शहर के दुकां-दारो

Technology is not all bad after-all, but Technology in form of Internet is real blessing.How at times it makes you meet your lost-self, is amazing.

If I'm coerced to live alone by my self and allowed only one song to listen to - I won't think twice to make a decision. It has been a long time since I lost touch of my long-time passion - Gazals/Urdu poetry. At the age of 14 when I got cut away from lazy-yet-live rural Haryana life, I hardly had any taste for urban life or Urdu poetry, not that I care for the first one but later sure was a loss.
Taxing calculus problems, felling solitude among noisy crowds & empty hostel cubicle, 150 Rs transistor-set and a single FM channel revealed this amazing art to me.

That's when I first heard this soul-stirring-yet-soothing song in divine voice of Ustad Nusrat-Fateh-Ali-Khan sahab - शहर के दुकानदारो, and I helplessly fell in love with it, a love for life-time.

With no record players at disposal, I would wait for weeks/months till the song got played in some Gazal program, and the felling was always worth the worth in every sense of the word every single time.
4 Yrs of Engg & finally a job, first thing I "googled", first song I downloaded was this song. I played it over and again; thank heavens, it was digital copy or I could've ended up destroying a hell lot of records for this one song.


And today that I happen to "google" a song again after a long gap, I download the audio/video and lyrics for the song. The song that has been playing in repeat mode for last 2 hours now and this time I'm going to record this incredible experince forever. (for me and for all of you)


शहर के दुकां-दारो (दुकानदारो) कारोबार-इ-उल्फत में, सूद क्या ज़ियाँ क्या है, तुम ना जान पाओगे |
दिल के दाम कितने हैं, ख्वाब कितने महंगे हैं, और नकद-इ-जान क्या है, तुम ना जान पाओगे ||
शहर के दुकां-दारो, शहर के दुकां-दारो !!!

कारोबार -इ - उल्फत = Business (deeds) of love
सूद - ज़ियाँ = Profit (interest) - loss
नकद -इ -जान = Price of Life

कोई कैसे मिलता है, फुल कैसे खिलता है, आँख कैसे झुकती है, सांस कैसे रूकती है |
कैसे रह निकलती है, कैसे बात चलती है, शौक की ज़बान क्या है, तुम ना जान पाओगे ||
शहर के दुकां-दारो, दुकां-दारो !!!
कैसे रह निकलती है = How the ways (of love) are found
कैसे बात चलती है = How the aficionados (love -struck) converse
शौक की ज़बान = Language of Indulgence (deep -interest /passion)

वस्ल का सुकून क्या है, हिज्र का जूनून क्या है, हुस्न का फुसून क्या है, इश्क के दरूँ क्या है |
तुम मरीज़-इ-दानाई, मसलिहत के सैदाई, राह-इ-गुमरहाँ क्या है, तुम ना जान पाओगे ||
शहर के दुकां-दारो, दुकां-दारो !!!

वस्ल का सुकून = The comfort of seeing loved one
हिज्र का जूनून = Insanity /madness of separation
हुस्न का फुसून = The magic of beauty
इश्क के दरूँ = Inside extensive love
मरीज़ -इ -दानाई = Patient of Wisdom
मसलिहत के सैदाई = Fond (दीवाना) of Protocol
राह -इ -गुमरहाँ = Path of the lost

ज़ख्म कैसे फलते हैं, दाग कैसे जलते हैं, दर्द कैसे होता है, कोई कैसे रोता है |
अश्क क्या है, नाले क्या, दश्त क्या है, छाले क्या, आह का फुगाँ क्या है, तुम ना जान पाओगे ||
शहर के दुकां-दारो, शहर के दुकां-दारो !!!
नाले = Cries / Weepings
दश्त = Forest /Jungle
आह का फुगाँ = The sigh of sorrow

नामुराद दिल कैसे सुबह-ओ-शाम करते हैं, कैसे जिंदा रहते हैं, और कैसे मरते हैं |
तुम को कब नज़र आई गमज़दों की तन्हाई, जीस्त-बे-उमां क्या है, तुम ना जान पाओगे ||
शहर के दुकां-दारो, शहर के दुकां-दारो !!!
नामुराद दिल = Wish -less Hearts
गमज़द = Grief Stricken
जीस्त बे -उमां = Wandering /Meaningless Life


This last stanza is zest of entire Gazal .

जानता हूँ में तुम को जौक-इ-शायरी भी, है शख्सियत सजाने में इक ये माहिरी भी है !
फिर भी हर्फ़ चुनते हो, सिर्फ लफ्ज़ सुनते हो, इन के दरमियान क्या है, तुम ना जान पाओगे ||
शहर के दुकां-दारो, शहर के दुकां-दारो !!!
जौक -इ -शायरी = The good taste in poetry



Even though I don't hold Javed Akhtar Shahab in the same steed as that of Gulzar sahab, Faraz Ahamad and other contemporary epitomes of Urdu poetry, this peice is a true testimony of his writing skills/gift.

You can listen to this(with a beautiful video) on youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HzTp0kSPI1I
and here is a beatiful English translation from another Gazal lover - http://sanasaleem.com/2009/06/23/shehar-kay-dukandaro-o-merchants-of-the-town/

शब्-इ-खैर (Good Night)

Maaa & Few Good Men of My Life

I'm burning, I am sweating and I'm shivering too. It's been 104 F for hours, thermometer seems to have stuck at one reading, and I still feel cold cowering under layers of heavy blankets and sheets. In these miserable moments, when I am all by myself, when nervous system circuitry is under realistic danger of burnout, few smiling faces keep coming and going in front of those closed eyes, faces I know, faces I can feel but I can't touch, I can't call upon. This feeling of abandonment, helplessness pangs more than the otherwise unbearable temperature and constant trembling.

Being the youngest of my siblings and owing to wonderful rural Haryana tradition, I got the maximum time, love, care and closeness of most beautiful, most caring human being on earth, living epitome of love - Maaa. Like all rural boys of my age, I was careless too. Running under mid-day burning May sun of western Haryana, drenching under overflowing brooks of relentless Jun-July monsoon, playing hide and seek in shivering pre-Holi February nights was just the way of our unhindered childhood. Amidst all these regularly heroic excursions combined with attempts of avoiding the watchful eyes of a strict and principled father [he still knows when you sneak out in scorching sun and when you sneak in biting cold mid-night, he lets you, you not even a teenager, feel you tricked him :) ], one is bound to have a taste of bitter side of medical science. So did I. At those times, women and folks of neighborhood would come and visit your home repeatedly [once again a wonderful rural Indian tradition that's vanishing fast, alas!], would offer hundreds of 'nuskhas' and 'upaays'; my idol, my enlarged-healthy-tall-stout image, my creator, would sit by my bedside, would share the latest in India and world and put those long, heavy palms over my forehead, to say - "Everything is alright, everything is gonna be alright". His love is subtle, it doesn't pour out in forms of hugs or love songs, but flows through those deep and caring eyes, that heavy-throaty voice. Today I do understand all that, love you Pitaajee, but then, then a feverish kid, I would never catch those subtle signs, I won't give a damn to all those 'nuskhas & upaays'. Amongst all this crazy calm inside and hullabaloo outside, there is one living picture of concern, tenders to all those caring men and women, she even has to take care of entire household, she can't even read names of those english medicines, she doesn't understand even half of what those half-baked doctors have to say about me. When everyone else just gives me miserable looks, sympathetic words and bitter tablets from a distance, she lays by my side, holds me in those most comforting two arms, clenches me close to her heart and I know - yes, everything is alright, everything is gonna be alright. What those pinching syringes and bitter tablets can't do in days, her touch, her hug, her watery eyes, her trembling words do in moments. Did I ever say, I am a man of science? Well, F**K science, put thousand years of science together and it still won't count for an ounce of her love, her care. Loooooooove you Maaa, miss you Maaa!

There goes this most happening era of my life and here comes another one. I'm a college boy, not a kid anymore, but I would feel like men, just like all other fellow college-men. I don't get sick anymore, even if I do, I don't care. This is wonderful time, time of secret crushes, candid flirts, hidden rivalries, open fights, and then hugs and handshakes, bunked classes and exams, nights nonsense talk under bright moonlit skies, lazy Gulam Ali-Jagjit Singh Gazals filled afternoons. Where you meet so many people, you tend to get drown in this sea of knowing-too-many. At this time, Few Good Men, stand apart, you know these are different without them saying a word. We share masala-teas outside college campus, wandering excursions in deserted Sohna, Gurgaon, Faridabad night-streets. We spend night on Palwal platform among thudding railway tracks and buzzing commando mosquitoes after a late-evening PVR Saket show and been locked out of our rented place. We together watch sultry Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, when my coach and fellow sports men are looking out for me to run for 2nd medal of the day at YMCA Faridabad. Now when I get sick or meet an accident, I won't even inform my parents, these Few Good Men, won't say a word either. They bunk their classes and later offices, they would make me laugh when I can hardly speak. One guy would take a bite of my share of fruits, sit by my side, touch my forehead and say - "This guy is Hot!". Another one taunts - "stop pretending and get out of this damn bed, we are sick of your dramas". I know, everything is alright, everything is gonna be alright. Unlike that heavenly motherly love, you can't even think of matching, this stream of care flows in both directions. They won't think of time and place to call me, nor would I, for I know they are always there for me and they know I'm always there for them. Love you fellas, love you idiots!

And now, here I am. A coveted job, coveted degree amounts next to nothing. Pitaajee is not here to pat my forehead, Maaa is not here to hug me, and nor are those weird men around to taunt me. Its yours faces, I draw my strength from and hold the blanket tighter, those jumbo sized paracetamol tablets start taking over my conscious and I get dragged towards a lonely, un-cared sleep. How much I miss you all, how much I love you all!


[Please don't worry too much. I'm alright now, this was my experience on last Sunday night and I've almost fully recovered by now. Take care!]