In the early morning quiet, When the stars still glimmered, he heard the Monal, a bird getting extinct.
The night before too
When Taraknath had put out the lamp,
And the dogs had stopped howling,
And the petrified lambs had stopped bleating,
he did hear the Monal.
In a stupor - dazed, perplexed, baffled,
Taraknath didn’t know
Whether to step out at the day break
Or to cling to his hovel
Or to wait for Yambarzal.
He dared not to glance up,
And to draw respite, some fortitude
from Zagat Amba - the Mother
who long back, had forsaken the fetish.
How else could the misery descend,
Like a swarm of locusts,
Like the wolves on a hunt,
Like the plague, he had only heard of?
He boggled, blubbered, boohooed
"Maeji! Maeji! Maeji!"
as he had done, when the raiders
had swarmed Sangrama,
where Zagat Amba the deity
had presided the life,
the destiny, the form and the essence
of all incumbents – his world, her cosmos.
Where Yambarzal would snatch his Takhti
And he chased her tumbling down the hill.
That groove of almonds, just above.
The saffron fields, and the gurgling brook.
And the Holy Spring, the abode of the Mother.
Masterji liked him, and he adored him.
Taraknath – a fatherless child
Sat at his feet – a devout pupil to
The great educator. And learned and
earned the trust, the adulation, and also
Yambarzal, his only daughter.
Raiders had shot his father
And shot his neigbours, too.
But Masterji survived –
as the only man who had scurried
to a college, to the city,
far away from Sangrama.
And so the foursome,
Masterji, Tarak, Yambarzal and Zagat Amba
Had carried on the fun, the drudgery, the poise
And the ecstasy of belonging - of labour, prayer
and of a life divine.
It was the essence and the form
The hills, the brooks, the streams
and the snows;
The grand Chinars, the mighty walnuts,
The weeping willows, and the
squeaking birches.
The Phullaiy – or the blossoms,
the spring on the trees.
The cherries, the plums, the apples
and of the apricots.
The lotuses and the roses, the daffodils
and the hyacinths.
That would go as offerings to the Zagat Amba
from Yambarzal, who with great care.
And painstakingly she made garland after garland,
Bouquet after bouquet.
And climbed up every dawn and dusk
To bedeck the abode and to adorn the deity.
Blessed they were
When Amba descended
And came toddling into Yambar’s lap
But left them Masterji, to his eternal rest
From down the plains in Jammu’s west
Where hostilities had broken
Between the neigbours two,
inflicting death, destruction, artillery fires, air raids,
and a stray burst wiped the life
Out of Masterji’s kind, benign
and handsome frame.
And now this strife again,
A different neighbour, nay thy known fraternity
A friend’s son, a friend in fact,
an acquaintance too.
All shades of folks, from the cleric to the butcher
From the hawker to the teacher.
In fact that vegetable vendor, even the milkman.
All exulting in a fervour, in a rage,
in a frenzy, of a Great Revolution,
Of the mission so dear - Iconoclasm,
Purgation, from Morocco to Malysia.
Of Ummah, of Jehad, of terror of blasts.
Yambarzal had set out to Muran,
To meet Amba and her sweet new born.
Tarak kept back for Zagat Amba,
The mother divine, and to bedeck her abode
As the rest of his ilk, kept disappearing
In a quiet, silent, stream of migrants, exiles.
"Rah, ta, ta", the staccato from the AKs
Silenced the melody of the aarti And quiet went the screeching loudspeakers.
All dumb, all quiet, silence, a deathly hush.
Zagat Amba departed, went
far away to some undisclosed destination.
Tarak was clinging to the fetish,
To a stone blasted into smithereens.
And his lips, his stomach,
His entire viscera, his blood, his tissues, his cells
His entire antahkaran kept blubbering, boohooing,
"Maeji! Maeji!, Maeji."
His red dripping into Her vermilion,
The grand finale of his execution
was his return back
to the womb of his Mother.
His beloved Zagat Amba.
Yambarzal envied him to her last,
Fretting and fuming in the exile
of a Migrant camp to the West of Jammu,
where the two neighbours
were shaking hands
and simpering over the redundant Borders.
"All of us wait eagerly for our vacations just because of two major reasons.Firstly we get a little relief from studies, secondly we get time to visit our village.I came to Chandigarh ten years before and joined my school when vacations were very near.My friends inquired from me where my Gaon was.I was speechless just because I never knew what the word Gaon meant?But as they told me the definition of Gaon meant where all your relatives live and where you go to spend your holidays.That very night i asked my parents and they told me, we don't have a Gaon,we hail from a city.On asking,they told me it is in Kashmir known as Srinagar,"Shall we go there?"was my instant reaction.They said nothing as they thought I would forget after some days but I didn't.Whenever my father used to listen to any news about Kashmir, I used to be dragged happily, towards the news as my Gaon's name came on TV.But as the days passed, months and years went by, I grew up and understood the real ground situation of my Gaon. I felt sad and helpless. My Gaon had become a place of massacres,firings and bomb explosions killing thousands of innocent people including old,young and small babies whose actual crime is still unknown to me..Many left their homes and hearths for good,and never looked back.I am one of the children of those uprooted people who have become displaced in their own country. Like me their children don't know their roots and the motherland of their parents/grandparents. So the Gaon for me is just my imagination.Today, I'm mature enough to define many things but I still don't know the definition of my Gaon.Can you define my "Gaon"?
By Shailendra Aima In the early morning quiet, When even the stars glimmered, he heard it whistle.
In fact, during the night before When Taraknath had put out the lamp, And the dogs had stopped howling, And the petrified lambs had stopped bleating, he did hear it whistle.
Taraknath didn’t know Whether to step out in the first light Or to cling to his hovel. Or to wait for Yambarzal in a stupor - dazed, perplexed, baffled.
He didn’t dare to throw a glance To draw respite, some fortitude, at Zagat Amba, the mother who long back, had forsaken the fetish.
How else could the misery descend, Like a swarm of locusts, Like the wolves on a hunt, Like the plague, he had only heard of?
He boggled, blubbered, boohooed "Maeji! Maeji! Maeji!" as he had done, when the raiders had swarmed Sangrama, where Zagat Amba the deity had presided the life, the destiny, the form and the essense of all incumbents – his world, her cosmos.
Where Yambarzal would snatch his Takhti And he chased her tumbling down the hill. That groove of almonds, just above. The saffron fields, and the gurgling brook. And the holy spring, the abode of the Mother.
Masterji liked him, and he adored him. Taraknath – a fatherless child Sat at his feet – a devout pupil to The great educator. And learned and earned the trust, the adulation, and also Yambarzal, his only daughter.
Raiders had shot his father And shot his neigbours, too. But Masterji survived – as the only man who had scurried to a college, to the city, far away from Sangrama.
And so the foursome, Masterji, Tarak, Yambarzal and Zagat Amba Had carried on the fun, the drudgery, the poise And the ecstasy of belonging, labour, prayer and of a life divine.
What’s there to tell thee Of the hills, the brooks, the streams and the snows; Of the grand Chinars, the mighty walnuts, The weeping willows, and the squeaking birches. Of the Phullaiy – or the blossoms, the spring on the trees. Of the cherries, the plums, the apples and of the apricots. The lotuses and the roses, the daffodils and the hyacinths. They would go as offerings to the Zagat Amba from Yambarzal, who with great care And painstakingly made garland after garland, Bouquet after bouquet. And climbed up every dawn and dusk To bedeck the abode and to adorn the deity.
Blessed they were When Amba descended And came toddling into Yambar’s lap But left them Masterji, to his eternal rest From down the plains in Jammu’s west Where hostilities had broken Between the neigbours two, inflicting death, Destruction, artillery fires, air raids, and a stray burst wiped the life Out of Masterji’s kind, benign and handsome frame.
And now this strife again, A different neighbour, nay thy known fraternity A friend’s son, a friend in fact, an acquaintance too. All shades of folks, from the cleric to the butcher From the hawker to the teacher. In fact that vegetable vendor, even the milkman.
All exulting in a fervour, in a rage, in a frenzy, of a Great Revolution, Of the mission so dear - Iconoclasm, Purgation, from Morocco to Malysia. Of Ummah, of Jehad, of terror of blasts.
Yambarzal had set out to Muran, To meet Amba and her sweet new born. Tarak kept back for Zagat Amba, The mother divine, and to bedeck her abode As the rest of his ilk, kept disappearing In a quiet, silent, stream of migrants, exiles.
"Rah, ta, ta", the staccato from the AKs Silenced the melody of the aarti And quiet went the screeching loudspeakers. All dumb, all quiet, silence, a deathly hush.
Zagat Amba departed, went far away to some undisclosed destination. Tarak was clinging to the fetish, To a stone blasted into smithereens. And his lips, his stomach, His entire viscera, his blood, his tissues, his cells His entire antahkaran kept blubbering, boohooing, "Maeji! Maeji!, Maeji."
His red dripping into the vermilion, The grand finale of his execution was his return back to the womb of his Mother. His beloved Zagat Amba.
Yambarzal envied him to her last, Fretting and fuming in the exile of a Migrant camp to the West of Jammu, where the two neighbours were shaking hands and simpering over the redundant Borders.
Near the crumbling wall he was standing. In his weak frame he looked like a ghost the once proud shop owner of Baramoola.
I asked him “what are you doing here?” He could not hear me. because the wrong medicine prescribed by the quack doctor in charge of the camp had burnt his eardrums. His body was not a body It was almost a skeleton In his painful, trembling voice He asked me.
‘Have you experienced the suffering of a fish out of water? The pain of a shattered past the suspense of an unknown future the agony of burnt ancestral roots the vacuum of lost values the insults disgraces and deceits, inflicted by your near and dear ones?
Near the crumbling wall he was standing in his own frail frame looking like a ghost The proud shopowner of Baramoola.
Lost in some vacuum without my asking he said ‘In my eyes I no more see the yellow lotuses of Nagin Lake or the life saving water of the chashme shahi and hasn’t the Lidder lost its forceful flow?’
‘Don't you feel” he said 'the green vadi, the heaven on earth is transformed into a desert, a desert of human sighs. Without the colourful reflections of shikaras Dal Lake looks barren submerged in her own tears lamenting her lost romance.’
In the dingy room of the camp lying quietly on his tattered bedspread experiencing an un-ending nostalgia he said, ‘I no more hear the santoor my ears are deprived of the melodious songs of Habba Khatoon.
May be I am waiting for another fake medicine which will burn my dreamless eyes submerging me forever into fathomless darkness as I know, nobody will come with a lamp, a lamp of light which can illuminate our future.’
Near the crumbling wall he was standing the shopowner of Baramoola but he was not there there was only a shadow form merging into formlessness. something disappearing into nowhere.
A Poem By Shailendra Aima I saw him desperate Throwing his wrinkled fingers (he is aged for he has hoary hair) clasping to drag away the stony rock. What a misery! A little scratching of a handful sand. Watch the perseverance. A never ending struggle. A stubborn long wait. Return of the mighty wind The surge of the tide. Where is the sand, the rock, the entire front. Its gone, its gone, its gone.
(
