Many Dimensions & More: Many Dimensions & More

Monday, January 21

Many Dimensions & More

My father Aziz Qaisi lived for his poetry. He was an Urdu poet, or is an Urdu poet because he still lives in his poetry. He was never a popular poet; he never wanted to be one. Though a few of his Nazms and Ghazals are sung by the singers and have become popular. He wrote from his heart. He believed that his poetry was an extension of his self, his being and his existence. There is no false note in his poems because he never wanted to please the singers or the readers or his comtemporaries.He had a very short life on this planet. He died in 1992 of lung cancer.A lot of people ask me why are you a 'Khan' when your father was a 'Qaisi'. Well, Qaisi was not his real name. It was his penname. His real name was Aziz Mohammed Khan. The word Qaisi is derived from Majnus' name 'Qais'. It is usual for parents to take their children out for picnics. My father never did that. I was taken to Mushairas (poetic soiree) instead when I was about 8-10 years old. I had the good fortune to meet and hear poets and writers like Ali Sardar Jaffri, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Firaq Gorakhpuri, Akhtar-ul-iman, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Kaifi Azmi, Sahir Ludhianvi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Qateel Shifai, Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, Rahi Masoom Raza,Rajinder Singh Bedi, Himayat Ali Shair, Shariar, Waheed Akhtar, Indeevar, Ahmed Faraz, Nida Fazli, Shaaz Tamkanat. My heroes have always been poets and writers. I believe it is the gentle heart of the poets and writers that is holding this world together-left to the wily politicians this world would have been rubble a long time ago.

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The Salvation- by Aziz Qaisi

In the doorway of thoughtful night
My shadow barred my way and said
"The image that you created,
Decorated, and gave form, the soul,
Has your eyes.
You live for that image.
The image is your name,
Your body and your existence.
Without it you do not exist.
You'are the captive of your own creation".

One day, with the adze of fatihlessness,
Leaving creation for personification,
Leaving one horizon for a new,
Leaving belief for superstition,
I smashed the image,
Now,
There is no form, no voice, no sound,
Nothing, except a feeling of emptiness,
Nothing, except the darkness of non-existence.

I asked my shadow:
"Under my feet lie the ruins of my image;
My eyes are lost in it;
Please find them for me".

But in reply,
A silence seem to say,
"There are no ruins here,
No shadow here'
Not even you"

If this is salvation,
Then what is the punishment for life?

Recall

My Father Aziz Qaisi-By Danish Khan
My father Aziz Qaisi lived for his poetry. He was an Urdu poet, or is an Urdu poet because he still lives in his poetry. He was never a popular poet; he never wanted to be one. Though a few of his Nazms and Ghazals are sung by the singers and have become popular. He wrote from his heart. He believed that his poetry was an extension of his self, his being and his existence.
In one of his poems he says:

Mahsoos ye hota dam-e-fiqr kabhie
Gar sher na ho saans ulat jayegi

There is no false note in his poems because he never wanted to please the singers or the readers or his comtemporaries.He had a very short life on this planet. He died in 1992 of lung cancer.
A lot of people ask me why are you a 'Khan' when your father was a 'Qaisi'. Well, Qaisi was not his real name. It was his penname. His real name was Aziz Mohammed Khan. The word Qaisi is derived from Majnus' name 'Qais'.
It is usual for parents to take their children out for picnics. My father never did that. I was taken to Mushairas (poetic soiree) instead when I was about 8-10 years old. I had the good fortune to meet and hear poets and writers like Ali Sardar Jaffri, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Firaq Gorakhpuri, Akhtar-ul-iman, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Kaifi Azmi, Sahir Ludhianvi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Qateel Shifai, Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, Rahi Masoom Raza,Rajinder Singh Bedi, Himayat Ali Shair, Shariar, Waheed Akhtar, Indeevar, Ahmed Faraz, Nida Fazli, Shaaz Tamkanat. I have grown up with poets and poetry around me. My heroes have always been poets and writers. I believe it is the gentle heart of the poets and writers that is holding this world together-left to the wily politicians this world would have been rubble a long time ago.
My house was an ‘adda’ for the poets and writers that would visit Bombay. My father offered them free boarding and lodging. Actually he loved their company and the house would resound with their discussions and endless arguments. I enjoyed their discussion and arguments mostly pertaining to literature and sometimes politics. Their 'intellectualism' rubbed off on me and the furrows that you see on my forehead are a result of that ! However, there was a practical problem - I had to give up my bedroom to these visiting ‘dignitaries’ and sleep in the drawing room. To get ‘occupation’ of the drawing room I had to wait up till late night –till they finished their drinks and dinner. One of the most amusing incident I remember was the argument between two poets. These two poets had occupied my room and even after finishing their dinner they were still drinking. The argument was about their respective wives. Each claimed that his wife was better educated. The argument was finally resolved by the whisky they were drinking-it dulled their senses in to sleep!
The name of my blog is inspired by one of my fathers' poems :"Mai"(myself). It is so strange that I and you have so many dimensions to our personalities but each one of us is a "captive" of our image - Image as perceived by the others. Most often we are surprised when we realise that someone is more than what we had "imaged" or someone is less than what we had "imaged". Or there was some dimension that we had never "imaged".On this blog I would like to share good poetry with everyone. My father did not make any money from poetry hence he had to turn to journalism,radio and finally writing scripts for mainstream Hindi cinema. He wrote over 200 films. Some good, some bad and some insigficant.I will also share my work with you - the films that I make, the films that I want to make and some of my writing endeavours. I have a natural talent for writing. Perhaps it is the genes. However, I have never exploited this talent because a serious writer in India does not make much money and I am a little bit of a "material man.
Mai (Myself)
Mai jeeta hoon aaeino mein
aaeine gham khana hain
mera aks ban lete hain apni apni marzi se
Mai jeeta hoon kuch seeno mein
seene mera naksh bana lete hain apni apni marzi se
Main jeeta hoon mitti par
Mitti jis se ghar bante hain
kabr banti hai
jis ka zarra zarra auron ka hain
Un ka jin mein mai hoon jo mujh mein hai
aks kaha karte hain 'tum aise ho'
naqsh kaha karte hai 'tum aise ban sakte ho'
zarre kehte hain 'tum aise ban jaoge'
tum batla sakte ho main kya hoon?
Tum kya batlaoge
Tum hi to ho aina khana
gham khana mitti, ghar, kabr
tum khud mai hoon.

मै जीता हूँ आइनों में
आइने घमखाना हैं मेरा अक्स बना लेते हैं
अपनी अपनी मर्ज़ी से
मै जीता हूँ कुछ सीनों में
सीने मेरा नक्श बना लेते हैं अपनी अपनी मर्ज़ी से
मैं जीता हूँ मिटटी पर
मिटटी जिससे घर बनते हैं ,कबर बनती है
जिसका ज़र्रा ज़र्रा औरों का है
उनका जिन में मैं हूँ जो मुझ में हैं
अक्स कहा करते हैं 'तुम ऐसे हो'
नक्श कहा करते है 'तुम ऐसे बन सकते हो'
ज़र्रे कहते हैं 'तुम ऐसे बन जाओगे'
त्तुम बतला सकते हो मैं क्या हूँ?
तुम क्या बत्लाओगे तुम ही तो हो आइनाखाना
गमखाना, मिटटी, घर, कबर
तुम खुद मैं हूँ

Many Dimensions & More

Monday, January 21