Urdu Adab ka Janaza
Ik zamanay tak apnay khayalata ko angrizi main qalam band kernay kay baad hum nay soocha keh inhe khayalat ke akase Urdu zaban main bhe kerne chaye. Akhir yeah humari madari zaban hai aur is ka bhe hum per haq hai. Chunanchay, apnay dostoon ke iltajha kay bawajood, khe hamara Urdu main likhnay say Urdu adab ke moat waqay ho jae ge, hum nay is zaban main bhe apnay khayalat ko tehreer kernay hai pukhta azam banna leya. Ab sawal yea paida howa keh shuruat kee kidher say jae. Ik taraf kalaam likhnay ka khayal aye tu dosree taraf ik afsana. Akhir main soocha keh moqay ke munasabat say shair kahee jaen tu yea ik acha pehla kadam ho sakta hai. Wesse bhe angrizi main likhnay ka agaz bhe ma badolat nahin shaire say he keya tha.
Is silsalay main hamaray ik dost Rabbani sahib nay bhe hamare kaffe madat ke. Becharay akhir main khud he pachtae, liken merray nazarye say un kay pashtanay main Urdu adab ka ik nihayat he nafees adeeb/shair apne is silhayat ko pehchanay kay kabil howa. Rabbani sahib say mushwarat kay sath hum nay apna pehla shair porra keya, jo keh kuch essay hai
Ankhoon he ankhoon main keh deya, mujhay tum say peyar hai
Kahan ho mere sanam, terra intezar hai
Is shair kay filmi rujhanat kay mutaliq humain kaffe took jhook ka samna kerna para. Albata, is say bara masla yea tha keh humari ik qaribi dost bhe isse naam say pukare jateen hain. Ab shaire kernay ke thane hai Urdu main, aur sanam ka naam istamal kernay say hitchkichayen. Yea baat kuch munasib nahin lagte. Leken ab jab shair kehnay ke thaan le tu is tarhaan kay masiall tu paish ayeen gay. Almia yea hai keh is khayal kay sath bhe hamara dosra shair kuch essay kaha gya
Talo-e-aftab say terra intezar hai sanam
Gul-e-kanwal per aa gya ab, mager teree ana na mani
Is shair say humain kaffe shurat hasil howe aur tareefen bhe sunnay ko mileen. Chand logoon ka tu apni angrizi main likhay gye tehreeron ka taruf bhe hum nay is shair he kay ziryay keya. Dosra hum shair kum keh rahay thay aur un pay logoon kay tasurat zeyada sun rahay thay. Sath main khayal aya khe koi takhalus bhe chun lenna chaye. Rabbani sahib nay ik daffa “sexy” ka lafz tajweez keya tha, liken humain is ka wazan shair main bethtay maloom nahin howa. Khair, mukhtasir alfaz main yeah kehna sahe ho ga khe humara takhalus nay tay paya.
Ishar ke kami kay bais hum nay ik din beth ker chand bachkana shair likhay, jis main say ik ka ziker na kerna zayadte kehlae ga.
Idher hum aur udher tum
Ik ke choonch aur ik ked um
Ik aur shair kuch is tarhan say hay
Sitaroon say agay jahan aur bhe hain
Wahan Roti Kapra aur Makan bhe hai
Iqbal ke shaire ka aisay bay darde say galla katna kaffe logoon ko na manzoor tha. Hum nay is ko mazhaya shaire kay zamray main daal ker mazarat chaye, leken ab tak humaray dostoon ka sabar ka paimana labraiz ho chukka tha. Akhir hum nay Urdu nazam ko waqte taur per alwida kaha.
Raita pehlanay ke umang the humare
Yeahan tu damgh ke dahi ban gye
Ab hum nay soocha hai khe apni silhayatoon ka andaza Urdu nasar main lageen gay. Isse silsalay main Urdu adab ka janaza humare pehle tehreer hai. Albata, essa na soochain khe hamara Urdu main likhnay kay azam ko koi thees pohanche hai.
Zamana humain kuch bhe bolay
Hum tas say mas nahin hongay
Rubbish
Another piece of paper floated gently to the ground. Call me crazy, but every blank page has a certain life, for which it can remain exposed to a writer, for something of substance to be produced on it. After those minutes are gone, the page becomes paper; an object for which a tree was once cut somewhere. And I can’t use it once I have that thought on my mind. At the foot of the wall across my desk was a pile of crumpled pages. They were still pages because they had managed to have something written on them. However, just this simple fact is not enough to distinguish them from rubbish. How can a person be a human if all there is to him is filth? How can a piece of paper be anything but rubbish if rubbish is all it has to say?
I don’t understand how people keep their desks against the wall. Is it not extremely mundane; starring at a wall while one has nothing to be put on paper? How will I ever tear off a page and throw it across the room if I have wall in my face? Wouldn’t the rubbish I am trying to get rid of bounce back and hit me in the face again? A blank paper only needs to fall off the table since it did retain its purity. But a page which has ink on it but still doesn’t say anything worthwhile needs to be thrown as far away as possible. The latter had potential and all that potential achieved was to indulge in filth. The only thing it was worth, was to get the mind’s rubbish out of the way. Wouldn’t it be unfair to that page if the waste it has purified the mind off is not tossed away?
We waste so much time in efforts to save paper that we publish every piece of rubbish which bounced back to desks placed against walls. Has it never occurred to anyone that a blank white space in a newspaper, magazine, journal or even a book would be much more useful than an ugly jumble of words? The story of wasted paper is so much similar to that of mankind; the pure are stamped over by the filthy and those of substance are lost because the filth keeps bouncing back to the desks.
Without
A bull without horns. A horn without a honk. A flute without a whistle. A whistle without a mouth. A bell without a ring. A ring without a finger. A wheel without spokes. A bike without a wheel. A mind without a memory. An eye without sight. A glass without a base. A house without people. A tree without a leaf. A bullet without a gun. A clock without hands. A perfume without a scent. A tie without a knot. A garden without flowers. A flower without petals. A blade without an edge. An edge without a fall. A stove without a flame. A book without a page. A room without a wall. A lock without a door. A door without a hinge. A guitar without strings. A drum without skin. A pen without ink. You without him. Me without you.
