Intisaab- Kashmir kay shuhda kay naam

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:

                                           Raw-red thunder

Borrows clichéd elegies.

Ash-grey shadows

                          knock

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,

perhaps

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:

Survivors

of the massacre of Time.

Each elegaic morning and mangy night

they worship your imagined shadow imprisoned in pious stones.

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

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