The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom. -Henry Ward Beecher
( Unique Relationship- Mother & Child )
(Issue-57- Year-5)
In thls Section: Favourites Forever: Christina Rossetti, Robert Louis Stevenson, Lucy Maud Montogomary, Mahmoud Darwish. Poetry Here & Now: Shail Agrawal. Story: Maxim Gorky. Kids'Corner: Story- Hans Christian Anderson and an old sixteenth Century Nursery Rhyme.
Monthly News & views in Vividha & Veethika
Details about the subject of the next issue : on the ' Contact us' page. Created , Edited & published By : Shail Agrawal Contact Mail: editor@lekhni.net; shailagrawal@hotmail.com
Lekhni is updated on every first day of the month.
Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor— Bare. But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin' landin's, And turnin' corners, And sometimes goin' in the dark Where there ain't been no light. So, boy, don't you turn back. Don't you set down on the steps. 'Cause you finds it's kinder hard. Don't you fall now— For I'se still goin', honey, I'se still climbin', And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
Langston Hughes
Mother..the word itself is ' comfort' and 'inspiration'.This poem in its symbols of dakness and stairs, nails and corners says it all from the point of view of a mother. She is ambitious for her child yet caring and protective , thoughtful about her own struggles yet never resigned in her will. She pleas to her son to continue the maech and not to turn back.
This reltionship is interdependent like roots and branches for a complete harmony and happiness. But then all relationships are but no other so entangled and entwined as that of a mother and child. This issue of Lekhni is dedicated to this most satisfying yet a complex relatioship. Its' strengths and weeknesses of this relationship...its fruits and follies, many have tried to unfold in no vain; from Homer to Freud...Aristotle to Shelley and Eliot they all have sang and lamented it , wrote odes and euology on it. Volumes have been written and vokumes will be written , yet none has been closer to this enigma.
This issue of Lekhni is dedicated to this most satisfying yet a complex relatioship. Let;s all savour this beautiful compilation and pay a warm tribute to our own mother...her kindness and untiring strength.
To-day’s your natal day, Sweet flowers I bring; Mother, accept, I pray, My offering.
And may you happy live, And long us bless; Receiving as you give Great happiness.
Christina Rossetti (1842)
(This is Rossetti’s first poem, written when she was 11 years old.)
To My Mother
You too, my mother, read my rhymes For love of unforgotten times, And you may chance to hear once more The little feet along the floor.
Robert Louis Stevenson
The Mother
Here I lean over you, small son, sleeping Warm in my arms, And I con to my heart all your dew-fresh charms, As you lie close, close in my hungry hold . . . Your hair like a miser's dream of gold, And the white rose of your face far fairer, Finer, and rarer Than all the flowers in the young year's keeping; Over lips half parted your low breath creeping Is sweeter than violets in April grasses; Though your eyes are fast shut I can see their blue, Splendid and soft as star shine in heaven, With all the joyance and wisdom given From the many souls who have stanchly striven Through the dead years to be strong and true.
Those fine little feet in my worn hands holden . . . Where will they tread ? Valleys of shadow or heights dawn-red? And those silken fingers, O, wee, white son, What valorous deeds shall by them be done In the future that yet so distant is seeming To my fond dreaming? What words all so musical and golden With starry truth and poesy olden
Shall those lips speak in the years on-coming? O, child of mine, with waxen brow, Surely your words of that dim to-morrow Rapture and power and grace must borrow From the poignant love and holy sorrow Of the heart that shrines and cradles you now!
Some bitter day you will love another, To her will bear Love-gifts and woo her . . . then must I share You and your tenderness! Now you are mine From your feet to your hair so golden and fine, And your crumpled finger-tips . . . mine completely, Wholly and sweetly; Mine with kisses deep to smother, No one so near to you now as your mother! Others may hear your words of beauty, But your precious silence is mine alone; Here in my arms I have enrolled you, Away from the grasping world I fold you, Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone!
-Lucy Maud Montgomery
To my Mother
I long for my mother's bread, My mother's Coffee, And my mother's touch... Childhood grows in me, Day after day, And I love my life, For if I die, I fear my mother will shed a tear!
Oh take me, if I return some day, As a veil for your eyelashes, And cover my bones with herbs, That turned sacred by your ankle, And tie me, With a strand of hair, Or a thread, that dangles from your dress, For I may turn to a god, A god I will be, If I ever reach the bottom of your heart!
Place me, if I return, As a fuel for your fire.... And a clothesline on the roof of our house, Because I have lost the ability to stand, Without your evening prayers! I have grown old, so give me the stars of childhood, So that I could join the young birds, In their journey home, To your waiting nest.......
Two weeks after the death of his father, on a Sunday, Pavel came home very drunk. Staggering he crawled to a corner in the front of the room, and striking his fist on the table as his father used to do, shouted to his mother:
"Supper!"
The mother walked up to him, sat down at his side, and with her arm around her son, drew his head upon her breast. With his hand on her shoulder he pushed her away and shouted:
"Mother, quick!"
"You foolish boy!" said the mother in a sad and affectionate voice, trying to overcome his resistance.
"I am going to smoke, too. Give me father's pipe," mumbled Pavel indistinctly, wagging his tongue heavily.
It was the first time he had been drunk. The alcohol weakened his body, but it did not quench his consciousness, and the question knocked at his brain: "Drunk? Drunk?"
The fondling of his mother troubled him, and he was touched by the sadness in her eyes. He wanted to weep, and in order to overcome this desire he endeavored to appear more drunk than he actually was.
The mother stroked his tangled hair, and said in a low voice:
"Why did you do it? You oughtn't to have done it."
He began to feel sick, and after a violent attack of nausea the mother put him to bed, and laid a wet towel over his pale forehead. He sobered a little, but under and around him everything seemed to be rocking; his eyelids grew heavy; he felt a bad, sour taste in his mouth; he looked through his eyelashes on his mother's large face, and thought disjointedly:
"It seems it's too early for me. Others drink and nothing happens-- and I feel sick."
Somewhere from a distance came the mother's soft voice:
"What sort of a breadgiver will you be to me if you begin to drink?"
He shut his eyes tightly and answered:
"Everybody drinks."
The mother sighed. He was right. She herself knew that besides the tavern there was no place where people could enjoy themselves; besides the taste of whisky there was no other gratification. Nevertheless she said:
"But don't you drink. Your father drank for both of you. And he made enough misery for me. Take pity on your mother, then, will you not?"
Listening to the soft, pitiful words of his mother, Pavel remembered that in his father's lifetime she had remained unnoticed in the house. She had been silent and had always lived in anxious expectation of blows. Desiring to avoid his father, he had been home very little of late; he had become almost unaccustomed to his mother, and now, as he gradually sobered up, he looked at her fixedly.
She was tall and somewhat stooping. Her heavy body, broken down with long years of toil and the beatings of her husband, moved about noiselessly and inclined to one side, as if she were in constant fear of knocking up against something. Her broad oval face, wrinkled and puffy, was lighted up with a pair of dark eyes, troubled and melancholy as those of most of the women in the village. On her right eyebrow was a deep scar, which turned the eyebrow upward a little; her right ear, too, seemed to be higher than the left, which gave her face the appearance of alarmed listening. Gray locks glistened in her thick, dark hair, like the imprints of heavy blows. Altogether she was soft, melancholy, and submissive.
Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks.
"Wait, don't cry!" begged the son in a soft voice. "Give me a drink."
She rose and said:
"I'll give you some ice water."
But when she returned he was already asleep. She stood over him for a minute, trying to breathe lightly. The cup in her hand trembled, and the ice knocked against the tin. Then, setting the cup on the table, she knelt before the sacred image upon the wall, and began to pray in silence. The sounds of dark, drunken life beat against the window panes; an accordion screeched in the misty darkness of the autumn night; some one sang a loud song; some one was swearing with ugly, vile oaths, and the excited sounds of women's irritated, weary voices cut the air.
Life in the little house of the Vlasovs flowed on monotonously, but more calmly and undisturbed than before, and somewhat different from everywhere else in the suburb.
The house stood at the edge of the village, by a low but steep and muddy declivity. A third of the house was occupied by the kitchen and a small room used for the mother's bedroom, separated from the kitchen by a partition reaching partially to the ceiling. The other two thirds formed a square room with two windows. In one corner stood Pavel's bed, in front a table and two benches. Some chairs, a washstand with a small looking-glass over it, a trunk with clothes, a clock on the wall, and two ikons--this was the entire outfit of the household.
Pavel tried to live like the rest. He did all a young lad should do--bought himself an accordion, a shirt with a starched front, a loud-colored necktie, overshoes, and a cane. Externally he became like all the other youths of his age. He went to evening parties and learned to dance a quadrille and a polka. On holidays he came home drunk, and always suffered greatly from the effects of liquor. In the morning his head ached, he was tormented by heartburns, his face was pale and dull.
Once his mother asked him:
"Well, did you have a good time yesterday?"
He answered dismally and with irritation:
"Oh, dreary as a graveyard! Everybody is like a machine. I'd better go fishing or buy myself a gun."
He worked faithfully, without intermission and without incurring fines. He was taciturn, and his eyes, blue and large like his mother's, looked out discontentedly. He did not buy a gun, nor did he go a-fishing; but he gradually began to avoid the beaten path trodden by all. His attendance at parties became less and less frequent, and although he went out somewhere on holidays, he always returned home sober. His mother watched him unobtrusively but closely, and saw the tawny face of her son grow keener and keener, and his eyes more serious. She noticed that his lips were compressed in a peculiar manner, imparting an odd expression of austerity to his face. It seemed as if he were always angry at something or as if a canker gnawed at him. At first his friends came to visit him, but never finding him at home, they remained away.
The mother was glad to see her son turning out different from all the other factory youth; but a feeling of anxiety and apprehension stirred in her heart when she observed that he was obstinately and resolutely directing his life into obscure paths leading away from the routine existence about him--that he turned in his career neither to the right nor the left.
He began to bring books home with him. At first he tried to escape attention when reading them; and after he had finished a book, he hid it. Sometimes he copied a passage on a piece of paper, and hid that also.
"Aren't you well, Pavlusha?" the mother asked once.
"I'm all right," he answered.
"You are so thin," said the mother with a sigh.
He was silent.
They spoke infrequently, and saw each other very little. In the morning he drank tea in silence, and went off to work; at noon he came for dinner, a few insignificant remarks were passed at the table, and he again disappeared until the evening. And in the evening, the day's work ended, he washed himself, took supper, and then fell to his books, and read for a long time. On holidays he left home in the morning and returned late at night. She knew he went to the city and the theater; but nobody from the city ever came to visit him. It seemed to her that with the lapse of time her son spoke less and less; and at the same time she noticed that occasionally and with increasing frequency he used new words unintelligible to her, and that the coarse, rude, and hard expressions dropped from his speech. In his general conduct, also, certain traits appeared, forcing themselves upon his mother's attention. He ceased to affect the dandy, but became more attentive to the cleanliness of his body and dress, and moved more freely and alertly. The increasing softness and simplicity of his manner aroused a disquieting interest in his mother.
Once he brought a picture and hung it on the wall. It represented three persons walking lightly and boldly, and conversing.
"This is Christ risen from the dead, and going to Emmaus," explained Pavel.
The mother liked the picture, but she thought:
"You respect Christ, and yet you do not go to church."
Then more pictures appeared on the walls, and the number of books increased on the shelves neatly made for him by one of his carpenter friends. The room began to look like a home.
He addressed his mother with the reverential plural "you," and called her "mother" instead of "mamma." But sometimes he turned to her suddenly, and briefly used the simple and familiar form of the singular: "Mamma, please be not thou disturbed if I come home late to-night."
This pleased her; in such words she felt something serious and strong.
But her uneasiness increased. Since her son's strangeness was not clarified with time, her heart became more and more sharply troubled with a foreboding of something unusual. Every now and then she felt a certain dissatisfaction with him, and she thought: "All people are like people, and he is like a monk. He is so stern. It's not according to his years." At other times she thought: "Maybe he has become interested in some of a girl down there."
But to go about with girls, money is needed, and he gave almost all his earnings to her.
Thus weeks and months elapsed; and imperceptibly two years slipped by, two years of a strange, silent life, full of disquieting thoughts and anxieties that kept continually increasing.
Once, when after supper Pavel drew the curtain over the window, sat down in a corner, and began to read, his tin lamp hanging on the wall over his head, the mother, after removing the dishes, came out from the kitchen and carefully walked up to him. He raised his head, and without speaking looked at her with a questioning expression.
"Nothing, Pasha, just so!" she said hastily, and walked away, moving her eyebrows agitatedly. But after standing in the kitchen for a moment, motionless, thoughtful, deeply preoccupied, she washed her hands and approached her son again.
"I want to ask you," she said in a low, soft voice, "what you read all the time."
He put his book aside and said to her: "Sit down, mother."
The mother sat down heavily at his side, and straightening herself into an attitude of intense, painful expectation waited for something momentous.
Without looking at her, Pavel spoke, not loudly, but for some reason very sternly:
"I am reading forbidden books. They are forbidden to be read because they tell the truth about our--about the workingmen's life. They are printed in secret, and if I am found with them I will be put in prison--I will be put in prison because I want to know the truth."
Breathing suddenly became difficult for her. Opening her eyes wide she looked at her son, and he seemed to her new, as if a stranger. His voice was different, lower, deeper, more sonorous. He pinched his thin, downy mustache, and looked oddly askance into the corner. She grew anxious for her son and pitied him.
"Why do you do this, Pasha?"
He raised his head, looked at her, and said in a low, calm voice:
"I want to know the truth."
His voice sounded placid, but firm; and his eyes flashed resolution. She understood with her heart that her son had consecrated himself forever to something mysterious and awful. Everything in life had always appeared to her inevitable; she was accustomed to submit without thought, and now, too, she only wept softly, finding no words, but in her heart she was oppressed with sorrow and distress.
"Don't cry," said Pavel, kindly and softly; and it seemed to her that he was bidding her farewell.
"Think what kind of a life you are leading. You are forty years old, and have you lived? Father beat you. I understand now that he avenged his wretchedness on your body, the wretchedness of his life. It pressed upon him, and he did not know whence it came. He worked for thirty years; he began to work when the whole factory occupied but two buildings; now there are seven of them. The mills grow, and people die, working for them."
She listened to him eagerly and awestruck. His eyes burned with a beautiful radiance. Leaning forward on the table he moved nearer to his mother, and looking straight into her face, wet with tears, he delivered his first speech to her about the truth which he had now come to understand. With the naivete of youth, and the ardor of a young student proud of his knowledge, religiously confiding in its truth, he spoke about everything that was clear to him, and spoke not so much for his mother as to verify and strengthen his own opinions. At times he halted, finding no words, and then he saw before him a disturbed face, in which dimly shone a pair of kind eyes clouded with tears. They looked on with awe and perplexity. He was sorry for his mother, and began to speak again, about herself and her life.
"What joys did you know?" he asked. "What sort of a past can you recall?"
She listened and shook her head dolefully, feeling something new, unknown to her, both sorrowful and gladsome, like a caress to her troubled and aching heart. It was the first time she had heard such language about herself, her own life. It awakened in her misty, dim thoughts, long dormant; gently roused an almost extinct feeling of rebellion, perplexed dissatisfaction--thoughts and feelings of a remote youth. She often discussed life with her neighbors, spoke a great deal about everything; but all, herself included, only complained; no one explained why life was so hard and burdensome.
And now her son sat before her; and what he said about her--his eyes, his face, his words--it all clutched at her heart, filling her with a sense of pride for her son, who truly understood the life of his mother, and spoke the truth about her and her sufferings, and pitied her.
Mothers are not pitied. She knew it. She did not understand Pavel when speaking about matters not pertaining to herself, but all he said about her own woman's existence was bitterly familiar and true. Hence it seemed to her that every word of his was perfectly true, and her bosom throbbed with a gentle sensation which warmed it more and more with an unknown, kindly caress.
"What do you want to do, then?" she asked, interrupting his speech.
"Study and then teach others. We workingmen must study. We must learn, we must understand why life is so hard for us."
It was sweet to her to see that his blue eyes, always so serious and stern, now glowed with warmth, softly illuminating something new within him. A soft, contented smile played around her lips, although the tears still trembled in the wrinkles of her face. She wavered between two feelings: pride in her son who desired the good of all people, had pity for all, and understood the sorrow and affliction of life; and the involuntary regret for his youth, because he did not speak like everybody else, because he resolved to enter alone into a fight against the life to which all, including herself, were accustomed.
She wanted to say to him: "My dear, what can you do? People will crush you. You will perish."
But it was pleasant to her to listen to his speeches, and she feared to disturb her delight in her son, who suddenly revealed himself so new and wise, even if somewhat strange.
Pavel saw the smile around his mother's lips, the attention in her face, the love in her eyes; and it seemed to him that he compelled her to understand his truth; and youthful pride in the power of his word heightened his faith in himself. Seized with enthusiasm, he continued to talk, now smiling, now frowning. Occasionally hatred sounded in his words; and when his mother heard its bitter, harsh accents she shook her head, frightened, and asked in a low voice:
"Is it so, Pasha?"
"It is so!" he answered firmly. And he told her about people who wanted the good of men, and who sowed truth among them; and because of this the enemies of life hunted them down like beasts, thrust them into prisons, and exiled them, and set them to hard labor.
"I have seen such people!" he exclaimed passionately. "They are the best people on earth!"
These people filled the mother with terror, and she wanted to ask her son: "Is it so, Pasha?"
But she hesitated, and leaning back she listened to the stories of people incomprehensible to her, who taught her son to speak and think words and thoughts so dangerous to him. Finally she said:
"It will soon be daylight. You ought to go to bed. You've got to go to work."
"Yes, I'll go to bed at once," he assented. "Did you understand me?"
"I did," she said, drawing a deep breath. Tears rolled down from her eyes again, and breaking into sobs she added: "You will perish, my son!"
Pavel walked up and down the room.
"Well, now you know what I am doing and where I am going. I told you all. I beg of you, mother, if you love me, do not hinder me!"
"My darling, my beloved!" she cried, "maybe it would be better for me not to have known anything!"
He took her hand and pressed it firmly in his. The word "mother," pronounced by him with feverish emphasis, and that clasp of the hand so new and strange, moved her.
"I will do nothing!" she said in a broken voice. "Only be on your guard! Be on your guard!" Not knowing what he should be on his guard against, nor how to warn him, she added mournfully: "You are getting so thin."
And with a look of affectionate warmth, which seemed to embrace his firm, well-shaped body, she said hastily, and in a low voice:
"God be with you! Live as you want to. I will not hinder you. One thing only I beg of you--do not speak to people unguardedly! You must be on the watch with people; they all hate one another. They live in greed and envy; all are glad to do injury; people persecute out of sheer amusement. When you begin to accuse them and to judge them, they will hate you, and will hound you to destruction!"
Pavel stood in the doorway listening to the melancholy speech, and when the mother had finished he said with a smile:
"Yes, people are sorry creatures; but when I came to recognize that there is truth in the world, people became better." He smiled again and added: "I do not know how it happened myself! From childhood I feared everybody; as I grew up I began to hate everybody, some for their meanness, others--well, I do not know why--just so! And now I see all the people in a different way. I am grieved for them all! I cannot understand it; but my heart turned softer when I recognized that there is truth in men, and that not all are to blame for their foulness and filth."
He was silent as if listening to something within himself. Then he said in a low voice and thoughtfully:
"That's how truth lives."
She looked at him tenderly.
"May God protect you!" she sighed. "It is a dangerous change that has come upon you."
When he had fallen asleep, the mother rose carefully from her bed and came gently into her son's room. Pavel's swarthy, resolute, stern face was clearly outlined against the white pillow. Pressing her hand to her bosom, the mother stood at his bedside. Her lips moved mutely, and great tears rolled down her cheeks.
A mother has not slept for three days and nights watching over her sick child. When she closes her eyes for just a moment, Death comes and takes her child. The mother rushes into the street and asks a woman, who is Night, which way Death went."Death walks faster than the wind and never returns what he has taken.""Tell me which way he went and I will find him!"
Night tells her to go into the forest, but first the mother must sing every lullabythat she has ever sung for her child. In the forest, a thorn bush tells her which way to continue, but only after she has warmed the bush by pressing it to her chest, causing her to bleed. The mother then reaches a lake that carries her across in exchange for her eyes, which she cries out.
The now blind mother reaches the greenhouse where Death cares for the flowers and trees, each one a human life. Here the mother finds the little sick plant that is her child, recognizing it by the sound of its heartbeat. The old woman who helps care for the greenhouse tells her, in exchange for her hair, that when Death comes, she must threaten to rip up the other flowers. Death will then be afraid for he must answer to God; only God decides when the plants are pulled up and planted in the garden of Paradise, where we do not know what happens.
Death comes carrying the child and when he asks the mother how she could have gotten there before him, she answers, "I am a mother." She threatens to rip out two of the flowers, but when Death asks her if she would make two other mothers as unhappy as she is, she immediately lets go.
Death gives her back her eyes and asks her to look into a well. Here she sees the future of two children, one full of happiness and love, the other full of misery and despair. He says that one of these future would be the future of her child, were it to live.
Then the mother screams in fear, "Which is my child! Rather carry my child into God's kingdom than allow it to suffer such a life."
Death says, "I do not understand. Do you want your child back or should I carry it away into the unknown?"
And the mother wrings her hands, gets down on her knees, and prays to God:
"Do not listen to me when I ask against your will! Do not listen to me, do not listen to me, do not listen to me!"
And Death leaves, carrying her child into the unknown land.
- Hans Christian Anderson
The North wind doth blow
The North wind doth blow The North wind doth blow and we shall have snow, And what will poor robin do then, poor thing? He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm and hide his head under his wing, poor thing.
हिंदी के सुपरिचित कथाकार चित्रकार एवं लखनऊ दूरदर्शन के उपमहानिदेशक शशांककी पेंटिंग एवं रेखांकनों की एकल प्रदर्शनी गत 18 से 22 अक्तूबर, 2011 तक लखनऊ की राष्ट्रीय ललित कला अकादेमी में आयोजित की गयी। प्रदर्शनी का उद्घाटन उत्तरप्रदेश के राज्यपाल श्री बी एल जोशी ने किया। समापन के अवसर पर चित्रावलोकन के लिए जाने माने फिल्मकारमुजफ्फर अली पधारे। पेंटिंग एवं रेखांकनों का अवलोकन करते हुए मुजफ्फर अली ने शशांक के चित्रों में व्यक्त स्ट्रोक्स को आत्मविश्वास से भरा हुआ बताया और कहा कि यह एक संवदेनशील कलाकार का ताकतवर बयान है। प्रदर्शनी में कुल 84 पेंटिंग एवं रेखांकन थे। रेखांकनों के एक खंड ‘मेरे आत्मीय’ में तमाम लेखकों और चित्रकारों के पोट्रेट उनके हस्ताक्षरों के साथ प्रदर्शित थे, जिनमें मकबूल फिदा हुसैन, बेगम अख्तर, नामवर सिंह, शमशेर बहादुर सिंह, चंद्रकांत देवताले आदि के चित्र प्रमुख हैं। यह पूछने पर कि चित्रकला में हस्तक्षेप के साथ उतरने का अर्थ यह तो नही कि आपने अपने कथाकार को पदच्युत कर दिया है, शशांक ने कहा कि ‘ऐसा नही है बल्कि इसे मेरे रचनाकार की एक दूसरे अनुशासन से मैत्री के रूप में लिया जाना चाहिए। मेरा कथाकार न केवल जीवित और सक्रिय है बल्कि खाली समय में चित्रकला की चाक्षुष संवेदना से अपनी रचनात्मकता का संवर्धन करता है।‘ शीर्षक एवं तिथिविहीन चित्रकृतियों एवं रेखांकनों के बारे में शशांक का कहना था, ‘ये मेरे अपने समय-सीमाहीन इतिहास के रूके हुए क्षण है।‘
प्रदर्शित चित्रकृतियों के बारे में कथाकार शिवमूर्ति का कहना था कि ये एक पहेली के खुलने और एक रहस्य के उजागर होने की तरह हैं। उपन्यासकार विभूतिनारायण राय ने इन कलाकृतियों के चाक्षुष अनुभव को सराहा। कथाकार हरिचरण प्रकाश को इन चित्रकृतियों में कहानियों की अंतर्धारा और तहों में सँजोई हुई दुर्लभ संवेदनशीलता दीख पड़ी। इतिहासकार रवि भट्ट ने इन कृतियों के सौंदर्य और संवेदना के सहमेल को सराहा। उनके लेखे, शशांक की पेंटिंग में विन्यस्त रंगों में कविता और अवसाद के सधे हुए स्ट्रोक्स दीख पड़ते हैं। कवि एवं उ.प्र.निर्वाचन आयोग के सीईओ उमेश सिन्हा ने यहॉं नारी, पशुपक्षी एवं प्रकृति के विविध मनोहारी भावों की सराहना की। चित्रकार आर एस शाक्य को चित्रों में गति एवं लय की अन्विति भली लगी। ‘लमही’ संपादक विजय राय ने कहा कि इन्हें देखना कविता के चाक्षुष सुख से गुजरना है। कवि राजकुमार केसवानी के अनुसार शशांक की कलाकृतियॉं केवल रंगों का संगम नहीं, कविता और कहानी के सहअस्तित्व से उपजी भंगिमाऍं हैं। इन पेंटिंगें में हाइकू के दर्शन होते हैं।
प्रदर्शनी में भारतीय स्टेट बैंक के मुख्य महाप्रबंधक ए के सिंह, टाटा कन्सल्टैंसी के सीईओ जयंत कृष्ण, रिलायंस सलाहकार एम ए खान सहित जाने माने पत्रकार के विक्रम राव, कला समीक्षक एन खन्ना, कवि नरेश सक्सेना, कथाकार अखिलेश, शैलेन्द्र सागर, वंदना मिंश्र, रमेश दीक्षित एवं चित्रकार कुसुम वर्मा आदि उपस्थित थे।
- ओम निश्चल
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शिमला में पहाड़ की रचनाशीलता पर राष्ट्रीय लेखक गोष्ठी
विकास के साथ पहाड़ों का व्यवसायीकरण और राजनीतिकरण खतरनाक है-डॉ. विजय मोहन सिंह।
हिमालय साहित्य, संस्कृति एवं पर्यावरण मंच के तत्वावधान में 20 अक्तूबर, 2011 दोपहर 2.30 बजे शिमला माल रोड़ पर स्थित रोटरी टाउन हाल में ‘पहाड़ की रचनाशलता पर‘ एक ’राष्ट्रीय लेखक सम्मेलन का आयोजन किया गया जिसकी अध्यक्षता प्रतिष्ठित कथाकार और आलोचक डॉ. विजय मोहन सिंह ने की। उन्होंने कहा कि जंगल और पहाड़ आदिकाल से ही कहानीकारों के कंटेंट के अवयव रहे हैं। भौतिक विकास के परिणामस्वरूप पहाड़ों का स्वरूप ही नहीं बदलता अपितु पहाड़ के मनुष्य को विभिन्न विडम्बनात्मक स्थितियों का सामना करने के लिए भी बाध्य होना पड़ा। उन्होंने चिन्ता व्यक्त की कि पहाड़ों के विकास के साथ उनका व्यवसायीकरण और राजनीतिकरण खतरनाक है। डॉ. सिंह ने कहा कि यह सुखद संयोग है कि ’कथा में पहाड़’ की कहानियां पहाड़ के मनुष्य की सामाजिक विसंगतियों, विडंबनाओं एवं अन्तर्विरोधों को प्रामाणिकता एवं कलागत ईमानदारी के साथ मूर्तिकार तो कर ही रही हैं अपितु अनेक सवाल भी खड़े करती है। पहाड़ी जीवन का एक समाजशास्त्रीय अध्ययन इन कहानियों के माध्यम् से प्रस्तुत किया जा सकता है। उन्होंने कहा कि ’कथा में पहाड़’ पहाड़ की रचनाशीलता को सामने लाने वाला एक ऐतिहासिक दस्तावेज है जिसमें इसके संयोजक और कथाकार एस आर हरनोट एवं सम्पादक वरिष्ठ कवि-आलोचक श्रीनिवास श्रीकान्त ने सभी प्रकार के रागद्वेष से ऊपर उठकर वस्तुनिष्ठ रूप से पर्वतीय जन-जीवन को गहनता से रेखांकित करने वाली कहानियों को प्रस्तुत किया है। उन्होंने चकित होकर कहा कि श्रीकान्त जी ने यह वृहद् कार्य इतनी उम्र और अस्वस्थता के बावजूद संभव कैसे किया। हालांकि यह कोई अन्तिम कार्य नहीं है। यह एक निरन्तर प्रक्रिया है जिसमें बार-बार कई सुधार और जोड़ किए जा सकते हैं। उन्होंने चिन्ता व्यक्त की कि पहाड़ों के विकास के साथ उनका व्यवसायीकरण और राजनीतिकरण खतरनाक है।
डॉ. सिंह ने कहा कि यह सुखद संयोग है कि ’कथा में पहाड़’ की कहानियां पहाड़ के मनुष्य की सामाजिक विसंगतियों, विडंबनाओं एवं अन्तर्विरोधों को प्रामाणिकता एवं कलागत ईमानदारी के साथ मूर्तिकार तो कर ही रही हैं अपितु अनेक सवाल भी खड़े करती है। पहाड़ी जीवन का एक समाजशास्त्रीय अध्ययन इन कहानियों के माध्यम् से प्रस्तुत किया जा सकता है। उन्होंने कहा कि ’कथा में पहाड़’ पहाड़ की रचनाशीलता को सामने लाने वाला एक ऐतिहासिक दस्तावेज है जिसमें इसके संयोजक और कथाकार एस आर हरनोट एवं सम्पादक वरिष्ठ कवि-आलोचक श्रीनिवास श्रीकान्त ने सभी प्रकार के रागद्वेष से ऊपर उठकर वस्तुनिष्ठ रूप से पर्वतीय जन-जीवन को गहनता से रेखांकित करने वाली कहानियों को प्रस्तुत किया है। उन्होंने चकित होकर कहा कि श्रीकान्त जी ने यह वृहद् कार्य इतनी उम्र और अस्वस्थता के बावजूद संभव कैसे किया। हालांकि यह कोई अन्तिम कार्य नहीं है। यह एक निरन्तर प्रक्रिया है जिसमें बार-बार कई सुधार और जोड़ किए जा सकते हैं। उन्होंने चिन्ता व्यक्त की कि पहाड़ों के विकास के साथ उनका व्यवसायीकरण और राजनीतिकरण खतरनाक है।
डॉ. विजय मोहन सिंह ने 1975 से 1982 के दौरान शिमला में व्यतीत किए अपने समय को याद करते हुए हुए अत्यन्त भावुन अंदाज में कहा कि शिमला की मेरी यह यात्रा अतीत और स्मृतियों के बीच एक अन्तर यात्रा है और आज मेरी उम्र काफी हो चुकी है और अब लगने लगा है कि कहीं यह आखरी आखरी यात्रा न हो। उन्होंने अज्ञेय की एक कविता से अपना वक्तव्य समाप्त किया।
प्रमुख वक्ता प्रो. कुमार कृष्ण ने कहा कि ‘कथा में पहाड़‘ वास्तव में पहाड़ के मनुष्यों की एक ऐसी महागाथा है जहां उनके दुःख, अवसाद, पीड़ा, वेदना, आक्रोश, चुनौतियों, दुर्भिसन्धियों, संघर्ष एवं जीविविषा को एक स्थान पर महसूस किया जा सकता है। पांच सौ पचपन पृष्ठों के इस वुहद कथा ग्रन्थ की सबसे बड़ी खसुसियत यह है कि इसमें जहां एक ओर रमा प्रसाद पहाड़ी जैसे कहानीकार की कहानी को शामिल किया गया है वहां दूसरी ओर 41 वर्षीय आत्मा रंजन की कहानी को भी स्थान दिया गया है। पहाड़ की रचनाशीलता को प्रस्तुत करने वाला यह ऐतिहासिक दस्तावेज आने वाली पीढ़ी के लिए एक लाइटहाउस का काम करता रहेगा।
पुस्तक का मूल्यांकन प्रस्तुत करते हुए आलोचक डॉ. हेम राज कौशिक ने इस कथा संकलन को अत्यन्त श्रमसाध्य बताया जिसे श्रीनिवास श्रीकातं जैसे रचनाकार ने अपनी बेबाक समीक्षात्मक टिप्पणियों के साथ लम्बी भूमिका के द्वारा हिन्दी कहानी के पाठकों को अमूल्य धरोहर के रूप में प्रस्तुत किया है।
आयोजन के प्रारम्भ होने से पूर्व हिमाचल के तीन रचनाकार साथियों सर्वश्री रत्न सिंह हिमेश, डॉ. शम्मी शर्मा और डॉ. ठाकुर दत शर्मा आलोक को दो मिनट का मौन रखकर भावभीनी श्रद्धांजति अर्पित की गई। मंच के अध्यक्ष और लेखक तथा इस कथा-ग्रन्थ के संयोजक श्री एस आर हरनोट ने कार्यक्रम की रूपरेखा प्रस्तुत करते हुए इस योजना के कई पहलुओं पर प्रकाश डाला और सभागार में उपस्थित सभी का स्वागत किया। मंच का संचालन कला, भाषा एवं संस्कृति अकादेमी के सचिव एवं साहित्यकार डॉ. तुलसी रमण ने किया। इस आयोजन में नेपाली लेखक जगदीश राणा, राम दयाल नीरज, सत्येन शर्मा, सरोज वशिष्ठ, रेखा, तेज राम शर्मा, बद्रीसिंह भाटिया, डॉ. जगन सिंह, डॉ. कृपा शंकर सिंह, आर सी शर्मा, आत्मा रंजन, जगत प्रसाद शास्त्री, इस्मिता सिंह सहित कई गणमान्य लेखक, पत्रकार और बुद्धिजीवी उपस्थित थे।
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दुर्गम खबर का लोकार्पण एवं लाल कला का वर्षगांठ समपन्न
नई दिल्लीःलाल कला सांस्कृतिक एवं सामाजिक चेतना मंच का 8 वॉ बर्षगांठ अल्फा शैक्षणिक संस्थान मीठापुर में मनाया गया।इस अवसर पर मंच के सचिव श्री लाल बिहारी लल 38वें जन्म दिवस के अवसर पर इनके व्यक्तित्व एवं कृतित्व पर आधारित विशेषांक दुर्गम खबर का भी लोकार्पण आयकर अधिकारी सह साहित्यकार श्रीमती नमिता राकेश(अतिथि) एवं वरिष्ठ पत्रकार श्री राज कुमार अग्रवाल(अध्यक्ष) द्वारा किया गया। कोलकाता से प्रकाशित त्रिविध भाषाओ में प्रकाशित पत्रिका साहित्य त्रिवेणी का नया अंक के लाल बिहारी लाल के अतिथि सपादन में पर्यावरण एवं वन विशेषांक जिसमें देश के समस्त क्षेत्रों से पचास से ज्यादा रचनाकारों की रचनाय़ें शामिल है। लाल बिहारी लाल को भोजपुरी गीतों का वी.सी.डी. सैंया मिलल कसईया का भी लोकार्पण उक्त अतिथियों द्वारा किया गया। इस वी.सी.डी. में स्वर लोक गायक श्री रामायण सिंह ऱॉकेट का है तथा इसे जारी किया है-साईं कैसेट कंपनी ने। इस अवपर पर एक सरस काव्य गोष्ठी का भी आयोजन किया गया जिसमें श्रीमती नमिता राकेश,श्री कमरबदरपुरी ,मों. उमर ङनीफ,मों. अब्दूल रहमान,डा. सत्य प्रकाश पाठक,श्री लाल बिहारी लाल,श्री ळिव कुमार प्रेमी ,श्री शिव कुमार पाण्डेय,डा. .कीर्तिवर्धन ,श्री धुरेन्द्र राय,श्री अजय अकेश आदि ने भाग लिया। डा. के. के. तिवारी,श्री वरूण सर ,डा. आर कान्त,डा. अख्तर अंसारी,श्री मनोज गुप्ता,श्रीमती शारदा गुप्ता ,श्री रवि शंकर एवं श्री कृपा शंकर,श्री अशोक कुमार सबित अनेक गन्यमान्य ब्यक्ति मौयूद थे। संचालन श्री शिव कुमार प्रेमी ने किया तथा अन्त में संस्था के अध्यक्ष श्रीमती सोनू गुप्ता ने आए हुए सभी अतिथियो एवं कवियों को धन्यवाद दिया।
Mother To Son
Two weeks after the death of his father, on a Sunday, Pavel came home very drunk. Staggering he crawled to a corner in the front of the room, and striking his fist on the table as his father used to do, shouted to his mother:
When he had fallen asleep, the mother rose carefully from her bed and came gently into her son's room. Pavel's swarthy, resolute, stern face was clearly outlined against the white pillow. Pressing her hand to her bosom, the mother stood at his bedside. Her lips moved mutely, and great tears rolled down her cheeks. 
A mother has not slept for three days and nights watching over her sick child. When she closes her eyes for just a moment, Death comes and takes her child. The mother rushes into the street and asks a woman, who is Night, which way Death went."Death walks faster than the wind and never returns what he has taken.""Tell me which way he went and I will find him!"
The North wind doth blow 
हिंदी के सुपरिचित कथाकार चित्रकार एवं लखनऊ दूरदर्शन के उपमहानिदेशक शशांककी पेंटिंग एवं रेखांकनों की एकल प्रदर्शनी गत 18 से 22 अक्तूबर, 2011 तक लखनऊ की राष्ट्रीय ललित कला अकादेमी में आयोजित की गयी। प्रदर्शनी का उद्घाटन उत्तरप्रदेश के राज्यपाल श्री बी एल जोशी ने किया। समापन के अवसर पर चित्रावलोकन के लिए जाने माने फिल्मकारमुजफ्फर अली पधारे। पेंटिंग एवं रेखांकनों का अवलोकन करते हुए मुजफ्फर अली ने शशांक के चित्रों में व्यक्त स्ट्रोक्स को आत्मविश्वास से भरा हुआ बताया और कहा कि यह एक संवदेनशील कलाकार का ताकतवर बयान है। प्रदर्शनी में कुल 84 पेंटिंग एवं रेखांकन थे। रेखांकनों के एक खंड ‘मेरे आत्मीय’ में तमाम लेखकों और चित्रकारों के पोट्रेट उनके हस्ताक्षरों के साथ प्रदर्शित थे, जिनमें मकबूल फिदा हुसैन, बेगम अख्तर, नामवर सिंह, शमशेर बहादुर सिंह, चंद्रकांत देवताले आदि के चित्र प्रमुख हैं। यह पूछने पर कि चित्रकला में हस्तक्षेप के साथ उतरने का अर्थ यह तो नही कि आपने अपने कथाकार को पदच्युत कर दिया है, शशांक ने कहा कि ‘ऐसा नही है बल्कि इसे मेरे रचनाकार की एक दूसरे अनुशासन से मैत्री के रूप में लिया जाना चाहिए। मेरा कथाकार न केवल जीवित और सक्रिय है बल्कि खाली समय में चित्रकला की चाक्षुष संवेदना से अपनी रचनात्मकता का संवर्धन करता है।‘ शीर्षक एवं तिथिविहीन चित्रकृतियों एवं रेखांकनों के बारे में शशांक का कहना था, ‘ये मेरे अपने समय-सीमाहीन इतिहास के रूके हुए क्षण है।‘ 
प्रदर्शनी में भारतीय स्टेट बैंक के मुख्य महाप्रबंधक ए के सिंह, टाटा कन्सल्टैंसी के सीईओ जयंत कृष्ण, रिलायंस सलाहकार एम ए खान सहित जाने माने पत्रकार के विक्रम राव, कला समीक्षक एन खन्ना, कवि नरेश सक्सेना, कथाकार अखिलेश, शैलेन्द्र सागर, वंदना मिंश्र, रमेश दीक्षित एवं चित्रकार कुसुम वर्मा आदि उपस्थित थे।
हिमालय साहित्य, संस्कृति एवं पर्यावरण मंच के तत्वावधान में 20 अक्तूबर, 2011 दोपहर 2.30 बजे शिमला माल रोड़ पर स्थित रोटरी टाउन हाल में ‘पहाड़ की रचनाशलता पर‘ एक ’राष्ट्रीय लेखक सम्मेलन का आयोजन किया गया जिसकी अध्यक्षता प्रतिष्ठित कथाकार और आलोचक डॉ. विजय मोहन सिंह ने की। उन्होंने कहा कि जंगल और पहाड़ आदिकाल से ही कहानीकारों के कंटेंट के अवयव रहे हैं। भौतिक विकास के परिणामस्वरूप पहाड़ों का स्वरूप ही नहीं बदलता अपितु पहाड़ के मनुष्य को विभिन्न विडम्बनात्मक स्थितियों का सामना करने के लिए भी बाध्य होना पड़ा। उन्होंने चिन्ता व्यक्त की कि पहाड़ों के विकास के साथ उनका व्यवसायीकरण और राजनीतिकरण खतरनाक है।
आयोजन के प्रारम्भ होने से पूर्व हिमाचल के तीन रचनाकार साथियों सर्वश्री रत्न सिंह हिमेश, डॉ. शम्मी शर्मा और डॉ. ठाकुर दत शर्मा आलोक को दो मिनट का मौन रखकर भावभीनी श्रद्धांजति अर्पित की गई।
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