hasan kuza-gar (1)

Noon Meem Rashid

hasan kuza-gar (1)

Noon Meem Rashid

MORE BY Noon Meem Rashid

    jahān-zād nīche galī meñ tire dar ke aage

    ye maiñ soḳhtā-sar hasan-kūzā-gar huuñ!

    tujhe sub.h bāzār meñ būḌhe attār yūsuf

    dukkān par maiñ ne dekhā

    to terī nigāhoñ meñ vo tābnākī

    thī maiñ jis hasrat meñ nau saal dīvāna phirtā rahā huuñ

    jahāñ-zād nau saal dīvāna phirtā rahā huuñ!

    ye vo daur thā jis meñ maiñ ne

    kabhī apne ranjūr kūzoñ jānib

    palaT kar na dekhā

    vo kuuze mere dast-e-chābuk ke putle

    gil-o-rañg-o-roġhan maḳhlūq-e-be-jāñ

    vo sar-goshiyñ meñ ye kahte

    hasan kūza-gar ab kahāñ hai?

    vo ham se ḳhud apne amal se

    ḳhudā-vand ban kar ḳhudāoñ ke mānind hai rū-e-gardāñ!

    jahāñ-zād nau saal daur yuuñ mujh pe guzrā

    ki jaise kisī shahr-e-madfūn par vaqt guzre

    taġhāroñ meñ miTTī

    kabhī jis ḳhushbū se vārafta hotā thā maiñ

    sañg-basta paḌī thī

    surāhī-o-mīnā-o-jām-o-subū aur fānūs o gul-dāñ

    mirī hech-māyā ma.īshat ke iz.hār-e-fan ke sahāre

    shikasta paḌe the

    maiñ ḳhud maiñ hasan kūza-gar pā-ba-gil ḳhāk-bar-sar barhana

    sar-e-chāk zholīdā-mū sar-ba-zānū

    kisī ġham-zada devtā tarah vāhima ke

    gil-o-lā se ḳhvāboñ ke sayyāl kuuze banātā rahā thā

    jahāñ-zād nau saal pahle

    nādāñ thī lekin tujhe ye ḳhabar thī

    ki maiñ ne hasan kūza-gar ne

    tirī qaaf ufuq-tāb āñkhoñ

    meñ dekhī hai vo tābnākī

    ki jis se mere jism o jaañ abr o mahtāb

    rah-guzar ban ga.e the

    jahāñ-zād baġhdād ḳhvāb-gūñ raat

    vo rūd-e-dajlā sāhil

    vo kashtī vo mallāh band āñkheñ

    kisī ḳhasta-jāñ rañj-bar kūza-gar ke liye

    ek raat vo kohrbā thī

    ki jis se abhī tak hai paivast us vajūd

    us jaañ us paikar

    magar ek raat zauq dariyā vo lahr niklā

    hasan kūza-gar jis meñ Duubā to ubhrā nahīñ hai!

    Hasan the Potter

    jahāñ-zād us daur meñ roz har roz

    vo saḳhtā-baḳht aa kar

    mujhe dekhtī chaak par pā-ba-gil sar-ba-zānū

    to shānoñ se mujh ko hilātī

    (vahī chaak jo sāl-hā-sāl jiine tanhā sahārā rahā thaa)

    vo shānoñ se mujh ko hilātī

    hasan kūza-gar hosh meñ aa

    hasan apne vīrān ghar par nazar kar

    ye bachchoñ ke tannūr kyūñkar bhareñge

    hasan ai mohabbat ke maare

    mohabbat amīroñ baazī

    hasan apne dīvār-o-dar par nazar kar

    mere kaan meñ ye navā-e-hazīñ yuuñ thī jaise

    kisī Dūbte shaḳhs ko zer-e-girdāb koī pukāre!

    vo ashkoñ ke ambār phūloñ ke ambār the haañ

    magar maiñ hasan kūza-gar shahr-e-auhām ke un

    ḳharāboñ majzūb thā jin

    meñ koī sadā koī jumbish

    kisī murġh-e-parrāñ saayā

    kisī zindagī nishāñ tak nahīñ thaa!

    jahanzad, below in the street, before your door

    Here I stand, heart aflame, Hasan the potter!

    This morning in the bazaar, at old man

    Yousuf the perfumist's shop, I saw you

    And in your eyes was that fire

    In whose longing I have wandered mad for nine years

    Jahanzad, for nine years I have wandered mad!

    Lost in that desire

    I never turned toward my sad pots

    Those images of my restless hands

    Lifeless creations of dust and colour and oil

    Now they whisper:

    'Where is Hasan the potter?

    Creating us, he's become a god!'

    Jahanzad, nine years passed over me

    As time treads over some buried city

    Dust in flower-pots

    Whose aroma I'd fondly breathe

    Was now laden with stones

    Goblet, enamel, cup, pitcher, lantern, flower-vase

    All hope of an art to express

    My worthless existence

    Lay dead,

    And I, Hasan the potter, dust on my head

    Dishevelled hair, prostrate on the potter's wheel

    Like some downcast god

    Creating pots in a dream world of being and nothing

    Saw in your bright eyes of Caucasus

    That fire

    Through which my body and soul became wayfarers

    Of cloud and moonlight

    Jahanzad, that dreamy night in Baghdad

    The bank of the river Tigris

    The ship, the closed eyes of that sailor

    For some weary, disheartened potter

    One night alone was alive

    Which even now claims his

    Spirit, his body

    Only one night's joy the river's wave has granted

    In which Hasan the potter sunk never to emerge

    And now, Jahanzad, each day

    That unlucky one comes to haunt me

    Prostrated on the potter's wheel

    It shakes me by the shoulders

    (That wheel which year to year was my only hope of livelihood)

    ‘Hasan the potter, come to your senses

    Cast an eye on your ruined home

    How shall the bellies of these children be filled?

    Hasan, Love's fool!

    Leave that sport of the rich

    And look to your own house.'

    In my ear that sorry voice fell

    Like one calling down a whirlpool to a drowning man

    Yes, that lake of tears fed life to flowers

    But I, Hasan the potter, was enchanted

    By ruins of the city of illusions

    With no sound, no motion

    No shadow of a bird in flight

    No trace of life

    Jahanzad, in your street today

    Against night's chilling darkness

    I stand restless before your door

    Through the window, those enchanting eyes

    Peer at me again

    The age, Jahanzad, is that potter's wheel on which

    Like enamel, cup, pitcher

    Lantern and flower-vase

    Humans are created and destroyed

    I am human, yet

    These nine years have passed in the shape of grief

    Hasan the potter is today a heap of dust

    Without sign of moisture.

    Jahanzad, this morning in the bazaar at

    Yousuf the perfumist's shop, your eyes

    Have spoken once again

    Breathing moisture into dust

    Perhaps dust will waken into clay.

    jahāñ-zād meñ aaj terī galī meñ

    yahāñ raat sard-gūñ tīrgī meñ

    tire dar ke aage khaḌā huuñ

    sar-o-mū pareshāñ

    darīche se vo qaaf tilismī nigāheñ

    mujhe aaj phir jhāñktī haiñ

    zamāna, jahāñ-zād vo chaak hai jis pe mīna-o-jām-o-subū

    aur fānūs-o-gul-dāñ

    ke mānind bante bigaḌte haiñ insāñ

    maiñ insāñ huuñ lekin

    ye nau saal jo ġham ke qālib meñ guzre!

    hasan kūza-gar aaj ik toda-e-ḳhāk hai jism

    meñ nam asar tak nahīñ hai

    jahāñ-zād bāzār meñ sub.h attār-yūsuf

    dukkān par terī āñkheñ

    phir ik baar kuchh kah ga.ī haiñ

    un āñkhoñ tābinda shoḳhī

    se uTThī hai phir toda-e-ḳhāk meñ nam halkī larzish

    yahī shāyad us ḳhaak ko gil banā de!

    Who knows the expanse of desire, Jahanzad, but

    If you wish, I'll become once more

    The same potter whose pots

    Were the pride of every palace and quarter, every city

    and village

    Adorning the dwellings of rich and poor

    Who knows the expanse of desire, Jahanzad, but

    If you wish, I'll turn once more towards my sad pots

    Those dried pans of being and nothing

    Towards hope of an art to mirror my livelihood

    From that being and nothing, from that colour and oil

    To strike again the sparks by which

    The ruins of hearts are illumined.

    tamannā vus.at kis ko ḳhabar hai jahāñ-zād lekin

    chāhe to ban jā.ūñ maiñ phir

    vahī kūza-gar jis ke kuuze

    the har kāḳh-o-kū aur har shahr-o-qariyā nāzish

    the jin se amiir o gadā ke masākin daraḳhshāñ

    tamannā vus.at kis ko ḳhabar hai jahāñ-zād lekin

    chāhe to maiñ phir palaT jā.ūñ un apne mahjūr kūzoñ jānib

    ġhil-o-valā ke sūkhe taġhāroñ jānib

    ma.īshat ke iz.hār-e-fan ke sahāroñ jānib

    ki maiñ is gil-o-lā se is rañg o roġhan

    se phir vo sharāre nikālūñ ki jin se

    diloñ ke ḳharābe hoñ raushan!

    jahan-zad niche gali mein tere dar ke aage

    ye main soKHta-sar hasan-kuza-gar hun!

    tujhe subh bazar mein buDhe attar yusuf

    ki dukkan par main ne dekha

    to teri nigahon mein wo tabnaki

    thi main jis ki hasrat mein nau sal diwana phirta raha hun

    jahan-zad nau sal diwana phirta raha hun!

    ye wo daur tha jis mein main ne

    kabhi apne ranjur kuzon ki jaanib

    palaT kar na dekha

    wo kuze mere dast-e-chabuk ke putle

    gil-o-rang-o-roghan ki maKHluq-e-be-jaan

    wo sar-goshiyn mein ye kahte

    hasan kuza-gar ab kahan hai?

    wo hum se KHud apne amal se

    KHuda-wand ban kar KHudaon ke manind hai ru-e-gardan!

    jahan-zad nau sal ka daur yun mujh pe guzra

    ki jaise kisi shahr-e-madfun par waqt guzre

    taghaaron mein miTTi

    kabhi jis ki KHushbu se warafta hota tha main

    sang-basta paDi thi

    surahi-o-mina-o-jam-o-subu aur fanus o gul-dan

    meri hech-maya maishat ke izhaar-e-fan ke sahaare

    shikasta paDe the

    main KHud main hasan kuza-gar pa-ba-gil KHak-bar-sar barhana

    sar-e-chaak zholida-mu sar-ba-zanu

    kisi gham-zada dewta ki tarah wahima ke

    gil-o-la se KHwabon ke sayyal kuze banata raha tha

    jahan-zad nau sal pahle

    tu nadan thi lekin tujhe ye KHabar thi

    ki main ne hasan kuza-gar ne

    teri qaf ki si ufuq-tab aankhon

    mein dekhi hai wo tabnaki

    ki jis se mere jism o jaan abr o mahtab ka

    rah-guzar ban gae the

    jahan-zad baghdad ki KHwab-gun raat

    wo rud-e-dajla ka sahil

    wo kashti wo mallah ki band aankhen

    kisi KHasta-jaan ranj-bar kuza-gar ke liye

    ek hi raat wo kohrba thi

    ki jis se abhi tak hai paiwast us ka wajud

    us ki jaan us ka paikar

    magar ek hi raat ka zauq dariya ki wo lahr nikla

    hasan kuza-gar jis mein Duba to ubhra nahin hai!

    Hasan the Potter

    jahan-zad us daur mein roz har roz

    wo saKHta-baKHt aa kar

    mujhe dekhti chaak par pa-ba-gil sar-ba-zanu

    to shanon se mujh ko hilati

    (wahi chaak jo sal-ha-sal jine ka tanha sahaara raha tha)

    wo shanon se mujh ko hilati

    hasan kuza-gar hosh mein aa

    hasan apne viran ghar par nazar kar

    ye bachchon ke tannur kyunkar bharenge

    hasan ai mohabbat ke mare

    mohabbat amiron ki bazi

    hasan apne diwar-o-dar par nazar kar

    mere kan mein ye nawa-e-hazin yun thi jaise

    kisi Dubte shaKHs ko zer-e-girdab koi pukare!

    wo ashkon ke ambar phulon ke ambar the han

    magar main hasan kuza-gar shahr-e-auham ke un

    KHarabon ka majzub tha jin

    mein koi sada koi jumbish

    kisi murgh-e-parran ka saya

    kisi zindagi ka nishan tak nahin tha!

    jahanzad, below in the street, before your door

    Here I stand, heart aflame, Hasan the potter!

    This morning in the bazaar, at old man

    Yousuf the perfumist's shop, I saw you

    And in your eyes was that fire

    In whose longing I have wandered mad for nine years

    Jahanzad, for nine years I have wandered mad!

    Lost in that desire

    I never turned toward my sad pots

    Those images of my restless hands

    Lifeless creations of dust and colour and oil

    Now they whisper:

    'Where is Hasan the potter?

    Creating us, he's become a god!'

    Jahanzad, nine years passed over me

    As time treads over some buried city

    Dust in flower-pots

    Whose aroma I'd fondly breathe

    Was now laden with stones

    Goblet, enamel, cup, pitcher, lantern, flower-vase

    All hope of an art to express

    My worthless existence

    Lay dead,

    And I, Hasan the potter, dust on my head

    Dishevelled hair, prostrate on the potter's wheel

    Like some downcast god

    Creating pots in a dream world of being and nothing

    Saw in your bright eyes of Caucasus

    That fire

    Through which my body and soul became wayfarers

    Of cloud and moonlight

    Jahanzad, that dreamy night in Baghdad

    The bank of the river Tigris

    The ship, the closed eyes of that sailor

    For some weary, disheartened potter

    One night alone was alive

    Which even now claims his

    Spirit, his body

    Only one night's joy the river's wave has granted

    In which Hasan the potter sunk never to emerge

    And now, Jahanzad, each day

    That unlucky one comes to haunt me

    Prostrated on the potter's wheel

    It shakes me by the shoulders

    (That wheel which year to year was my only hope of livelihood)

    ‘Hasan the potter, come to your senses

    Cast an eye on your ruined home

    How shall the bellies of these children be filled?

    Hasan, Love's fool!

    Leave that sport of the rich

    And look to your own house.'

    In my ear that sorry voice fell

    Like one calling down a whirlpool to a drowning man

    Yes, that lake of tears fed life to flowers

    But I, Hasan the potter, was enchanted

    By ruins of the city of illusions

    With no sound, no motion

    No shadow of a bird in flight

    No trace of life

    Jahanzad, in your street today

    Against night's chilling darkness

    I stand restless before your door

    Through the window, those enchanting eyes

    Peer at me again

    The age, Jahanzad, is that potter's wheel on which

    Like enamel, cup, pitcher

    Lantern and flower-vase

    Humans are created and destroyed

    I am human, yet

    These nine years have passed in the shape of grief

    Hasan the potter is today a heap of dust

    Without sign of moisture.

    Jahanzad, this morning in the bazaar at

    Yousuf the perfumist's shop, your eyes

    Have spoken once again

    Breathing moisture into dust

    Perhaps dust will waken into clay.

    jahan-zad mein aaj teri gali mein

    yahan raat ki sard-gun tirgi mein

    tere dar ke aage khaDa hun

    sar-o-mu pareshan

    dariche se wo qaf ki si tilismi nigahen

    mujhe aaj phir jhankti hain

    zamana, jahan-zad wo chaak hai jis pe mina-o-jam-o-subu

    aur fanus-o-gul-dan

    ke manind bante bigaDte hain insan

    main insan hun lekin

    ye nau sal jo gham ke qalib mein guzre!

    hasan kuza-gar aaj ek toda-e-KHak hai jism

    mein nam ka asar tak nahin hai

    jahan-zad bazar mein subh attar-yusuf

    ki dukkan par teri aankhen

    phir ek bar kuchh kah gai hain

    un aankhon ki tabinda shoKHi

    se uTThi hai phir toda-e-KHak mein nam ki halki si larzish

    yahi shayad us KHak ko gil bana de!

    Who knows the expanse of desire, Jahanzad, but

    If you wish, I'll become once more

    The same potter whose pots

    Were the pride of every palace and quarter, every city

    and village

    Adorning the dwellings of rich and poor

    Who knows the expanse of desire, Jahanzad, but

    If you wish, I'll turn once more towards my sad pots

    Those dried pans of being and nothing

    Towards hope of an art to mirror my livelihood

    From that being and nothing, from that colour and oil

    To strike again the sparks by which

    The ruins of hearts are illumined.

    tamanna ki wusat ki kis ko KHabar hai jahan-zad lekin

    tu chahe to ban jaun main phir

    wahi kuza-gar jis ke kuze

    the har kaKH-o-ku aur har shahr-o-qariya ki nazish

    the jin se amir o gada ke masakin daraKHshan

    tamanna ki wusat ki kis ko KHabar hai jahan-zad lekin

    tu chahe to main phir palaT jaun un apne mahjur kuzon ki jaanib

    ghil-o-wala ke sukhe taghaaron ki jaanib

    maishat ke izhaar-e-fan ke sahaaron ki jaanib

    ki main is gil-o-la se is rang o roghan

    se phir wo sharare nikalun ki jin se

    dilon ke KHarabe hon raushan!

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