13 October, 2011

എന്റുമ്മ

2

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- ഹിദായത്ത് ജാഫര്‍ (ദുബായ്)

പിടിവാശിപ്പരുവത്തില്‍ അടുക്കളക്കോലായില്‍
കറിക്കൂട്ടിന്‍ മണമുള്ള മടിയിലേക്കെന്നെ,
അടിതന്നണച്ചുമ്മ വെച്ചെന്‍റെയുമ്മ

പനിച്ചുറങ്ങുമ്പോളെന്‍ നെറ്റിത്തടത്തില്‍
നനുത്ത കരസ്പര്‍ശമായെന്‍റെയുമ്മ.
കത്തുന്ന വെയിലില്‍ കുളിരായ് പടരുന്ന
പെരുന്നാള്‍ച്ചോറിന്‍ മണമെന്‍റെയുമ്മ.

കലാലയ മുറ്റത്തെ കൌമാര കശപിശകള്‍
അക്കങ്ങളൊടുങ്ങാത്ത അക്ഷരത്തെറ്റുകള്‍ ,
ഞനെറിഞ്ഞുടച്ചൊരാ ചില്ലു സ്വപ്നങ്ങളില്‍
ചിതറുന്ന പുഞ്ചിരിയാണെന്‍റെയുമ്മ.

കപ്പയും കറിയും, വറുത്ത പാവയ്ക്കയും
തണുത്തുവിറച്ചെന്ന പ്രാകിത്തുടങ്ങുമ്പോള്‍,
വഴിക്കണ്ണുമ്മായി  ഞാനെത്തും വരേയും
കാത്തിരിക്കും കാവല്‍ വിളക്കെന്‍റെയുമ്മ.

ഉദരപങ്കാളികള്‍ മുഖംചുളിക്കുമ്പോഴും
മരവിച്ച ഹൃദയത്തിന്‍ താഴ്വാരങ്ങളില്‍
രക്ത ബന്ധത്തിന്‍ കനവില്‍ കനലൂതും
കനിവിന്‍റെ കലവറയാണെന്‍റെയുമ്മ.

ഇന്നലെകളിലെന്‍റെ സൌഹൃദസന്ധ്യകളില്‍
ലഹരി നുരയ്കുന്ന സ്ഫടികപാത്രങ്ങളെന്‍
ചുണ്ടോടു ചേര്‍ക്കുമ്പോള്‍ അകതാരിലുയരും
വിലക്കാണെനിക്കെന്‍റെയുമ്മ., പാവം എന്‍റെയുമ്മ.


2 comments:

  • March 18, 2012 at 8:03 AM

    It is only very late in our lives that we recognize how beautiful are our mothers. Keeping good food for their beloved children, they half fill their stomachs with poor things and left-over items. When we become ill and have to be taken to some doctor, without waiting for anyone's help and assistance, they take us on their shoulders and rush to the doctor. When the doctor says that some costly medicines have to be given us and that they are not available in the hospital, we see our mothers then in banks and local financing establishments, pawning their wedding chains for purchasing for us medicines. Will we repeat this procedure when they are old and sick? So thus, with their sacrifice, we grow up like bulls. Now we have good jobs, handsome earnings and lovelier friends. Now Beverages Corporation is our mother. We give what we earn to the unbelievably rich abkaarees as if it is us who are burdened with the responsibility of marrying their daughters away, or as if we ourselves are going to marry the daughters of these liquor contractors, now our beneficiaries. So these rich become richer and our houses become more impoverished. Then after intaking all the liquor which one can intake at a time and often more than one can intake at a time, we return to our homes, abuse, kick and beat our mothers, wives and children and make their lives hell. Go into the public streets, watch each one passing and count those who do this by folding your fingers. You will have to have a hundred hands to count them all. In local Malayalam, there is a saying: "Avanavan jolicheythuntaakkunna paisa avanavante ammaykkum bharyakkum kodukkanavanaanu aanu. Ithu athalla. Ammaykku koduthillenkilum kontu abkaarikku kodukkum". So we gradually become sick and incapacitated again. Again we see those aged, bent, spent mothers in the pawn shops and banks, this time pawning or even selling the last piece of their properties, hoping in vain their children will someday escape from the mortal clutches of these abkaarees. This here is a very fine poem by Mr. Hidayat Jafar, Dubai. It is this kind of poems that this kind of platforms need. Compliments to the author for dutifully fulfilling a social responsibility.


    Mothers are God's representatives on this Earth. There have been countless good mothers' poems written in this world as all poets are their mothers' sons or daughters. Here's one, from the ancient land of Persia which never shall let go unnoticed. During the transition period in Persian literature from classical style to the modern, Iraj wrote this song and it was translated into English by Arthur John Arberry, Professor of Persian in the University of London and Professor of Arabic at Cambridge.


    Mother


    They say, when first my mother bore me
    She taught me how to rest
    My lips against her breast;
    Wakeful at night, and leaning o'er me
    Cradled in slumber deep,
    She taught me how to sleep.


    She kissed my mouth to happy laughter,
    And in that magic hour
    She taught my rose to flower.
    One letter, and two letters after,
    She taught me week by week,
    Until my tongue could speak.


    She took my hand in hers, and leading
    Me on, with loving talk
    She taught me how to walk.
    While I have life, be this my pleading:
    Since she my being bore,
    I'll love her evermore.

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