Hasan The Potmaker(Noon Meem Rashid)

Hasan Kuuzagar(Noon Meem Rashid)

Jahanzaad, niiche galii meiN
tere dar ke aageye
maiN soKhta-sar, Hasan kuuzagar huuN !
tujhe subh baazaar meN
buuRhe attar Yusuf
ki dukaan par maiN ne dekha
to terii nigaahoN meiN wo taabnaakii
thii maiN jis kii hasrat meN
nau saal diivaana phirtaa rahaa huuN
Jahanzad, nau saal diivaana phirtaa rahaa huuN !
ye vo daur thaa jis maiN meN ne
kabhii apne ranjuur kuuzoN kii jaanib
palaT kar na dekha …
vo kuuze mere dast-e-chaabuk
ke putlegil-o-rang-o-rau
Ghan kii makhluuq-e-bejaaN
vo sargoshioN meN ye kahte:
“Hasan kuuzagar ab kahaN hai?
vo ham se, Khud apne ‘amal se
Khudavand ban kar KhudaaoN kii maanind hai ruu-e-gardaaN!”
Jahanzad, nau saal kaa daur yuuN
mujh pe guzra
ake jaise kisii shahr-e-madfuun par vaqt guzre;
taGhaaroN meN miTTi
kabhi jis ki Khushbuu se vaarafta hotaa thaa maiN
sang-basta paRii thii
suraahii-o-miina-o-jaam-o-subuu aur faanuus-o-guldaaN
merii hech-maaya ma’iishat ke, izhaar-e-fan ke sahaare
shikasta paRe themaiN Khud, maiN Hasan kuuzagar,
paa-ba-gil, Khaak bar sar,
barahnasar-e-chaak zhauliida-muu, sar ba zaanu
kisii Gham-zada devtaa kii tarah
vaahma kegil-o-laa se KhvaaboN
ke sayyal kuuze banaataa rahaa thaa
Jahanzad, nau saal pahletu naadaN thii
lekin tujhe ye Khabar thii
ke maiN ne, Hasan kuuzagar ne
teri qaaf kii sii ufaq taab aankhoN
meiN dekhii hai vo taabnaakii
ke jis se mere jism-o-jaan, abr-o-mahtaab kiiraah-guzar ban gaye the
Jahanzad, Baghdad ki Khaab-guuN raat
vo raud-e-Dajla kaa saahil vo kashtii,
vo mallaah kii band aankheN
kisii Khasta-jaaN, ranj bar kuuzagar ke liye
aik hi raat vo kahrubaa thii
ke jis se abhi tak hai paivast us kaa vajuud …
us kaa paikarmagar aik hi raat kaa zauq
daryaa kii vo lehr niklaa
Hasan kuuzagar jis meN Duuba
to ubhraa nahiiN hai!
Jahanzad, is daur meN rauz, har rauz
vo sauKhta-baKht aa kar mujhe dekhtii
chaak par paa-ba-gil, sar ba zaanu
to shaanoN se mujh ko hilaatii …
(vuhii chaak jo saal-haa-saal jiine ka tanhaa sahaara rahaa thaa!)
vo shaanoN se mujh ko hilaatii:
“Hasan kuuzagar, haush meN aa Hasan,
apne viiran ghar par nazar kar ye bachchoN
ke tannuur kyonkar bhareN ge
Hasan, ai muhabbat ke mare
muhabbat amiiroN kii baazi
Hasan apne diivar-o-dar par nazar kar”
mere kaan meN ye nava-e-haziiN yuuN thii jaise
kisii Duubte shaKhs ko zer-e-gardaab ko’ii pukaare!
vo askhoN ke anbaar phuuloN ke anbaar the
haaN magar maiN, Hasan kuuzagar,
shehr-e-auhaam ke un KharaaboN kaa majzuub thaa
jin meN koi sadaa, ko’ii jumbish kisii murGh-e-parraaN kaa saaya
kisii zindagii kaa nishaaN tak nahiiN thaa!
Jahanzad, maiN aaj terii galii meN
yahaaN raat kii sard-guuN tiirgii meN
tere dar ke aage khaRaa huuN
sar-o-muu pareshaan
dariiche se vo qaaf kii sii tilismii nigaaheN
mujhe aaj phir jhaanktii haiN
zamaana, Jahanzad,
vo chaak hai jis pe miina-o-jaam-o-subu aur faanuus-o-guldaanke maanand
bante bigaRte hain insaaN
maiN insaaN huuN lekin
ye nau saal jo Gham ke qaalab meN guzre!
Hasan kuuzagar aaj ek tauda-e-kaak hai
jis meN nam ka asar tak nahiN hai
Jahanzad, baazaar meiN subh’ ‘attar Yusuf
kii dukkan par teri aankheN
phir ek baar kuchh kah gayii haiN
un aankhoN ki taabinda shoKhiise
uTThi hai phir tauda-e-Khaak meN
nam kii halkii sii larzish
yahii shaayad is Khaak ko gil banaa de !
tamanna kii vus’at kii kis ko Khabar hai,
Jahanzad, lekin tu chaahe to ban jauuN maiN
phir vuhii kuuza-gar jis ke kuuze
the har kaaKh-o-ku aur har shahr-o-qariya kii naazish
the jin se amiir-o-gadaa ke masaakin daraKhshaaN
tamanna ki vus’at kii kis ko Khabar hai,
Jahanzad, lekintu chahe to maiN phir palaT jauuN
un apne mehjuur kuuzoN ki jaanib
gil-o-laa ke suukhe taGhaaroN ki jaanib
ma’iishat ke izhaar-e-fan ke sahaaroN kii jaanib
ke maiN us gil-o-laa se, us rang-o-roGhan se
phir vo sharaare nikaaluuN ke jin se
diloN ke Kharaabe hoN raushan!

Translation by Frances Pritchett
Jahanzad, down in the street before your door
Here I am, burnt-out Hasan the Potter
This morning in the bazaar when I saw you
At old Yusuf the perfumer’s shop
In you glance was that brilliance\
I’ve longed for, wandering nine years in madness
During that timeI never looked back
At my ailing pots -Pots formed by my deft hands,
Lifeless creatures of clay, color, oil glaze
They whispered:“Where is Hasan the Potter now?
He left us, his own creations
He created us, then turned away like the gods!”
Jahanzad, nine years passed for me
As time would pass in a buried city;
Clay in the clay-vats
With its fragrance that used to ravish me
Lay stone-hard
Flagon and flask, jug and cup, candlestick, vase
Props of my trivial life, of my art
Lay broken
I myself, Hasan the Potter,
mud-mired, dusty-haired, naked
Beside my wheel, hair disheveled,
head on knees
Like some grieving demigod,
from fantasized Clay-and-nothing
I molded pliant pots out of dreams.
Jahanzad, nine years ago
You were a child, but you knew
That I, Hasan the PotterHad seen in your talisman eyes,
you sky-warming eyes
Brilliance
Which made my body and soul an open road
For cloud and moon
Janhanzad, the dream-colored Baghdad night
That bank of River Tigris
That boat, the boatman’s closed eyes
For a worn-out, grief-burdened potter
One night was the charged amber
His static being clings to, even now.
His soul, his shape
But that night’s flavor was a river-wave in which
Hasan the Potter sank and has not come up.
Jahanzad, in those days, day after day
That ill-starred woman came
When she saw me by the wheel,
mud-mired, head on knees
She shook me by the shoulders -
(that wheel which had been, year after year, my life sole prop!)
she shook me by the shoulders:
“Hasan, look at you desolate house
how will the children’s hollow stomachs be filled?
Love-struck Hasan
Love is a rich man’s game
Hasan, look around at your house!”
In my ears this mournful voice was like
A call to a drowning man in whirlpool.
Those heaps of tears were flower-beds, no doubt
But I, Hasan the Potter, lived among ruins
In a fantasy-city where not
A voice, a movement
A flying bird’s shadow
Not a trace of my life existed.
Jahanzad, here now in you street
Here in the cold-colored darkness of night
I stand before you door
Head and hair disordered
From the window those spell-drowned talisman eyes
Glance at me once again
Time, Jahanzad, it the wheel eon which like
flagon and flask, cup,candlestick, vase
Humans are made and unmade
I am a human butThose nine years that passed in the mold of grief!
Hasan the Potter is now a dust-mound without
Even a hint of moisture.
Jahanzad, this morning in the bazaar
At Yusuf the Perfumer’s shop, your eyes
Spoke once again
Their brilliant mischief
Calls forth again in the dust-mound a quiver of wetness
Perhaps to turn the dust to clay
Who knows the scope of longing,
Jahanzad, but
If you want, I go back to being
That potter whose pots
Were the pride of every house and street, city and town
Whose pot shone in the homes of rich and poor
Who knows the scope of longing,
Jahanzad, but
If you want, I will go back to my forsaken pots
To the dried-out vats of clay-and-nothing
To the props of my life, my art
So from this clay-and-nothing, color and oil glaze, I
Can again strike sparks
That light up the ruins of hearts.