swims and swims wonderfully! Several swim standing, displaying a bare chest, Their frames glistening, like gems on the river’s crest, Half their body wet with water, sweat moistens the rest, Awesome sight of floating heads, eight or ten abreast. Coloured sashes, gaudy turbans, so attractive and lovely, Everyone in Agra swims, and swims so wonderfully. At every stroke it is Syed Kabir that they hail, Next to him it is their mentors who they hail, They remember Krishna and his river as they sail, And then cheer the members of their team without fail. Spreading mirth and joy, thus shouting cheerfully, Everyone in Agra swims, and swims so wonderfully. A large number of people have gathered during the song. The crowd includes the vendors. Kite Seller: Excellent! It is this kind of writing which appeals to the heart. But, alas, the world did not appreciate this poet. He writes — Not the blossom, nor the thorn, nor the gardener can I call my own Ah! woe me, that in such a place I chose to build my home.!
Let us remember Lord Ganesh and bow to him our heads, For he brings success to every one and good luck he spreads, Let’s embrace the whole world and offer love to all, Recount Mahadev’s nuptial and hold you all in thrall. As writ in all our ancient books and told by hoary saints, As also every local priest in his daily discourse explains, May all who listen to it be happy and may their luck increase! May its readers also thrive in health, comfort and peace! He who wrote and sang about the glory of that wedding, May he find name and fame in the path that he is treading, May his days be amply blessed, with life’s elixir, May Lord Shiva rain his bounty on the poet called Nazir.
Manzoor Hussain leaves. Beni Prasad: It’s strange that you didn’t notice him. Or maybe you saw him but failed to recognize him. He has been wandering around here for the last several days. He is deeply in love with a courtesan. Kite Seller: And this vow of silence, this shroud-like cloak, this beard, this appearance of a mendicant —are these also the result of that infatuation? I couldn’t bear to see him like this. That a fun-loving, good natured, and sociable man like Manzoor Hussain should change so radically! Do you know that he used to be very close to Nazir and was often found in his company? My own friendship with him goes back some twenty or twenty-five years. Beni Prasad: Yes. I know it quite well. Kite Seller: But say something, Beni. How did he come to such a state? I am totally perplexed. Beni Prasad: Brother, no one knows what actually happened to him. All that I have heard is that during his return from Deccan, he was robbed of all his horses and other possessions near Jhansi. When he returned to Agra a year ago he was already in a sorry state. But he had not yet assumed the garb of a fakir, Sometimes he even exchanged a word or two with people—but very rarely. He just used to sit in a tomb on the banks of Jamuna staring at the water. Then he disappeared suddenly. He was sometimes sighted in Mathura and sometimes in Meerut. He has only recently returned to Agra and in this condition. Kite Seller: Is it the effect of paralysis or an attack of madness? There has to be some explanation! Beni Prasad: Different people say different things. Some say that he has turned religious. Some say he is still in a state of shock as a consequence of the robbery. Some even say that his condition is the outcome of pure love. In fact, the case of worldly love developing into divine love is not entirely unknown. Kite Seller: Life’s lease is no more than a dew drop, Union with the beloved is but a rare pearl. He has always been a very sensitive person. I remember an old incident. Do you know how he first met Nazir? Nazir was going on a pony from Tajgunj to Maithan to tutor Lala Bilasrai Khatri’s son. At one point when the pony became restive and refused to budge any further Nazir lashed it with the whip. But the whip also brushed against Manzoor Hussain who happened to be walking by just at that moment. Nazir immediately jumped off and forced the whip into Manzoor Hussain’s hand urging him to strike him in return. Unable to persuade him to forget the incident, Manzoor Hussain touched him lightly with the whip and rushed to me, recounted the entire episode, went home and lay there without food or drink for two days. When Nazir heard about this, he was very upset. He immediately went to Manzoor Hussain, brought him to his house, showered him with hospitality. He offered him sweets, played holi with him and read out his poetry to him. This made Manzoor Mian even more devoted to Nazir and their friendship grew. From that day on, they were always found in each other’s company.
Colour-drenched handsome lads with lissome lasses dance, All are drunk with music and heady bashful glance, A glorious treat for eye and ear brimming with romance, Thrilling notes of the tabla drum, ecstatic pipes of trance, And ankle bells weave their spell - such is the splendour of Holi. Bowers of rosy damsels promise hours of fun, On the clothes of every reveler rivers of colour run, Faces dyed in pink and red, shining in the gentle sun, The coloured jet makes blouses wet, blouses thinly spun And bosoms glow as colours flow -- such is the splendour of Holi.
I’ll sing of Nazir the poet, please do listen to me. A man timid who tutored kids, and lived in poverty. His height was low, his gait slow, his skin was darkly brown A small, frail, and well-bred man who lived in Agra town. A wreath like growth of thick long hair adorned a shiny pate Moustaches showed advancing years, by turning gray of late Melancholy or pensiveness pursued him every where Evident in his late years, in youth too it was there. God to him was very kind, and though he had no luxury, His basic needs were always met, and he lived with dignity.
Enter Nazir’s granddaughter humming “Krishna’s childhood days.” Kite Seller: Come here, child! Granddaughter: In a moment. (Exits to the opposite side) The cops who were among those listening to the poems and who were constantly turning to look at the brothel, approach the paan shop. First Cop: Make two paans for us. (To the other cop) It is quite late in the day. But this fellow is still stuck there. Second Cop: Are you sure that he is still there and has not already bolted? First Cop: There is only one exit and I have had my eyes nailed to that door. Second Cop: What if he never went there? Will we keep waiting here for ever? First Cop: How can that be? Constable sahib has himself seen him there. Second Cop: He must have seen him last evening. Suppose he left in the night? The madaari enters with his bear. He is followed by a group of children. The bear performs. Yüklə 495,53 Kb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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