Obituary | Kedarnath Singh | Anil Pushker

Source: livehindustan.com

कवि केदारनाथ सिंह: विजातीय द्रव्यों से लड़ती हुई कविता, हर्फ-हर्फ, जहरीले विकारों का कीमियागर

 ‘प्रकृति के नियमों के विरुद्ध आचरण और जीवनशैली खिलाफ’जब इंसान,समाज,संस्कृति,सभ्यता सांस लेते हैं तो दुनिया में अनेकों बीमारियाँ पैदा होती हैं. हमारे दिलो-दिमाग पर ऐसे आचरण और जीवनशैली व विषाक्त संस्कारों का बुरा असर पड़ता है.तंत्रिका-तन्त्र को इन रोगों और कमजोरियों में जीने की कई मर्तबा आदत सी पड़ जाती है.दिमाग जो कल्पना करता है,स्वप्न देखता है,विचार पैदा करता है,योजनाबद्ध तरीके से जीने के बुनियादी सुझाव,सहूलियतें,सोचने की ताकत देता है.दूषितऔर विकृत विजातीय परम्पराएं,मूल्य, विचार,तहजीब के गर्भगृह से जब ये दूषित रस रिस-रिसकर हमारी चेतना पर हमला करते हैं तब ऐसे में कवि केदारनाथ सिंह की कविताएँ विजातीय द्रव्य से लडती हुई हर्फ-हर्फ बुनकर सा और कविता कीमिया बनकर उभरती है.ये कविताएँ हमें तंत्रिकातन्त्र को बचाने के उपाय की कीमियागार साबित होती हैं.सभ्यताओं में फैली विकृतियों से लड़ने की ताकत पैदा करती हैं..

अगर धीरे चलो/वह तुम्हे छू लेगी/दौड़ो तो छूट जाएगी नदी/अगर ले लो साथ/वह चलती चली जाएगी कहीं भी/वह चुपके से रच लेगी/एक समूची दुनिया/एक छोटे से घोंघे में सच्चाई यह है/कि तुम कहीं भी रहो/तुम्हें वर्ष के सब से कठिन दिनों में भी/प्यार करती है एक नदी.

कभी सुनना/जब सारा शहर सो जाए/तो किवाड़ों पर कान लगा/धीरे-धीरे सुनना/कहीं आसपास एक मादा घड़ियाल की कराह की तरह/सुनाई देगी नदी!

देश-दुनिया में बसी चेतना की सेल्स हमेशा एक सी नहीं रहती. हर लम्हा टूटती रहती हैं. कविता की अमूर्त कला की कारीगरी में फकीरी रूमानी जिन्दादिली का कारीगर होने का जो साहस और पीड़ा है वही केदार के भीतर ‘प्रकृति को शक्ति के साथ’ ला कर खड़ा कर देती है.प्रकृति जो हमेशा ही इन बीमार सेल्स को नष्ट करती आई है और नई जिन्दगी देने वाली सेल्स को पैदा करती रही है. केदार जी की रचनाएँ ठीक यही काम करती हैं. जिस तरह अमूर्त कला में माहिर कलाकार कान्दिन्सकी, मोंद्रियान, देलोन, मालेविच ने अपनी कोशिशों से दुनिया में नये जीवन के रंग भरे . उनकी आयताकार छवियाँ भले ही किसी एक रूप में नहीं ढली हों. फिर भी उनमें एक खासा सम्मोहन है.इनका कोई निश्चितअमुदायऔर सम्प्रदाय से नाता नहीं, किसी एक विचारधारा से बंधी नहीं. ना ही किसी एक ख़ास तरह के आन्दोलन को लेकर चली. जिस तरह एक वैज्ञानिक होकर कान्दिन्सकी ने कलाकार  के बतौर मकबूलियत हासिल की वहआश्चर्यचकित करती है.

बिलकुल इसी रंग-ओ-साज़ में ढली कविताओं के अद्भुत कारीगर कवि केदार अमूर्त में मूर्त, यथार्थ और रहस्य,रूमानियत के संग त्रासदी, एकान्तिक में जादुई उपस्थिति, हर क्षण में जीते घुलते हुए पेशे से अध्यापक भले ही रहे मगर उनकी कवितायें तंत्रिका-तन्त्र में जमें हुए काले और गाढे खून के थक्कों को गलाती और विरेचन करती हैं.आधुनिक ‘कविताकी दुनिया में आर्ट ऑफ स्प्रिचुल हार्मोनी एंड एसेंसटू दि ओरिजिन ऑफ़ रियलिज्म’ के चरक की तरह उत्तेजक संवेगों से भरी हैं और कठोर समय से लडती ये कविताएँ अपने समय में अनूठी पहचान के साथ हाजिर-नाजिर हैं. रौशनी में धुंध और धुंध में उजाले की तरह साथ-साथ चलती हैं. लाल, पीले, नीले, धूसर, हर्फ-हर्फ प्रकृति की विस्मयकारी अनुभूतियों के संग प्रकृति-रहित दुनिया के बीचो बीच गहरा तालमेल बनाए हुए हैं. हिन्दुस्तानी गाँवों की अद्भुत छवियों को समेटे, प्रकृति की रूमानियत और नई सभ्यता के संकट, चुनौतियों के साथ ये कवितायें अगर किसी मंच की दीवार पर टांग दें तो हर्फ-हर्फ खुद-ब-खुद ढेरों चित्रों में ढले हर ओर फैलने लगते हैं.कविताओं में बसी ये अनुभूति ख़ास किस्म की गंध और रुतबे से भरी है.

इन कविताओं के भीतर बसे सम्प्रेषण और सादगी को आवाज में अगर ढाल दें तो ये अद्भुत राग, लय, छंद, संगीत और सुरों को साध लेती हैं.ब्रह्मांड में किसी नई सृष्टि के सृजन-मन्त्र की तरह बज उठने को बेताब हो उठते हैं राग-रंग. इन कविताओं का नशा और फितरत ही ऐसी है कि इंसानी बज्म में घुसते, घुलते तमाम दुनियाओं की गंध, रस, स्पर्श, और मोहक अनुगूँज व आकृतियाँ भीतर-बाहर चलती नजर आ जायेंगी. जिनका वास्ता हमसे होकर ‘नियोप्लास्तिसिज्म’ को अपने भीतर समेटे रहती हैं. इस बात का कभी हमें एहसास तक नहीं होता. ये ऐसी कलात्मकता और हकीकत को साधे हुए हैं जो रुसी कवि माय्कोव्य्सकी की तरह कविता में नये वृत्तचित्र, त्रिभुज, गुणात्मक संरचनाएं, विरोधी रसों के अद्भुत् संयोजन से भरी हैं. ये कवितायें यकीन दिलाती हैं कि वे सिर्फ हमारे लिए नहीं जीती.‘अपने’ और ‘पर’ से बाहर निकलकर हर लम्हा रहस्यमय रूप धरे- नए सृजन-संसार कायनात के कण-कण में प्रवाहित हो रही हैं. अणु-परमाणुओं की टकराहट और संतुलन से धरती और ब्रह्मांड की गहरी सतहों को छू रही हैं. जगतकी भीतरी सतहों में सूक्ष्म सम्वेदना तक का सफर करती कवितायें ऊर्जा और उम्मीद बांधे समूचे तन्त्र को जीवनराग से भर रही हैं.

ये कवितायें एक कवि का जीवनराग और त्रासद समय की पीड़ा की पहचान कराने वाले घोषणापत्र सी हैं और इस दुनिया में अपनी सर्वसत्ता के साथ मौजूद है. जो हमारे भीतर बहुत गहरे कहीं हमारी चेतना, हृदय की संवेदना बनकर रहती हैं.सृष्टि की अबूझ जिज्ञासाओं को साधे हुए इंसान और प्रकृति, जीव और पदार्थ, सृष्टि और ब्रह्मांड को एक साथ साधे हैं.यह बिलकुल अलग सा रहस्यमयी प्रभाव है जो सरल और सान्द्र  दीखता तो है मगर उसे समझना आसान नहीं. हर हर्फ के विकीर्णन में एक तनाव, एक सयंम, एक संतुलन बना हुआहै. बारीक बुनावट में अपनी पूरी कसावट को मजबूती से पकड़े हुए.
कवि केदार की रचनाप्रक्रिया के भीतर कविता का व्याकरण समझना उसमें घुसकर देखने पर किसी तरह की अशुद्धि का एक कण भी खोजना बेहद मुश्किल काम है.बहुत साफ़ है कवि के रचना संसार में जीती बसती कविताएँ रूहे-जमीन पर विजातीय द्रव्यों से लड़ती हुई,हर्फ-हर्फ, जहरीले विकारों की कीमियागार सी दुनिया के दुराग्रहों का पूरे जज्बातों और हिम्मत से मुकाबला करती हैं.

Obituary

Vijay Nambisan: The last of the sages

Dibyajyoti Sarma

Source : https://paperwall.in/books/61/First-Infinities

While discussing RK Narayan’s The Guide in the classroom, Dr R. Raj Rao of the University of Pune had explained to us the difference between ‘sage’ and ‘saint’. As opposed to the Judeo-Christian connotation of ‘saint’, in India, we use both the words interchangeably, to mean someone who is wise and who has discarded the worldly concerns. However, as Rao explained, in the context of the eventual journey of Raju Guide, there’s is a difference between being a saint and a sage. A saint remains tethered to the world in some way. A saint needs disciples, followers (as in the case of Raju, after his con becomes a reality for the villagers). A saint needs to make something happen (as Raju needs to make rain). But a sage elevates these saintly concerns. A sage turns himself into a perfect being, where nothing matters, not even existence (as Narayan implied Raju achieving this at the end of the novel).

As I heard of Vijay Nambisan passing away, I was thinking about this distinction in the context of Nambisan as a poet (people tend to forget that he was also a brilliant essayist, a form largely forgotten today. He also wrote the most original treatise on Language as Ethics and looked at Bihar with a fresh pair of eyes before talking about New Bihar became fashionable in the 2000s, in Bihar is in the Eye of the Beholder. He has also translated classical Sanskrit poetry, a language he knew well).  

My Facebook timeline was flooded with quotes from Nambisan’s poetry. It was an interesting development considering it was Nambisan, the most reluctant of poets. He was one of the key poets of the second generation of the Bombay School of Poetry (if you consider Ezekiel, Kolatkar, Jussawalla and others as the first generation), a generation which under the influence/tutelage of Dom Moraes, focused more on intellectual rigour rather than the socio-political concerned with a changing India of the previous generation. 

Nambisan’s contemporaries, Jeet Thayil, CP Surendran, Ranjit Hoskote, among others, are all established poets today, with several collections to their names, but Nambisan seemed to have lagged behind. His first published book of poems was Genini (a two-poet project published by Dom Moraes; the other poet was Jeet Thayil) in 1992. His second and last, and the only solo collection of poems First Infinities was published in 2015. Simply because he did not want to publish a book of poems. He was already well known, since his poem Madras Central won him the first ever All India Poetry Competition award organised by the Poetry Society of India and the British Council in 1988.

He wrote in Madras Central:

To think we have such power to alter our states, 

order comings and goings;

know where we’re not wanted

And carry our unwanted mess somewhere else.

He was an aberration to the norm. He did not need fame and recognition. He would accept it if it came his way, but he wouldn’t crave for it. He did not need the outside to validate his existence. He did not run from the outside either. Largely a private person, he wasn’t a recluse, but a gracious host when the occasion demanded, ever willing to talk poetry, and literature in general, with a witty sense of humour — a great company to spend time with. 

This is how I remember him.

I met him and his novelist/doctor wife Kavery when the couple settled in Lonavla in the outskirts of Pune sometime in 2000s, thanks to my teacher R Raj Rao who knew Vijay from the Bombay poetry days. I don’t remember him as a poet, but as a lover of poetry, who would be happiest to give me a tour of his personal library, filled with books signed by their authors. He inspired me to collect autographed books. He inspired me to reread one of his favourite poets Robert Graves, including his autobiography Goodbye to All That.

Most of all, I found him to be the most generous and humble man I have ever known. This humility was hardwired into him as a man who is extremely erudite, knew it and did not expect others to be as smart and well read as he was. He was a perfect teacher any student could ever hope for, though teaching was not his thing. 

Once, he was invited to give a guest lecture to the MA students of the University of Pune. At first, he was uncertain. He had nothing to tell the students, he said. Finally, he decided to discuss one of his favourite poems with the students — WH Auden’s Musée des Beaux Arts. It was not a surprising choice. Auden wrote:

About suffering they were never wrong,

The old Masters: how well they understood

Its human position: how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting

For the miraculous birth, there always must be

Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating

On a pond at the edge of the wood:  

I think Vijay understood this more than anyone. 

Personally, for me, he was a source of inspiration until the very end. When I first met him, I was working on my second collection of poems. When he heard that he offered to look at the poems. At first, I was uncertain. He was a poet of rigour and discipline. I wrote poetry to let off steam. I was sure he wouldn’t even bother to go through the manuscript. Finally, I sent him a hard copy of the manuscript and three months later, I received an SMS. He was in Pune for a few hours and he would like to see me, as he was carrying my manuscript and he wanted to talk about it. 

I was certain he would ask me to junk the idea of the book. Instead, we sat in the lobby of the hotel where we were staying and went through the poems page by page. At some places, he had made comments. He said some poems did not work, and most were largely fine. Then he gave me a crash course in poetry — the importance of music in poetry; the dangers of mixed metaphors and mostly importantly, the need to edit poetry. 

Now, you take this manuscript and keep it away safely for one year, he said. Exactly one year later (I think it was October, he mentioned the month), he said, open the manuscript, sit on a desk and work on it. Make sure that you sit on a chair and use a table, he insisted, not on bed, or elsewhere, where it’s more comfortable. Then go through each word, each sentence, and each line. After that, if you are satisfied, go ahead, publish the book. 

It was the most inspiring moment of my life. And since that day, I have been shamelessly recycling this advice.

The book was finally out four years later, and I was happy to hand over a copy to Kavery during the launch of Vijay’s book First Infinities in Delhi (He was busy being a host.). Kavery said Vijay would be happy to see the book and I trusted her. 

The last conversation I had with Vijay was late last year. On email. When a publisher showed the interest to publish my short story collection (the publisher was in a hurry, she had grand plans, none of which came to fruition; it’s a different story!), and needed a blurb from a ‘famous author’, I could not think of anyone other than Kavery Nambisan. So I dashed off a mail, without expecting much, because I knew she has been busy with her job as a surgeon and with her writing. 

Vijay and Kavery shared the email ID. Two days later, I received an email from Vijay. He read the manuscript and liked it and he would be happy to give a blurb if I would have one. Of course, I said yes, and he gave me a glowing blurb. But he had a caveat. The stories are great but it needed another round of editing. I could do it for you if you have the time, he wrote. Unfortunately, I did not have the time; the publisher was unreasonably in a hurry (I would regret not asking him to edit the book for the rest of my life.) Okay, then, I will edit your next book, he said. I said okay, I will finish my next book as soon as I can. 

The book is not complete and Vijay is gone.

People would say he was a genius who never received his due. It may be true. But I don’t think he wanted his dues. I don’t think he had any expectations. He was what he always was — a sage. 

(This piece was published concurrently in the August issue of The Wagon Magazine.) 

Obituary

Samir Roychoudhury, co-founder of Hungry Generation, dead
Uttaran Das Gupta

Photo Credits : Subimal Basak

Bengali poet Samir Roychoudhury, one of the four founders of the Hungry Generation literary and artistic movement, died yesterday in Kolkata. He was 86.

The death was confirmed by his brother — and co-founder of the movement — Malay Roychoudhury. Samir was admitted to the Rabindranath Tagore Hospital on 17 June.

In 1961, along with Malay and poets Shakti Chattopadhyay and Haradhan Dhara (who later changed his name to Debi Rai/Roy), Samir published the first Hungry Generation, or Hungryalist, manifesto from Patna.

On one hand, the “hysterical” works of the group attracted the friendship of American poets Allen Ginsberg and Laurence Ferlinghetti as well as Nobel laureate and then Mexican ambassador to India, Octavio Paz. On the other, some Indian intellectuals branded their poetry as “obscene” and “sexist” — a trend that continues to this day, led mostly by those who have read little of Hungry poetry.

In 1964, Malay, Samir and a few others were arrested on charges of obscenity and sedition. They were suspended from their government jobs and some of their writer colleagues, including Shakti, testified against them in court. The trial and suppression of their works made them a sort of cause célèbre. Their poetry and manifestoes were published in a number of American magazines such as City Lights Journal, Kulchur, Salted Feathers, Intrepid and San Francisco Earthquake. The Time magazine published an article on them in their November 1964 edition.

When, I first met Samir in 2012, he lived at Bansdroni, on the southern fringes of Kolkata, with his wife Belarani. Besides writing stories, poems and essays on different subjects, he also edited a magazine, Haowa 49. I was a sub-editor with the Bihar desk of The Telegraph, and researching a piece on Ginsberg’s travels in Patna, about which I had read in Deborah Baker’s A Blue Hand: “before returning to Benaras, he stayed a night at the Patna home of Malay Roy Choudhury, the firebrand of the Hungry Generation.”

It was a wet September morning when I arrived at Samir’s house in a cycle rickshaw. The house had a large garden in front and a soothing pond adjacent to it. Ramrod straight, Samir had an impeccable memory from which he fished out anecdotes of Ginsberg’s visit.
“Ginsberg stayed at the house of my parents in Dariyapur. One morning, my mother (Amita Roychowdhury) discovered him bathing in the nude at a tank in the courtyard of our house. ‘What’s he doing? Why is he naked?’ she asked me. ‘That’s how they bathe in their country,’ I replied. ‘But that’s not how they bathe in our country,’ she declared. Then, from the first-floor balcony she dropped two towels and told Ginsberg: ‘My boy, cover yourself with one and use the other to dry your body.’”

Ginsberg and he had met earlier at Chaibhasa, a small tribal village in West Singbhum district of Jharkhand, where he was posted as an employee of the fisheries department.
“A friend of mine, Kamal Chakraborty, the editor of Kourab magazine, brought Ginsberg to Chaibhasa,” recalled Samir. “In my room, the American poet spotted a copy of Oswald Spengler’s The Decline of the West. He asked me: ‘Have you read this book?’ I said: ‘Of course, I have. My brother, Malay, gave it to me. You see the margin notes in pencil? Malay made those. The ones in ballpoint pen are mine.’”

He was also not too happy with Baker’s book, where Malay was pointedly referred to as a bank clerk. The book has only passing references to the Hungry Generation and almost all of them are supercilious in tone: “Patna bank clerk Malay Roy Choudhury, whose intense grievances against the establishment were only partially masked by his grandiose estimation of his own genius.”

He blamed Sunil Gangopadhyay for influencing Baker. Sunil and Samir were great friends as young men. Samir had edited an edition of Krittibas — the legendary little magazine published by the young poets of the 1950s — on Phaneshwarnath Renu, and had also helped publish Gangopadhyay’s first book of poems, Eka Ebonj Koyekjon.

Acknowledging it in his autobiography, Ardhek Jibon, Gangopadhyay wrote: “Samir was my friend from City College (in Kolkata), he met Shakti through me… After graduating, I remained unemployed for many days; then, Samir suggested a business. We would be partners; Samir would provide the capital and I would take care of the work. As I had already learnt to operate a press, we decided to publish books. We opened an office at my house on Shyampukur Street, and gave it an easy name: ‘Sahitya Prakashak’. Samir enthusiastically published my first book, Eka Ebonj Koyekjon.”

They also published two of Samir’s poetry collections: Jhornar Paashey Shuye Achi and Aamar Vietnam.

The endeavour didn’t last too long; nor the friendship. During the obscenity trial against the Hungry Generation poets, Gangopadhyay had testified in their favour in court, but both Malay and Samir told me that the Krittibas gang had plotted against their Hungry counterparts.

Gangopadhyay died that October (2012). Samir called me up to ask if I would be interested to publish letters they had written each other. But, I did not take him up on the offer, and soon after, I moved to New Delhi, and lost all contact with him.


Note: Translations from Bengali are all by the author.