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अब किसी को भी नज़र आती नहीं कोई दरार
Ab Kisi Ko Bhi Nazar Aati Nahi Koi Darar
Dushyant Kumar8 verses · ~1 min
अब किसी को भी नज़र आती नहीं कोई दरार घर की हर दीवार पर चिपके हैं इतने इश्तहार
आप बच कर चल सकें ऐसी कोई सूरत नहीं रहगुज़र घेरे हुए मुर्दे खड़े हैं बेशुमार
रोज़ अखबारों में पढ़कर यह ख़्याल आया हमें इस तरफ़ आती तो हम भी देखते फ़स्ले—बहार
मैं बहुत कुछ सोचता रहता हूँ पर कहता नहीं बोलना भी है मना सच बोलना तो दरकिनार
इस सिरे से उस सिरे तक सब शरीके—जुर्म हैं आदमी या तो ज़मानत पर रिहा है या फ़रार
हालते—इन्सान पर बरहम न हों अहले—वतन वो कहीं से ज़िन्दगी भी माँग लायेंगे उधार
रौनक़े-जन्नत ज़रा भी मुझको रास आई नहीं मैं जहन्नुम में बहुत ख़ुश था मेरे परवरदिगार
दस्तकों का अब किवाड़ों पर असर होगा ज़रूर हर हथेली ख़ून से तर और ज़्यादा बेक़रार
इति
The Poet
दुष्यंत कुमार
Dushyant Kumar
1933 · 1975
Dushyant Kumar did something that required a radical courage most artists never summon. He took a form synonymous with moonlit nights and the ache of unfulfilled romance and dragged it into the burning lanes where injustice stank and the ordinary man had no language for his helplessness. Born in 1931 in Uttar Pradesh, he dismantled the ornamental tradition of the Urdu ghazal and rebuilt it in Hindi as a weapon of the dispossessed. His singular collection Saaye Mein Dhoop became one of the most quietly devastating documents in the entire tradition of modern Hindi literature. The Emergency of 1975 gave his verses a context that proved them prophetic. Unlike mere political poetry, his words outlasted their moment to become permanent fixtures in the vocabulary of Indian dissent. He wrote not with a scholar's distance but with the shaking hands of someone who had looked injustice in the face and refused to flinch. He died at forty four, leaving behind a body of work so concentrated and incandescent that its light has not dimmed in half a century. To read Dushyant Kumar is to understand that poetry's highest function is not consolation but confrontation.
Paired Painting
Flood Dear Flood
In this haunting masterpiece, Bikash Bhattacharjee captures the visceral desolation of life in Bengal, where the recurring floods are both a natural occurrence and a metaphor for systemic neglect. The juxtaposition of the iconic red pillar box, a symbol of colonial bureaucracy, against the mud, water, and human struggle, evokes a deep sense of alienation. The figures emerge from the water with expressions of stoic endurance, reflecting the artist's profound empathy for the common person trapped within an indifferent administrative landscape. It is a work of social realism, rendered with a surrealist touch that transforms the mundane into the tragic, inviting the viewer to contemplate the fragile intersection of state presence and human survival.
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