शुक्रवार, 31 मार्च 2023

मुक्तिबोधीय आलोचना की एक कड़ी – नवीन कुमार

 

' हिन्‍दुस्‍तान के 100 कवि' पुस्‍तक में स्वातंत्र्योत्तर भारत में मुक्तिबोध के बाद के 100 कवियों की कविताओं पर कवि-पत्रकार कुमार मुकुल के नोट्स हैं। मुकुल मुक्तिबोध को अपनी विरासत मानते हैं और यह पुस्तक उसी कड़ी में तमाम कवियों को पढ़कर उनके समय, समाज और सत्ता की समीक्षा करती है। मुकुल कोई अकादमिक या मेथोडिकल आलोचक नहीं, लेकिन उनका लेखन इसकी ताकीद करता है कि वो कविता-प्रेमी-पाठक और कविता के अर्थों, कवि के आशयों के निहितार्थ तक पहुंचने वाले सक्षम आलोचक हैं। उन्होंने शीर्षक में बता दिया है कि यह मात्र नोट्स हैं। उनकी विनम्रता ग्रहण करने वाली है। एक पाठक जो पिछले तीन दशकों से कविताओं पर नोट्स लेता 'रोज रोज बनती हुई दुनिया' के संवेदना-बोध की संक्षिप्त हिस्ट्री तैयार करता जाता है। स्वातंत्र्योत्तर भारत की हिंदी कविता का इतिहास अगर लिखना हो तो वो कैसे लिखा जाएगा, क्या मुकुल के नोट्स सामग्री के बतौर काम में आएंगे या मुकुल के कविताओं पर लिए स्टैंड प्रतिमान बनेंगे, ये किस कैनन के होंगे; यह सभी मेथोडिकल आलोचकों के विषय होंगे!

'ये कोई योजनाबद्ध ढंग से लिखी गई पुस्तक नहीं है। - -' 25 सालों में 20 नौकरियां कर चुकनेवाला आदमी कुछ भी योजनाबद्ध कैसे कर सकता है'। दरअसल मुकुल के कविता के होलटाइमर होने ने ही इसे संभव बनाया है ।

'पुस्तक में कुछ कवियों से प्रेरित, उन्हें संबोधित या उनसे प्रभावित कविताएं भी हैं।', ' नोट्स की तरह ये कविताएं भी कवि को समझने में कुछ सहायक होंगी'। अपनी टिप्‍पणी में पंकज चौधरी लिखते भी हैं - मैं इसलिए आपको (कुमार मुकुल को) अनौपचारिक आलोचना का लौहस्तंभ मानता हूं। यदि मुक्तिबोध के बाद का साहित्य का इतिहास लिखना हो तो यह पुस्तक कितनी जरूरी है यह समझा जा सकता है गो कि यह खुद ही नक्सलबाड़ी के बाद के हिंदी कवियों पर नोट्स का दस्तावेजीकरण भी है यह।

पुस्तक में तार सप्तक के छह कवि हैं, अकविता के एक, नक्सलबाड़ी प्रेरित 16, आठवां दशक अभियान के छह, एक दलित महिला, एक आदिवासी महिला और 17 महिला कवि सहित मैथिली, बांग्ला, मगही के भी कवि हैं। यूं 100 कवियों को मुकुल ने श्रेष्ठताक्रम में नहीं रखा या ऐसा भी नहीं कह सकते कि मात्र यही 100 कवि रहे हैं। किसी भी नये पाठक को हिंदुस्तान के कवि के नाम पर इस विज्ञापनी व सोशल मीडिया के उभार के दौर में  'अकवि-सुकवि' की भरमार में से जेन्युन कवियों की सूची प्राप्त करना असंभव होगा। यह पुस्तक एक साथ जेन्युन 100 कवियों से परिचित करा देती है और उसकी विरासत के साथ जोड़ देती है। लेखक को इस पुस्तक के लिए बधाई!



मार्मोसेट बंदर और सफ़ेद उकाब -नेहा

 


“मार्मोसेट बंदर और सफ़ेद उकाब” बाल कथा संग्रह का विवरण मैंने फेसबुक पर देखा | पढने की इच्छा हुई क्योंकि मुझे बाल कहानियां पसंद हैं| 
कुमार मुकुल द्वारा लिखी गई यह किताब पहले पन्ने से ही खींचती हैं, जब वो कहते हैं कि दुनिया के सारे बच्चे आओ ...आओ मेरी आँखों में बसो...। यह किताब दुनिया के तमाम बच्चों के लिए है। 
संग्रह की पहली कहानी है “गीदड़ की बहादुरी” | इसमें जानवरों के माध्यम से लेखक ने बहुत सुंदर तरीके से बताया है शेखी बघारने का क्या अंजाम होता है | जिसकी जैसी काबिलियत है उसे उसी दिशा में काम करना चाहिए | “मार्मोसेट बंदर और सफ़ेद उकाब” कहानी में बातों ही बातों में लेखक बच्चों का परिचय सूरदास से कराता है | सूरदास के दोहे को सही तरह से इस्तेमाल करने की वजह से बच्चे आसानी से संदर्भ समझ सकते हैं | इस कहानी की मूल बात ये है कि सभी लोगों की अपनी एक सीमा होती है ...जिसे उन्हें जानना चहिए। सीमा लांघना कष्टकर हो सकता है| 
“मिट्टू तोते का आत्मज्ञान” कहानी बच्चों को बताती है कि आसानी और आराम से मिली हुई चीजें हमें ज़िन्दगी में आगे नहीं बढ़ातीं, इसलिए मेहनत ही जीवन का मूल मंत्र है | "तीन मित्र" कहानी ने बड़े लाजवाब तरीके से बताया है कि हर एक व्यक्ति अपने आप में महत्वपूर्ण है | ज़िन्दगी अपनी पाठशाला में जो सिखाती है वो कभी – कभी स्कूल में पायी हुई शिक्षा से ज्यादा काम की साबित होती है | “कुहरे का भूत” कहानी में एक साइंटिस्ट किरदार है जिसके ज़रिये बच्चे समझ सकते हैं कि हमारे जीवन में विज्ञान कितना ज़रूरी है | कहानी में बड़े दिलचस्प तरीके से वास्पीकरण की प्रक्रिया को बताया गया है|
“ फैशन कथा” एक महत्वपूर्ण कहानी साबित होती है | यह बताती है कि किस तरह हम सब फैशन की अंधी दौड़ में शामिल हैं | अगर किसी के पास गियर वाली साइकिल है तो हमें भी चाहिए | वो हमारे लिए कितनी ज़रूरी है ये नही सोचते | कहानी में राहुल फैशन के चक्कर में बड़े हादसे को आमंत्रित कर लेता है | इस कहानी से बच्चे समझ सकते हैं कि गलत फैशन की दौड़ में वो गिर भी सकते हैं,चोट आ सकती है या कुछ नुकसान हो सकता है | 
किताब की भाषा सरल है | लेखक ने भाषा में एक निरंतरता, एक बहाव को बरकरार रखा है जिससे पाठक की रूचि बनी रहती है | बाल – कथाओं की ये किताब एक पोटली है जिसमें तरह -तरह की मज़ेदार और प्रेरक कहानियां बंधी हैं |
                         

Straight from the Soil / Sudhir Kumar Mishra

 The Weekend Observer/ 20 May 2000

परिदृश्य के भीतर / समीक्षा

ITERATURE has often been influenced by the contem porary ongoings nearby. Hurnan feelings cannot be confined to any bound ary. They can easily make a dent anywhere, anytime.

Then, who can stop a newsman from invading the world of poetry? And, who says that there is no place for poetic expression in journalistic writing.

A Patna based scribe, currently associated with a reputed news paper in Hindi, Kumar Mukul, usually begins his news report or analysis with a bailador a sonnet and often succeeds in getting a distinct coverage.

in real sense, he has become a 'news hunter to fulfill his family needs. At heart, he is only a poet.

The book under review IS collection of 55 poems, written by Mukul over a period of 10 years.
It is an honest expression of feelings of a young man, who belongs to a traditional feudal background, but "poses himself as an ultra-leftist ideologue. Every piece appearing in the book has its own story

Now, it is for the conscious readers to judge the gravity of the messages conveyed to them.

A literary activist. Mukul has authored three books in the past and at least two more are ex pected soon

in his latest releases last month, he has dealt with wide ranging subjects and caused a serious concern to all those who care for the happenings around.

inside the "rebel poet's" fram there are sketches of cosmopoli tan life of lower class family 
massacres in central Bihar, Soma lia, nature's bounty, love. ro mance, philosophy, and so on, all exposing the hollowness' of our progressive society.

In fact, to understand the meaning of these sketches, one has to step out of Mukul's frame.

Thought provoking verses like Thitholi karati, smritiyon ke madhya kahan rakkhun tumhari udasi ka, van dhardar heera (Page 27) or rat bhingna tha ooas mein, jin chulhon ko, subah putana tha, mitti gobar-pani aur dhoop mein, put gaya we apanon
hi ke khun se (Page-14). un doubtedly bring Mukul at par with any other contemporary poet.

Those who are not well versed in Hindi may like to know that the first verse aims at conveying that "in the treasure of my merry-making memory. where should I place the precious dia mond of your gloom".

The second verse describing the frequent massacres in Bihar says, "the ovens destined to be drenched by dew drops all over the night, to be washed by mud and cowdung next morning under
the sun, got cleaned by the

blood of their kitch and king".

Will it then be wrong to think optimistically that given an op portunity to flourish, Mukul may set a new milestone in Hindi poetry?

And, Muku has not attained this maturity overnight. He has laboured hard over the years.

In 1988. he has expressed concern at the attacks on the works of literature by the likes of Salman Rushdie and Taslima Nasrin, by religious fundamental ists. He said that "a chick unable to bear the scorching
rays of sun, raised her head and spat at the sun to extinguish the heat."

In 1994, while running on the banks of Ganges in Varanasi, Mukul had consumed a little "Ganga-jal" and felt that "the universe had started expending in his intestines.

At times, the rebel poet has also exposed his own dual character.

Yes, even today, a bahu (bride) is treated as an outsider in most of the Indian middle class famil ies. Her good work too is seldom
being appreciated by the in Describing the routine life of a lower middle class family, residing in a dingy room of a metropolitan city, the poet says only singing of bhajans was allowed in his family

So, no one abjected to his wife's reciting the verses of the greatest poet of Mithila Vidyapat But, as the in-laws did not understand the meaing of the song, they felicitated their bhabhi with the title of bai nautch girl. Still the reber remained indifferent

in the forewo acknowledge tions by his her as wife Baby

What type of co-oper does he expect of his wife he has failed to uphold her dignity in his own family?

Again, talking about an unkown girlfriend he says. Akela pate chhati par sawar hone lagati ho.
The lines roughly translated mean that this anonymous be loved starts mounting on his chest, whenever she finds him alone. Has Baby gone through it? If yes, how did she react?

in yet another verse. Mukul feels that his wife sees her reflection in his blood

Of course, on the back of the book the poet has said that he shall soon be coming out with a small novel, which will ge an appropriate reply to all such queries.

Finally, Mukul has made ram pant use of Bhojpun words and other colloquial terms. Most of these words are not available in any dictionary

He ought to ep in mind that Hindi readership is not confined only to the Bhojpun speaking belt.

A night of orphanhood - Kumar Mukul - Story

 

The moon followed me shrewdly like a desperate stray dog, making me cringe. Shaped like a roti, the moon scratched and scathed my soul. I was torn, devastated. This was a night of orphanhood, that I was spending in the courtyard of the Hanuman temple Patna, under the shrieking lamppost lights.

This wasn't the era when one could run. These were not the times of Subhash and Vivekanand. There was no land, no forest cover, no empty parks, or deserted roads for me to run. There were no river-banks, trees, or mountains. Everything is a national reserve, protected territory now.

People inhabit concrete jungles like uncountable leaves, stealing the sun away from each other; their misery spreads like algae over the rocks of their existence after monsoons. But in that moment, my existential crisis took over. The worldly and material concerns didn't matter to me. I had fought in the beginning, but the land wasn't mine. Ethically it was appropriate to quit home.

"He must have said you're dependent on me for your livelihood. What else could have he said?? All fathers say this," Alok Da asked as he tried to convince me to return home."Go, tell him that this body is also his. And that this by-product has  been raised not by his pleasure but the concerns of time."

"Go back home!", he said. "You're not a teenager. These are not the times of harbouring romantic notions like the Devdas in Sharat Chandra's novels. Think of your wife at least. You aren't alone after all. If you have no other reason, go back home for the sake of her misery".

I knew I wouldn't be able to return immediately. Yet I promised Alok Da that I'll return home. I convinced him and came back to the railway station.  The truth is that in my fantasy I had already returned home. Just that this fantasy was tiring. I had some money. I thought about staying in a hotel for a few days. But it didn't make sense to waste money like this.

I loitered around aimlessly. Even the familiar platform looked different. Perhaps because I had a discerning eye this time, trying to search for a need, a lodging. Things change with your perspective and perspective changes with your needs. That's why perhaps the platform looked different too.

Today was Vishwakarma Puja. There was a statue at the railway station too. The children performing disco-bhangra there were from the families of sweepers and coolies. A young Muslim man was also Clapping in sync with their rhythm.I watched them dance for a bit, bit I was constantly wary of having my pocket picked.  Just then, a few policemen passed by. Some were in uniform, others were not. One of them offered a few coins to the boy who was dancing. Next came a military man and offered his obe sciences nonchalantly.

I spotted many people sleeping outside the A.H.Wheeler shop. Outside people were spread erratically in the park. I considered sleeping there, but then the very thought of mosquitoes made me drag my feet towards the temple. I was hungry. I had a 100 Rs. note, and some 5-7 Rs. in change. I wanted to ensure that I do not spend more than the change before I reach home. So, I ate two boiled eggs for 3 Rs. drank water from the nearby 'chaat' shop, and then sat in the temple. There were a lot of people sleeping, crunched for space in that front yard.

A middle-aged man with salt and pepper looks, came and sat next to me quietly, observant. Said, "I wonder how people find sleep here", ... He was looking at me, so I responded, "Yes, it's miserable, but people manage to sleep". I was suspicious of the conversation he tried to make, I wondered if he was a pick pocket. He on the other hand had hopped to the other side, as the man behind me said - "Do you see, how he is speaking only to the younger men?" The look on my face must have told me about how naive I was, so he explained,"Oh, he is a pimp, what care does he have of sleep? He will simply go around finding prey through the night". I was tired, and sleepy, without any space to stretch my legs or to lie down, and that old man looked like a symbol of compassion to me.

The guard on night duty started pushing people out as the night darkened. It was 11:30 in the night and the time for the temple to close was approaching fast. As the last prayer for the day was offered with loud gongs and bells, one after the other, the gates of the temple were shut. Eventually even the electric sign board where verses from Tulsi were displayed was switched off. The guard finally started poking some people who looked poor and wore rags and sending them away. "Shoo! Off you go to the platform!", he would shoo them away. I suspected quite a few of these people were pickpockets and other petty criminals. Some were perhaps small traders. I wondered if they might have asked this guard to wake them up.

The guard came and said to me - "Why are you sitting, can't you find a place to sleep? See it's illegal to sit next to a sleeping man. You look like a decent man. It is for the safety of you, that I have shooed all those people away". Pointing in another direction he showed me a place where I could lie down, and stretch my back". He had already moved along, as I made an effort to get up.

In the meanwhile there was a debate about whether or not it is illegal to sit next to a sleeping man. But people seemed to be quite convinced that none of them was a thief. Instead, they had to suffer and stay awake because of thieves and pickpockets! Suddenly someone shouted - "Thief!", and there was mayhem. A lot of people woke up. Someone was caught, trying to run and escape. It was an old man in rags who was trying to steal a pair of slippers. In the mayhem I found an empty spot. I made a pillow from my handbag and tried to sleep on the marble floor. In half an hour I woke up, feeling refreshed and looked at the sky. The moon was rising from behind the pillar and she seemed extra slow today, as if she was trying to keep a watch on me.

I was still very frustrated as I started thinking about why I had run away from home in the first place. All incidents seemed to be coming alive in the face of the moon. My father, sister, brother-in-law, mother, and me. Everyone shouting and trying to speak on top of each other, and my shrill voice trying to drown all their voices. Oh, humanity! Why must you be like this? I was angry and I pushed my mother and father.

I looked at my hands. They were fine, they were not cursed. There are no curses in these times. Afterall, this is life and not some fairy tale. My father was in shock, at my garrulousness, at my insolence. He was still praying and showing incense to the deities when I had displayed my indignance. I had humiliated him in some of his pious moments. In the moments when he looked helpless, dumbfounded. His eyes started turning red in rage. In those moments of fierce anger, he looked totally vulnerable, helpless.

But what about all those years of emotional abuse that I had to go through? I had started imagining myself as an orphan for the longest time. The only solace was my laughter, and the older couple in my neighbourhood. They didn't call me son, but I always felt like that is where I belonged. That was my home. My bond with 'Chachi Ma' was one of unconditional love, and that with 'Chacha ji' was of familial affection. Mostly I was the recipient of the love from that family in so many different ways. The small but real demands that Monu made; the quiet observation that Golu would subject me to; the way Babli said my 'screws were loose'; and the way Gudiya would keep half the things to herself, simply out of the excitement to get into action; were all directed to me. However, I had a reality to live too. I couldn't bring myself to leave my biological family, for the sake of the owners of this orphanage where I received what I wanted from my own family. Yet, all these concerns, these miseries of my life are on shaky ground when I look at my father's helplessness.

Father - Father - Father : Son - Son - Son, my foster-tree. Open your heart to me! Expand your heart so I can sprout. Suddenly I was shaken out of my reverie.I got up and went to the ticket counter. I wanted to buy a platform ticket and stroll on the platform for two hours. But it was 2:00 am in the morning and the counter was already closed. There were no trains on the station, the Wheeler shop had shut down, and there was a man outside it with a spread of books. Some women were busy haggling with customers, exchanging their sleep for some coins. I returned to my spot. It was waiting for me, it hadn't been taken yet.

At 4:00 am I woke up and started looking for a tempo. It took me almost an hour before I found one. The dawn was breaking in, and I wondered if it was the right time to go home yet? What would people think? They will assume that I didn't have it in me to survive even a night, and so I didn't go home yet.I got down at the zoo on my way instead. A lot of people were out for their morning walks and jogging. I sat on a bench and saw the rays of the sun as it slowly rose up in the sky and darkness seemed to restrict to the shade of trees. Finally, it was day and I kept walking. I noticed kids playing football in the polo ground, and was tempted to play with them, but I trudged along. A young man was feeding grass to a doe. I halted there, stroked the doe's back, and fed her some grass as well. It was obvious that she didn't want to be caressed without being fed grass.  Finally I reached the main road and the Sun was slowly warming up like a reassuring pat on my back.

Father was strolling in the park near home. He walked towards me and I thought I would leave quietly without an argument if he said anything. Then his vulnerable face flashed in front of my eyes. He was close now. We looked at each other, he paused and asked - Where did you go? My eyes welled up. Was I crying? I quietly fell in line with his gait. He spoke a lot. I quietly listened. We were approaching our home now. Neighbours must be wondering that my father went to search me and finally found me. I was thinking - I had lost my father and his love and I found him. Will I be able to find my mother and sisters as well?

The neighbour in the house opposite ours, feigned indifference; as if she wasn't happy when I had run away; as if she wasn't upset that I had returned so soon. My young neighbour is looking at me awkwardly and I smile at him and ask him if all is well. Everyone was all smiles at home. I walked into my bedroom and saw my wife in tears. I was interrogated before I got some respite and walked to the bath. It seemed like nothing had ever happened. I took a bath, ate, slept, and woke up with a yawn, and stretched under the sun as if I was a baby in a crib. Without a worry in the world!



translated from Hindi by Anupama Garg