He wrote-
‘I am able to see myself
from the eyes of others,
I am neither silent,
nor am I singing!’
Swayam ko doosru ki drushti say
Main dekh paata hoon,
Na main chup hoon,
Na main gaataa hoon….
His 51 poems say it all.
But his politics doesn’t.
I recall seeing him speak,
on small television screen.
Tilting his head,
taking serene pauses,
evenly closing his eyes
while communing his words
in deep voice.
I liked his manner,
his oratory power of standpoints.
Chaste Hindi words,
profound and rhapsodic,
blend with placid articulation.
Maestros Lata and Jagjit
bestowed their magic to his words.
Albums Antarnaad and Samvedna
retained the sublimity
plus simplicity of his verses.
Gulzar gave his unruffled voice
to the sensitive politician’s
poetic predicament.
I as a collegiate
thought of him
as “JanSangh” in Kashmiri,
while his politics wasn’t that scary
and saffron color wasn’t this grim.
Today, his brand of Hindutva
appears gentler, reasonably inclusive.
In disparity to invasive
lynching and love-jihad.
Yes, he leveled the ground
for bouldering down Babri Masjid.
He juggled with words
as Kar Sevaks cheered to his allusions
a day before despicable demolition.
His speaking worked!
But he spoke nothing
when Gujarat pogrom happened.
Truther in him was mute,
he did nothing to stop it.
The poet in him was
suspended in disbelief.
Or else was it
‘Na main chup hoon,
Na main gaataa hoon….’
Interplaying voices and silences?
I wonder what happens
when perceptive minds
freeze in frivolity of
self-serving attitudes?
Stop singing,
stifling the inner voice?
Is that how poets die
on their own?
Or others slay them?
Forever.
At moments of crises,
his concerns and convictions,
sensitivity and determination,
everything became subjective.
He saw himself as a powerless poet….
‘Kya khoya kya paya jag mein
Milte aur bichadte pag mein
Mujhe kisi se nahi shikayat
Yadhyapi chala gaya pag pag mein…’
Yet, politician
lives on, perpetually.
With his failures and feats.
So will Atal Bihari Vajpayee—
the man who boarded
the bus of friendship
to experience the warring heat
of Tiger Hills.
The man who was lonely
in his stately struggles,
as Taj Mahal proved miserably vain.
Still,
he held no grudges against anyone,
Mujhe kisi se nahi shikayat……
History had hope in him.
Poetry had faith in him.
But most crucially
politics had plans for him!
The statesman and poet in him
was consumed by politics.
In our day, that’s why
his Insaaniyat is insidious,
his Jamhooriyat joked
and his Kashmiriyat gone kaput.