Friday, December 28, 2007

बेटी है ठुमरी उम्‍मीदों की टेक

श्रावणी के लिए

छोटी सी चादर रजाई सा भार
फाहे सी बेटी हवा पर सवार
मां की, बुआ की हथेली कहार

रे हैया रे हैया
रे डोला रे डोला

चावल के चलते सुहागन है सूप
जाड़े की संगत में दुपहर की धूप
सरसों की मालिश में खिला खिला रूप

रे हैया रे हैया
रे डोला रे डोला

छोटे-से घर में है बालकनी एक
बेटी है ठुमरी उम्‍मीदों की टेक
चादर को देती है पांवों से फेंक

रे हैया रे हैया
रे डोला रे डोला

उजाले का दिन अंधेरे की रात
उनींदे में हंस हंस के करती है बात
फूल सी फुहारे सी नन्‍हीं सौगात

रे हैया रे हैया
रे डोला रे डोला

39 comments:

सिरिल गुप्ता said...

इतनी अच्छी कविता!

घन्नू झारखंडी said...

BETIYAAN HOTEE HEE HAIN CHHANDON SI, MUKTAK KI UDAAN MEN HAULE-HAULE SARA JAG SAMET LAATEEN HAIN. AVINASH KE JAJBAATON KI GEHRAEE MEN SHRAWANEE KE ASTITVA KA VISTAAR HAI YAH KAVITA. CHACHOO KA ASHIRVAAD.
GHANSHYAM

जेपी नारायण said...

कोशिश ऐसी है तो आगे क्या होगा? देशज आस्वादन से लबालब। वाह!बधाई

ALOK PURANIK said...

बेटियां बहुत बदल देती हैं अविनाशजी। अब कुछ दिनों में आप देखिये वात्सल्य रस की बहुत सारी सूरदासी कंविताएं लिखेंगे। जमाये रहिये।

pranava priyadarshee said...

संगीत मे डूबा वात्सल्य. कमाल की पंक्तियाँ. देर तक आनंद मे सराबोर रखती हैं.

आईना said...

BETIYON KE JANM PAR JEETNI KHUSHIYAN HOTI HAIN,BADE HONE KE SAATH GHAM ME KYON BADAL JAATI HAIN?
BETI
BAAP KE KANDHE PAR
PADI AISI BOJH
JO UMRA KE SAATH
BADHTI JAATI HAI.
JISKE TALE PITA KA KANDHA
HAMESHA JHUKA RAHATA HAI.

chavanni said...

unhe aasman choone den.aap ko le udengi betiyan.

आस्तीन का अजगर said...

this letter was written to his 10 year old son by a bbc correspondent fergel keane. later it became a hit after being aired on radio. so much that a book with this name ' letter to daniel: dispatches from the heart' came. your poem reminds me of this letter. also read what happened after it was aired. cheers!
----------------------------------

Tuesday, January 27, 1998 Published at 22:59 GMT

Letter to Daniel
Fergal Keane
Reporting from Hong Kong
Daniel Patrick Keane was born on February 4 1996. This most-requested From Our Own Correspondent was first broadcast eleven days later.







Hear this report in Real Audio

My dear son, it is six o'clock in the morning on the island of Hong Kong. You are asleep cradled in my left arm and I am learning the art of one-handed typing. Your mother, more tired yet more happy than I've ever known her, is sound asleep in the room next door and there is soft quiet in our apartment.

Since you've arrived, days have melted into night and back again and we are learning a new grammar, a long sentence whose punctuation marks are feeding and winding and nappy changing and these occasional moments of quiet.

When you're older we'll tell you that you were born in Britain's last Asian colony in the lunar year of the pig and that when we brought you home, the staff of our apartment block gathered to wish you well. "It's a boy, so lucky, so lucky. We Chinese love boys," they told us. One man said you were the first baby to be born in the block in the year of the pig. This, he told us, was good Feng Shui, in other words a positive sign for the building and everyone who lived there.

Naturally your mother and I were only too happy to believe that. We had wanted you and waited for you, imagined you and dreamed about you and now that you are here no dream can do justice to you. Outside the window, below us on the harbour, the ferries are ploughing back and forth to Kowloon. Millions are already up and moving about and the sun is slanting through the tower blocks and out onto the flat silver waters of the South China Sea. I can see the contrail of a jet over Lamma Island and, somewhere out there, the last stars flickering towards the other side of the world.

We have called you Daniel Patrick but I've been told by my Chinese friends that you should have a Chinese name as well and this glorious dawn sky makes me think we'll call you Son of the Eastern Star. So that later, when you and I are far from Asia, perhaps standing on a beach some evening, I can point at the sky and tell you of the Orient and the times and the people we knew there in the last years of the twentieth century.

Your coming has turned me upside down and inside out, so much that seemed essential to me has, in the past few days, taken on a different colour. Like many foreign correspondents I know, I have lived a life that, on occasion, has veered close to the edge: war zones, natural disasters, darkness in all its shapes and forms. In a world of insecurity and ambition and ego, it's easy to be drawn in, to take chances with our lives, to believe that what we do and what people say about us is reason enough to gamble with death. Now, looking at your sleeping face, inches away from me, listening to your occasional sigh and gurgle, I wonder how I could have ever thought glory and prizes and praise were sweeter than life.

And it's also true that I am pained, perhaps haunted is a better word, by the memory, suddenly so vivid now, of each suffering child I have come across on my journeys. To tell you the truth, it's nearly too much to bear at this moment to even think of children being hurt and abused and killed. And yet looking at you, the images come flooding back.

Ten-year-old Andi Mikail dying from napalm burns on a hillside in Eritrea, how his voice cried out, growing ever more faint when the wind blew dust onto his wounds. The two brothers, Domingo and Just in Menongue, southern Angola. Just two years old and blind, dying from malnutrition, being carried on seven-year-old Domingo's back. And Domingo's words to me, "He was nice before, but now he has the hunger."

Last October, in Afghanistan, when you were growing inside your mother, I met Sharja, aged twelve. Motherless, fatherless, guiding me through the grey ruins of her home, everything was gone, she told me. And I knew that, for all her tender years, she had learned more about loss than I would likely understand in a lifetime. There is one last memory. Of Rwanda, and the churchyard of the parish of Nyarabuye where, in a ransacked classroom, I found a mother and her three young children huddled together where they'd been beaten to death. The children had died holding onto their mother, that instinct we all learn from birth and in one way or another cling to until we die.

Daniel, these memories explain some of the fierce protectiveness I feel for you, the tenderness and the occasional moments of blind terror when I imagine anything happening to you. But there is something more, a story from long ago that I will tell you face to face, father to son, when you are older. It's a very personal story but it's part of the picture. It has to do with the long lines of blood and family, about our lives and how we can get lost in them and, if we're lucky, find our way out again into the sunlight.

It begins thirty five years ago in a big city on a January morning with snow on the ground and a woman walking to hospital to have her first baby. She is in her early twenties and the city is still strange to her, bigger and noisier than the easy streets and gentle hills of her distant home. She's walking because there is no money and everything of value has been pawned to pay for the alcohol to which her husband has become addicted. On the way, a taxi driver notices her sitting, exhausted and cold, in the doorway of a shop and he takes her to hospital for free. Later that day, she gives birth to a baby boy and, just as you are to me, he is the best thing she has ever seen. Her husband comes that night and weeps with joy when he sees his son. He is truly happy. Hungover, broke, but in his own way happy, for they were both young and in love with each other and their son.

But, Daniel, time had some bad surprises in store for them. The cancer of alcoholism ate away at the man and he lost his family. This was not something he meant to do or wanted to do, it just was. When you are older, my son, you will learn about how complicated life becomes, how we can lose our way and how people get hurt inside and out. By the time his son had grown up, the man lived away from his family, on his own in a one-roomed flat, living and dying for the bottle. He died on the fifth of January, one day before the anniversary of his son's birth, all those years before in that snowbound city.

But his son was too far away to hear his last words, his final breath, and all the things they might have wished to say to one another were left unspoken. Yet now Daniel, I must tell you that when you let out your first powerful cry in the delivery room of the Adventist Hospital and I became a father, I thought of your grandfather and, foolish though it may seem, hoped that in some way he could hear, across the infinity between the living and the dead, your proud statement of arrival. For if he could hear, he would recognise the distinct voice of family, the sound of hope and new beginnings that you and all your innocence and freshness have brought to the world.


_____________________________________________________________________

LETTER AND AFTER



Tony Grant, the producer of BBC Radio 4's From Our Own Correspondent programme, explains how a piece he commissioned from correspondent Fergal Keane in 1996 became a radio classic. You can read it, and hear it, here on News Online from Christmas Day by clicking on Letter to Daniel in Relevant Stories on this page.

I phoned him in Hong Kong a few days before the birth. He was as anxious - or was it terrified - as any father expecting his first. Having just had a child myself I, of course, considered myself an established expert on all aspects of fatherhood. As we talked of how the birth would affect him and Anne, and how it might alter his attitudes to journalism and being a foreign correspondent, I asked him to do a piece for From Our Own Correspondent after the baby was born. He was not enthusiastic.

But when I phoned again, after the birth, to offer my congratulations and again asked him to tell us how he felt, he was so overtaken by fatherhood, so surprised and overjoyed ... and with so much to say about it, that he agreed. His despatch was played down the line from our bureau in Hong Kong during the early hours of February the 15th, 1996.

It was an early start for me that day. The programme had to be ready to go by ten o'clock and there was a frightening amount still to do. It was still dark when I put the tape from Hong Kong on to the machine, put the headphones on and started it up. It was an extraordinary listen - moving and elemental.

Immediately after the programme had gone out, I left the office to attend a meeting and returned about an hour later. The programme assistant, Judith Hart, had been besieged. The telephone hadn't stopped ... the fax machine was jammed ... the BBC Information Office was trying to get more details from us ... and there were calls from several national newspapers.

During the course of that afternoon, I spoke to perhaps a hundred people who'd heard Fergal's despatch and wanted to talk about it. Many of them had broken down and wept listening to his words. I lost count of the number of callers who said they'd had to pull their cars off the road as they'd become so emotional, they could no longer drive.

It was hard to do any other business that week. Within seven days we'd taken close on a thousand calls and each incoming postbag was full of letters about the item, many wanting transcripts or copies of the tape. No other piece of radio I've been involved with has had a similar response. In fact no other broadcast I've ever heard of has had a response like that to Letter to Daniel.

In the months which followed, the text was published in various newspapers and magazines, and later still BBC Books, with Penguin, published a book, called Letter to Daniel - Despatches From The Heart, which spent half a year in the bestsellers' list. Fergal was invited to receive awards, make programmes, give speeches, write articles and book reviews. The Letter was even set to music and choreographed.

When Daniel was about six months old, Fergal called in at the FOOC office and accidentally left behind a carrier bag containing some of Daniel's clothes. I told him if he didn't come and get them I'd flog them from a barrow in the local market - I'd probably have made a fortune!

He brought the boy in to the office to see us the other day.

For someone less than two years old, he's had quite an impact on the world ... and it was a little surprising to discover that he's just another toddler, with no halo or anything. We gave him some felt pens to play with and, within seconds, he'd made some very interesting designs on our walls ...

निखिल आनन्द गिरि said...

बहुत प्यारा लगा आपका ये "सॉफ्ट" अंदाज़...एक कोशिश मेरी तरफ़ से भी...नन्ही परी को मेरी यही भेंट.....

बाबुल-की साँसों से बरसे हैं सुर,
बिटिया ने कर डाला इतना आतुर,
छोटी चिरैया को उड़ना है फुर्र...
रे हैया, रे हैया
रे डोला, रे डोला....

निखिल आनंद गिरि

Srijan Shilpi said...

अरे वाह, ई तो कमाल हो गया। भाव, रस, संगीतसब झूमा देने वाला है।

बिटिया ने इतनी जल्दी इतना कुछ बदल दिया भीतर से.....वाह

बधाई हो बधाई।

बिटिया को ढेर सारी आशीष।

ravi said...

bahut khub. bitiya ko aashriwad.

Aflatoon said...

ठुमरी सी कविता , सुन्दर ओ प्यारी ।

आशुतोष said...

देखते जाइये, अभी और क्या क्या करवाती है बेटी आपसे! बहुत सुंदर।

Ashok Pande said...

एक साथ बहुत सी बातें और यादें तैरती चली आईं. उम्दा रचना कराई बेटी ने आपसे. शुभ!

ravish said...

बहुत सुंदर। लगता है गुलज़ार को कोई नई प्रेरणा मिली है। या फिर बेटी को देख कोई गुलजार हुआ जा रहा है।

सचिन लुधियानवी said...

अरे कोई गुलजार को बुलाओ रे... वही लिख सकता है इस कविता पर कोई कमेंट.... भूपेन दा के गीतों में जहां पालकी उठाते कहारों की हांफती सांसों का संगीत है वहीं अविनाश ने कहार की हथेलियों को जो इज्जत बख्शी है वह मेहनत और खुशी की नई सिंफनी क्रिएट कर रही है. नहीं लगता कि यह एक मासूम मुस्कुराहट पर बार बार लगातार बारे जाने का गुदगुदाता अहसास है. मोहल्ले की बेटी तो अभी से प्रेरणा देने लगी.... बारी बारी जांऊ

SHASHI SINGH said...

पहिले तो बिटिया की बलइया ले लूं...

... फिर बिटिया के बापू से कहूं...

बहुत खूब!!!

Mired Mirage said...

अविनाश जी, बिटिया के आने पर आपको बहुत बहुत बधाई । देखिये, आते से ही उसने आपको कवि बना दिया । इतना सुन्दर लिखा है कि पिता के मन के कोमल भाव गीत बनकर हमें भी सुनाई दे रहे हैं । नन्हीं सी गुड़िया के इस संसार में आने से आप सारा संसार बदला पाएँगे ।
घुघूती बासूती

विनीत कुमार said...

yae to ek tarfa hua,aapko jo laga likh diya,bitiya ko jara likhne laayak to hone de, tab dekhe haiya re me aage kya judta hai,bitiya ko baap ki taraf se maa ki seva mil rahi hai, bahoot khoob.

विनीत कुमार said...

yae to ek tarfa hua,aapko jo laga likh diya,bitiya ko jara likhne laayak to hone de, tab dekhe haiya re me aage kya judta hai,bitiya ko baap ki taraf se maa ki seva mil rahi hai, bahoot khoob.

neelima sukhija arora said...

फूलों सी बिटिया सदा यूं ही कविताओं में महकती रहे।

Priyankar said...

बागी मुद्रा में कभी-कभी 'मुद्राराक्षस' हो जाने वाले इस पत्रकार अविनाश में श्रावणी ऐसे परिवर्तन घटित करेगी इसका कुछ-कुछ अंदाज़ था . पर महानगर में रहने वाले इस कस्बाई मूल के बिंदास पत्रकार से वह इतनी अद्भुत लयात्मकता से भरा-पूरा , नवअंकुरित वात्सल्य के सूक्ष्म-सुकोमल भावों की नाज़ुक अटखेलियों का ऐसा अनूठा रचाव संभव करवा लेगी यह न सोचा था . वात्सल्य और स्नेह से पगे इस गीत में लोकगीत की सी शक्ति और संभावना दिखती है . और क्यों न हो आखिर बेटी का -- बल्कि बेटियों का -- गीत जो ठहरा .

जोशिम said...

बहुत ही बहुत बहुत सुंदर - श्रावणी और अपने आप को एक एक काला टीका लगा लें - rgds

Anonymous said...

अरे मुझे तो पता ही नहीं था, भाई हार्दिक बधाई स्‍वीकारें ! कविता भी अच्‍छी लगी.

- प्रमोद रंजन

मैथिली said...

इस बार ये कविता और भी ज्यादा अच्छी लगी

harsh said...

Re dola re dola hay dola man dola. apni beti ke liye babul ka sneh to bap banane ke bad hi mahsus kar paunga, lekin aapki kavita padh man dol gaya aur ek chand maine bhi likh mara-
Beti hai thumri ummidon ki tek
Shravan kumar si banegi wo nek
Usko meri duayen anek.
Darasal, apki beti ke janm aur uske namakaran se anayas hi apna nata jud gaya hai. Pahle to uske janm ke sath hi aapse anayas mulakat ho gayi aur fir apne babuji ko bhi maine apne naam ka farj bakhubi nibhate dekha hai.
Bhagwan, aapki beti ko sabhi balaon se dur rakhen aur use dher saari khusiyan den.

harsh said...

Re dola re dola hay dola man dola. apni beti ke liye babul ka sneh to bap banane ke bad hi mahsus kar paunga, lekin aapki kavita padh man dol gaya aur ek chand maine bhi likh mara-
Beti hai thumri ummidon ki tek
Shravan kumar si banegi wo nek
Usko meri duayen anek
Re haiya re haiya
Re dola re dola
Darasal, apki beti ke janm aur uske namakaran se anayas hi apna nata jud gaya hai. Pahle to uske janm ke sath hi aapse anayas mulakat ho gayi aur fir apne babuji ko bhi maine apne naam ka farj bakhubi nibhate dekha hai.
Bhagwan, aapki beti ko sabhi balaon se dur rakhen aur use dher saari khusiyan den.

PD said...

अरे वाह भैया..
आपने जब ये पोस्ट किया था तब मैं इंटरनेट की दुनिया से 2-3 दिनों के लिये कहीं बाहरगया हुआ था..
बहुत बढिया लगी आपकी ये कविता..

फ़िरदौस ख़ान said...

चावल के चलते सुहागन है सूप
जाड़े की संगत में दुपहर की धूप
सरसों की मालिश में खिला खिला रूप

मन को छू लेने वाली कविता के लिए मुबारकबाद कुबूल करें...

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PD said...

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