Autumn Moon
Autumn Moon
Poems by
Gulzar
Translated by
J.P Das
First published in 1999 by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj
New Delhi 110002
Sales centres:
Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai
Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu
Kolkata Mumbai
Copyright © Gulzar 1999
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This digital edition published in 2012
e-ISBN:
Digital edition prepared by Ninestars Information Technologies Ltd.
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This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, print reproduction, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any unauthorized distribution of this e-book may be considered a direct infringement of copyright and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Govind & Meghna
my love and blessings to you
Constellations have watched
their journey so far,
And witnessed their love
get etched in time...... ...
Now it brings them to a threshold
from where their destinies are one
As they brace their commitment
for the rest of their lives.
Contents
Foreword
Poem
In the street
Landscape
Land of ruins
Painting
Wanderer
Knots
Emergency
Riots
Newspaper
Refugee
Playmates
The Hunt
Distance
Rain
The Knock
Friend
Choices
Earrings
Anjal
Sky at sunset
Battle
Barren woman
House
Eyes
Refuge
The poet who was
Burial
Body
Past
Damp
Another day
The Moon
Hope
Bonfire
Poem
Permanence
Last Might
Ecstasy
Messiah
Bosky—1991
Untitled
Sunshine
Space Travel
Stranger
Season
Counsel
In Custody
Promise
Companion
Night
Compose a Poem
Suvarna
Little girl night
Lullaby
The pure one
Rite of passage
Dreams
Amen
Branches
Parting
Drop by drop
Urge
The lake at night
Drawing
Images
Portents
Crossroads
Shade
Letdown
My shadow and I
Model
Morning
Lonely
Splinter
Separation
Evening
Strained note
Silence
Moonlight
Limelight
Bubble
Stuck
Morning
Flame
Beauty
Realisation
Kiss
This day
Mask
Self
Moment
Mischief
Autumn Moon
Noon
Balloon
Foreword
'So many summers, and I have lived them too.' This line from Norman MacCraig's poem 'So Many Summers', seems to be a reflection of my mind today. Needless to say, both my mind and body have traversed many a distance, mentally and physically, but there are no regrets, no moments that I would not want to relive.
The most exciting moments in my life, even more than the release of my films, have been when I have seen my poetry in print. This present anthology is dear to me for more reasons than one. I am now at a new, exciting and peaceful crossroad of my life. Meghna, whom Raakhee and I nurtured, and lovingly call Bosky, is to be a bride in the coming year. This book is dedicated to her and Govind.
The second and more professional reason is that I had the opportunity to work with J P Das, whom I fondly call JPda, a doyen of Oriya poetry and one of the very few 'true' poets on the scene today. His enthusiasm was very infectious and I had to work doubly hard to keep pace with him. Sanjana is the custodian of my poems. I have loved to share this love for poetry with her. Poetry has and always will remain my 'real' passion. It is in poetry that I find true meaning which urges me on through some turbulent moments in life. Poetry is my life line.
Poem
The time draws close
for Bosky's marriage.
Something leaves my body,
something sinks in my soul.
Am I sad?
Am I serene?
I do not know.
Is it the dawn
before daybreak?
Is it the dusk
before the sunset?
I do not know.
As I go along
I keep thinking,
after the next bend
she will take a turn
and head towards
the rising sun.
I'll walk on,
all alone,
till I merge
into the setting sun.
In the street
When it rains,
water grows feet.
It runs through street
bouncing off walls,
like jubilant boys
coming home
after winning a match.
When the boys come home
after winning a match,
they run through the streets
bouncing off walls,
bumping into doorposts.
Like the jubilant water.
Landscape
On a distant
desolate shore
close to a young palm tree,
stands another aged one,
wrapped in rags
of dusty times.
Breaking the silence
of centuries,
the old palm tree
bends and whispers
to the young one:
It is cold and lonesome.
Why don't you say something?
Land of ruins
It has been a long time
since I lost my way
in the land of ruins.
The gravestones
of ancient nights
have fallen away.
The crosses of days
lie broken in pieces.
Ashes scatter all over
from the cold pyres
of the crimson sky.
Time lies crushed.
Golden ages grounded
into dus
t heaps.
It has been a long time
since I lost my way
in the land of ruins.
It is here
that henna has fallen
from the holy hands.
Broken flames
have gone to rust;
lights on the forehead
have burnt out;
blank pages of faces
lie open and torn.
Eyes blotted out.
It has been a long time
since I lost my way
in the land of ruins,
where the meaning of life
had quietly fallen
and was
irretrievably lost.
Painting
When the night
was in slumber,
I kindled a sun
with fiery red hues
on the virgin white
of a canvas.
By the morning
the canvas had
burnt to cinders;
I only found
ashes strewn
all across the room.
Wanderer
A homeless wanderer
roams the city
straying from door to door.
He carries a few twigs,
an ear of corn,
a few drops of tears,
some silent sighs
and a lump of earth
for his own grave—
all with a vain hope
of a destination.
If only
I had your shoulders
to lean on.
Knots
Dear weaver,
of weaving.
I have often
seen you
busy with warp and weft,
tying up broken yarns,
joining loose ends
and continuing to weave.
No one can detect
the knots
in the woven fabric.
Once, I too had woven
a relationship.
But sadly, dear weaver,
all the knots in the fabric
stick out,
for all to see.
Emergency
Why did the moon hide inside
the soiled bundle of clouds?
The moment it was gone,
darkness revealed its claws.
Innocent wayfarers
walking through the forest
shrieked in terror.
Why did the moon hide inside
the soiled bundle of clouds?
The moment it was gone,
the vampires came down
from the branches of trees;
sinking their teeth
into the necks
of the wayfarers.
The vampires said,
To cross the forest
you have to pay with blood.
Why did the moon hide inside
the soiled bundle of clouds?
The moment it was gone,
the wayfarers
of the blood splattered night
knelt and cried,
Pray, give us light.
They looked skyward.
From inside the bundle,
the moon struck out a hand
with a flashing dagger.
Riots
They were not men
who got killed
in the communal riots.
They were mere names.
No heads were slain.
They were merely caps
with heads inside.
And the red stream
that you see flowing
down the street,
is merely blood
spilling from
slaughtered voices.
Newspaper
Day after day
I soak in blood.
It dries on my body.
I try to scratch out
the crusts of dried blood
but only peel off my skin.
I am left with
the raw smell of blood
and dark patches.
The newspaper
drops at my doorstep
every morning.
Soaked in blood.
Refugee
Pull out the city
from its very roots.
Gather up the roads,
roll up the streets.
Raze to the ground
the fancy tableau
of the cityscape.
No one has yet
built a shelter
with brick and mortar.
The soul has found
a warm shelter
in the soothing touch
of your hand.
Playmates
We were refugees
on the run.
My mother had worn
and packed
all her ornaments.
I had hidden
a rag doll and a top
tucked in my pyjamas.
Holding the hand
of my sister,
just six years old,
we had left the village
in the dead of the night.
We were refugees
on the run.
Passing through forests
of blazing fire,
scaring screams,
smoldering smoke,
our hands were tearing
at the entrails
of the storm.
Mother vomited blood.
To my horror,
my sister's hand
had slipped out of mine.
That moment
I left
my childhood behind.
When I look back
at the wastelands
of silent borders,
I see a rag doll dancing.
And a top spinning.
The Hunt
It is dusk now.
All day long
the deer has been
stalking the jungle
like an apparition.
My arrows have
grazed past his neck.
He is as alert
as I am vigilant.
A flitting glimpse,
and he vanishes
behind the trees.
When I reach there,
he is gone.
I sight him next
on a distant knoll
or across the spring.
He keeps an eye on me
even as I vow
not to lose sight of him.
And I wonder—
Who chases who?
Who is the hunter and
who the hunted?
In the morning
when I had entered the jungle,
I was sure I would
march back to the city
with the playful deer
stretched like a flag
on the point of my spear.
But as the day
nears its end,
I now have a dread
in my heart.
Maybe, after all,
it is the deer
who will march
to his lair
with my body
pinned to his horns.
Distance
The pillow flaunts
the impression
you left behind,
when your head
rested on it.
The bedsheets
still retain
the fragrance
of your body.
My hands tingle
at the memory
of your touch.
My forehead carries
the seal of your lips.
How can I see you
when you are
one with me?
Move away a bit,
So that I can
hold your face
in my eager eyes.
Rain
Beyond the clo
sed panes
past the window,
it keeps raining
on the green trees,
on the thick branches,
on the frail flowers.
Endlessly, silently.
Like your memory
which keeps raining
beyond voices, faces,
and activity around
at the back of my mind.
Endlessly, silently.
The Knock
It was early morning
when I opened the door
to the knocking of a dream.
I found familiar faces.
Some guests had come
from across the border.
I welcomed them
and seated them
in the courtyard.
I baked makai-ki-roti
on the tandoor
to serve them,
with the gur they had
brought with them.
When I opened my eyes,
there was no one
in the house.
But then,
I touched the tandoor,
and found it warm.
There was a taste of gur
lingering on my lips.
Was it a dream?
It must be.
I learnt,
that last night
there was firing
on the border.
I learnt,
that last night
some dreams were shot dead.
Friend
I had spent the day
friendless, lonely and sad,
a stranger to myself.
After drowning the day
on the sea shore,
I walked back
to my empty house
on the deserted street.
The moment
I opened the door,
the book on my table
flipped its pages
and said: