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Prof. Tariq Mansoor is presently serving as the Vice-Chancellor, Aligarh Muslim University, Aligarh. Previously he has also served as Principal, J.N. Medical College, Chief Medical Superintendent, J.N. Medical College Hospital and Chairman, Department of Surgery. He is also the member of Medical Council of India since March 2015 for a period of four years. He is product of the first batch of prestigious Our Lady of Fatima Higher Secondary School, Aligarh. During his school days he has served as House Captain as well as School Captain. He did his MBBS and MS in General Surgery from Jawaharlal Nehru Medical College, AMU, Aligarh. A surgeon by profession with special interest in Breast and Thyroid Diseases, Prof. Tariq Mansoor has 33 years of Teaching and 35 years of Clinical experience. He has 90 publications to his credit and has guided 49 Postgraduate Medical Students for their Thesis as Supervisor / Co-Supervisor

Two poems on Asifa which make you weep

The following are the two masterpiece poetic homages to eight year old innocent girl Asifa who was brutalized, gang-raped, killed and her dead body mutilated at Kathua. The story of Asifa has shocked the world except Hindutva criminals who are celebrating the torture, gang-rape and killing of this innocent girl. In a Facebook post, Vishnu Nandakumar, Son of senior RSS leader E N Nandakumar and also a close relative of BJP state general secretary A N Radhakrishnan wrote: “It is good that she (the rape victim) was killed now. Otherwise, she would have come as a bomb against India.”

Who penned the first poem is not known but it is a poem which reminds of resistance poetry written against imperialism, Zionism and fascism. The second poem is by Professor Badri Raina. I weep whenever recite these poems. But the tears are not the outcome of helplessness or defeatism but of a resolve that we will not let the rapists under the garb of religion destroy India. Let me know how you felt.

The Hindi translation of the first poem is by Hirdyesh Joshi.

Shamsul Islam


I sent the horses trotting,
And they found their way back home.
But, I couldn’t.
My legs that you thought were
Swift as those of a deer,
They froze.
Maai, they froze.
But I sent the horse’s home.
them monsters,
They had no horns or fangs,
Or deadly long nails.
But they hurt me.
They hurt me bad, Maai.
The purple flowers,
The yellow butterflies,
They stood there helpless.
While I sent the horses back home.
Tell Baba that I know,
I know,
I know he tried.
I heard him say out my name,
I heard him repeat it loud.
I was sleepy Maai,
I was tired.
Them monsters,
They hurt me bad.
Strange as it may seem to you,
It feels like your warmth now.
It doesn’t hurt anymore.
The blood has dried
And it looks like the purple blossoms
That swayed with me in the meadows.
It doesn’t hurt, Maai.
The monsters are still out there..
And there are stories too.
Don’t listen to them Maai,
Gut wrenching and agonizing they are
And a lot you’ve gone through.
Lest I forget,
There’s a temple there
Where lives a goddess.
Thank her,
For I think it’s she who helped,
The horses find their way back home.
~ Mi

Hindi translation of the I SENT THE HORSES BACK HOME poem by Hirdyesh Joshi.

घोड़े घर पहुंच गये होंगे
मैंने उन्हें रवाना कर दिया था
उन्होंने घर का रास्ता ढूंढ लिया ना मां
लेकिन मैं खुद आ न सकी
तुम अक्सर मुझे कहा करती
आसिफ़ा इतना तेज़ न दौड़ा कर
तुम सोचती मैं हिरनी जैसी हूं मां
लेकिन तब मेरे पैर जवाब दे गये
फिर भी मैंने घोड़ों को घर भेज दिया था मां
मां वो अजीब से दिखते थे
न जानवर, न इंसान जैसे
उनके पास कलेजा नहीं था मां
लेकिन उनके सींग या पंख भी नहीं थे
उनके पास ख़ूनी पंजे भी तो नहीं थे मां
लेकिन उन्होंने मुझे बहुत सताया
मेरे आसपास फूल, पत्तियां, तितलियाँ
जिन्हें मैं अपना दोस्त समझती थी
सब चुप बैठी रही मां
शायद उनके वश में कुछ नहीं था
मैंने घोड़ों को घर भेज दिया
पर बब्बा मुझे ढूंढते हुये आये थे मां
उनसे कहना मैंने उनकी आवाज़ सुनी थी
लेकिन मैं अर्ध मूर्छा में थी
बब्बा मेरा नाम पुकार रहे थे
लेकिन मुझमें इतनी शक्ति नहीं थी
मैंने उन्हें बार बार अपना नाम पुकारते सुना
लेकिन मैं सो गई थी मां
अब मैं सुकून से हूं
तुम मेरी फिक्र मत करना
यहां जन्नत में मुझे कोई कष्ट नहीं है
बहता खून सूख गया है
मेरे घाव भरने लगे हैं
वो फूल, पत्तियां, तितलियाँ
जो तब चुप रहे
उस हरे बुगियाल के साथ यहां आ गये हैं
जिसमें मैं खेला करती थी
लेकिन वो.. वो लोग अब भी वहीं हैं मां
मुझे डर लगता है
ये सोचकर
उनकी बातों का ज़रा भी भरोसा मत करना तुम
और एक आखिरी बात
कहीं भूल न जाऊं तुम्हें बताना मैं
वहां एक मन्दिर भी है मां
जहां एक देवी रहती है
हां वहीं ये सब हुआ
उसके सामने
उस देवी मां को शुक्रिया कहना मां
उसने घोड़ों को घर पहुंचने में मदद की
(अंग्रेज़ी में मूल कविता लिखने वाले का नाम पता नहीं है)


Asifa, my child, I wish
I was not writing about you
But holding you to my chest.
Asifa, I wish you were watching
Joyfully as I ripped apart
The hyenas and hung their
Entrails at the temple door,
So the gods therein would smell
The stench of their complicity.
What wicked deity could
Give you those beautiful black
Eyes just so you could be witness
To your so beastly mutilation?
Asifa, you were born in a country
That did not deserve you, that does
Not deserve millions of your sisters
Either. This is the territory of predators
Merely and gods are their
Benefactors, presiding over their kills
With male delight, while the goddesses
Seem powerless as most women.
They chose a temple so the gods
Would protect them and pour benediction
Over their unthinkable evil — all on behalf
Of a favoured community who did
Did not wish to see the least of
“Their” land frequented by an
“Alien” band, although one in nature
With more ancient claim to
Forest, foothill, river, and pasture.
Thus men of “standing” made an
Example to serve your riven little
Corpse to the “enemy” as a sample.
Thus you were fed as a morsel to
Gods who these days all ruling
Excesses endorse. Pious middlemen.
Of the “national interest” came
Out thronging the streets, officers of
The Law cocking many a snook with
Aplomb at instruments of justice
To which they ought to belong.
Asifa, my child, this gibberish that
I am writing is but a weak old man’s
Confession that the knowledge
Of what horror transpired upon
Your uncomprehending, aghast innocence
Can never be captured in words
Of commiserate distance, however
Blood-drenched the heart and the
Fingers that seek to reduce to sense
The infernal terror of your experience.
Asifa, angel, I cannot now assure
You that your sacrifice will encrypt
The future from gruesome rites,
But, my child, how I wish you
Would come to me at night and
Upon my chest and arm find
Home again and lose all your fright.
How I wish some god somewhere
Would grant this much miracle
To my failing human sight.

The post Two poems on Asifa which make you weep appeared first on Muslim Mirror.

from Muslim Mirror

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