Mahjoor, also known as the Wordsworth of Kashmir, describes himself, ‘immersed in profound acumen’ – meaning the one rendered away from masses.
FLASH ONE
When I visited Mahjoor’s native village for the first time, the feeling was something unusual, pretty, pioneering and blossomy. My soul deceived its holder as the normal hormonal activity altered, sending shivers down the spine, freshly excavated bones and adrenaline of course, released in heavy dribs.
I put the shutters over my bulged eyes and a man with sharp moustache and a heavy turban stood right in front of my burning eyes. My mind frantically developed the scenario out of those expressive lines which Mahjoor wrote for his own description:
“Chhus lukav nish duoor Puemutt, Chumm Tawaii Mahjoor Naav.”
“Does anybody visit his grave anymore?” I asked myself. “Or is he still Mahjoor even after his death?”
I lifted the shutter off from my eyes and decided to visit his grave after a week.
“Athwajan,” replied a man when I asked him about the name of the place where the noble soul was buried.
Back home, after a tiresome day, I decided to make a list of activities I was going to perform at Athwajan. With a paper and pen, I was lying on my bed, and noted down the activities:
- Charity in Mahjoor’s name.
- Kiss the tombstone of his grave.
“Well, that’s kind of stupidity,” I thought to myself. I erased the ‘kissing tombstone’ option and wrote:
- Greet him at his grave.
FLASH TWO
“It’s been five long days since you told me you are going to visit Mahjoor’s grave,” my dead grandmother said to me in my dreams.
“I was waiting for the next Friday,” I replied.
“Friday? Today it’s. I was thinking about accompanying you. And your uncle wants to go with you as well.”
“So I’m not going alone? Alright.”
FLASH THREE, AT ATHWAJAN
“Wait for us da’dhi. Soon, we’ll visit the grave. Just after Jum’ah prayer,” I said to my grandmother.
After offering Friday prayers, we all left to visit the graveyard. And as soon as we reached there, I and my uncle entered the graveyard. And to my surprise, the graveyard looked more of a garden, where almost all the flowers found in the world, had grown around Mahjoor’s grave.
“Yeti ti poash, tat’ti aasen poash!” said my uncle. And these beautiful words from him made me so emotional that I wished I would disinter Mahjoor and hug him or stop breathing so that I too could fly to Mahjoor’s world, just for a mere hug.
I went up to Mahjoor’s grave. An abstract barrier stopped me from taking another step. A loud and heavy voice, perhaps Mahjoor’s, “Stop!”
“Uncle, did you hear something?” I said.
“No I didn’t,” he replied.
I realized the voice was of Mahjoor’s. And it was coming within me alone.
“What’s the matter, sire?” I enquired.
“You forgot greeting me. And I won’t let your shadow fall on my grave.”
Oh no! I whispered to myself and slapped my right cheek. I should have brought the list along with me
“You have the right to punish me, for it is insane in my part to forget the principal activity,” I replied.
“Poetry; as there shall never be an alternative better than poetry,” replied Mahjoor.
“In front of you? I can’t dare!”
“There is no other option, son. Let me hear from you, even if it is a single couplet.”
I failed to articulate, mumbled more, stuttered and stuttering made me bold enough to finally break the abstract barrier by reciting the lines:
“Nastiest in its custom, seldom happens a meeting.
This rare meeting, however, becomes my fate.
Quavering or stuttering was candidly new,
But, isn’t the innovation barred in love?
I have decided to bear it all,
Have you decided to carry the burden?”
“Take another step,” said Mahjoor.
The abstract barrier was no more there and I finally touched Mahjoor’s grave.
Mahjoor talked to me, no doubt, the conversation wasn’t of the type I wanted. Yes, I knew that if the barrier was to be vandalized, it could only be vandalized in Mahjoor’s way: the poetic way, but I too wanted to mollify my ears with Mahjoor’s poetry.
“But why is this man here? What does he know about poetry?” Mahjoor enquired about my uncle.
“He is asking about you,” pointing to my uncle, I said.
A bunch of folks that dissent among each other, unknown about the outcomes, have one thing to unite on: a colour that stands common. If the 9 out of 10 unite and the 10th still has something to stand aloof, he attains the change, which cooks in his vicinity. My uncle is the same 10th guy who breathed in the change, the aroma of which had accoutred the whole of the graveyard, almost transferring the change into the rest of the corpses scattered throughout the graveyard to beat to the same rhythm. Yes, my uncle’s heart composed a new melody:
“An escort to hell, or one to paradise,
None is better, in epochs of emotion.
Then which is better? They often ask.
That which helps meet, a lover to his beloved.” My uncle pointed his finger towards me and then to Mahjoor’s grave.
“Indeed,” replied Mahjoor from his grave. “And why are you here?”
“I want to be you ” I said.
FLASH FOUR
“Did you perform your ablution, daadhi?” I asked my grandmother.
“Yes, I did,” she replied.
“Where?” my uncle enquired.
Daadhi pointed towards the courtyard of the nearby mosque and told us about the ablution chamber which located exactly in between the mosque and the graveyard.
FLASH FIVE
While we sat down to perform ablutions, I looked at the same graveyard where the graves were aligned in different contours this time. It was a flat piece of land. Minutes ago and now, it had turned into a hill of graves.
I filled my mouth with a little amount of water. It tasted bad and I threw it out of my mouth quickly. However, my mouth continued to burn because of the pungency and the foul odour of the water. My uncle almost vomited and we looked at each other surprisingly.
“Where the hell is this water coming from?” My uncle shouted in anger.
“I have never tasted anything as bad as this water!” I replied.
One of the graves from the graveyard opened and a putrefied coffin went some two or two and half feet in the air, without moving back and forth remained stationary in the air. I was terrified to see a coffin coming out of grave. The coffin dropped back into the grave but the grave still remained open.
“It is Mahjoor’s grave,” I heard uncle mumbling. “Let me see what is going on.”
I followed him. We reached there and were astonished to see that the water we used for ablutions, was coming from Mahjoor’s grave. My uncle opened the coffin and there was the body of Mahjoor, fresh like never before, smiling with his eyes closed. The moustache were even darker. I saw him without turban for the first time. He looked bold, confident and the confidence reflected a poet in him, alive and honest. The water was constantly washing him and moving towards the virtual ablution chamber.
My eyes were moist and my heart terrified at the same time!
“Why do you make that water impure?” asked my uncle boldly.
“Not so often,” replied Mahjoor.
“Sorry?” I opened up.
The poet finally got unleashed:
“Yim zaddeh yeth zameenas kus bharey,
Akha wothaan, pakaan te basawaan mehfiley.
Khwaab wichnnes kem yiman haram wonn,
Hargah ne yim doh raat traiyhen larrey.
The grave started closing back. I was shivering more!
“Shayad me nov tasawwur duet az Dhayan,
Mea dop be zindeh gass azz bey nayey.
Nazar mea thehrem, chaneinis sirs peth waetitheii
Gaash myani qabri ti aayav yicxkaeliyay.
Aekhras cxe tueth loguii muen ti rass/jaam
Cxi na banekh Mahjoor hata myani baeliyey.
Mahjoor chhus, draamut chhus nayis aalemas,
Yi wath ti akha, seri pakaan panney watey.”
The grave was now closed completely. A massive earthquake brought the graveyard back to flat form.
“Waqt-e-Sahaar,” came the voice from outside.
The voice woke me up. My mouth was still carrying the pungency of Mahjoor’s jaam/rass as if it wasn’t a dream. Yes, it wasn’t a dream. It was an unusual dream. An unusual dream can never be a dream. It was a message. A message given to me, telling me that I can’t be Mahjoor. There was one and he is gone. My body was still shivering in fear. I got up, brushed my teeth. The pungency was gone.
“Yi wath ti akha, seri pakaan panney watey.” I whispered to myself. “You were never wrong with words, Mahjoor. Not even in dreams.”
The author can be mailed at javidnisar2@gmail.com
