Autumn Moon Read online

  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.

  All rights reserved.

  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

  Funeral

  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,

  teach me the skill

  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: