Friday, 22 May 2009

वसुधारा प्रपात : वीडियो (VASUDHAARA FALL :A VIDEO)

पांडव युद्ध जीत चुके थे . मारे गए सगे सम्बन्धियों के श्राद्ध और कृष्ण को द्वारिका के लिए विदा करने के बाद उन्होंने राज-काज में मन लगाने की भरसक कोशिश की मगर धृतराष्ट्र और गांधारी की उदासी और कटाक्ष उन्हें बेचैन किये रहते . उनका दिल जीतने की कोशिश भी उन्होंने बहुत की मगर एक दिन देखा तो दोनों बूढे-बुढ़िया किसी को बगैर कुछ बताये महल से कहीं जा चुके थे . वो दोनों फिर लौट कर न आये मगर उनकी उदासी का चीत्कार महल के हर कोने में चमगादडों की तरह लटका था जो रात को पांडवों को और बेचैन कर देता . तो क्या करें ! आखिरकार ये तय हुआ कि अभिमन्यु के पुत्र परीक्षित को राज-काज सौंपकर महा-प्रस्थान किया जाए . परंपरा तो संन्यास की थी मगर संन्यास के लिए जो स्थिरता चाहिए वो न थी . लगता था कि ध्यान लगा कर बैठे भी तो उसी धर्म युद्ध की चीखें सुनाई देंगी सो संन्यास नहीं . तो? बस चलते रहेंगे और थक कर गिर जाने वाले को कोई पीछे मुड कर न देखेगा. पांडव आजीवन लड़े थे सो बुढापे में एडियाँ रगड़ कर मरने को तैयार न थे . सो वो महा-प्रयाण पर निकल पड़े . बद्रीनाथ{Badrinath;( UTTARAKHAND)} से करीब पांच किलोमीटर पर है भारत का अंतिम गाँव माणा . आगे दो किलोमीटर पर वो स्थान है जहाँ द्रौपदी ने प्राण त्यागे ,फिर और चार किलोमीटर चलें तो आता है वसुधारा प्रपात . कहते हैं यहाँ सहदेव ने प्राण त्यागे और अर्जुन ने अपना गांडीव . मान्यता है कि यदि इस प्रपात कि बूँदें आप पर पड़ें तो आप पुण्यात्मा हैं वर्ना पापी . बहरहाल वीडियो को फुल वोल्यूम पर देखें और समुद्र तल से करीब १३,५०० फ़ुट की ऊंचाई पर जल और वायु की ध्वनि को अनुभव करें और मुझे सेर भर दुआएँ दें कि मैं आपके लिए ये वीडियो बना कर लाया । video

38 comments:

  1. अति सुंदर ! इस कथा के बारे में पता नहीं था बताने का आभार

    ReplyDelete
  2. Yaha kahani to pahli baar pata chali hi...per Jharne ka live video bahut achha laga...

    apki ye post vaki bahut achhi hai...

    ReplyDelete
  3. Yaha kahani to pahli baar pata chali hi...per Jharne ka live video bahut achha laga...

    apki ye post vaki bahut achhi hai...

    ReplyDelete
  4. पानी बैरिया भिन्नौटे मार मार कै

    ReplyDelete
  5. जे झरना कित्तो का दे रए मुनीस बाबू

    धड़ी का रैट बतला देओ

    ReplyDelete
  6. मन्दाकिनी ना रई दिक्खे नीचू!

    ReplyDelete
  7. Full fathom five thy father lies;
    Of his bones are coral made;
    Those are pearls that were his eyes:
    Nothing of him that doth fade
    But doth suffer a sea-change
    Into something rich and strange.
    Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
    Ding-dong.
    Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Mrs Darwin
    By Carol Ann Duffy

    7 April 1852
    Went to the Zoo.
    I said to Him—
    Something about that Chimpanzee over there reminds me of you.

    ReplyDelete
  9. Friendship
    By Hartley Coleridge

    When we were idlers with the loitering rills,
    The need of human love we little noted:
    Our love was nature; and the peace that floated
    On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,
    To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:
    One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,
    That, wisely doting, ask’d not why it doted,
    And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.
    But now I find how dear thou wert to me;
    That man is more than half of nature’s treasure,
    Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,
    Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;
    And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure,
    The hills sleep on in their eternity.

    ReplyDelete
  10. Euthanasia
    By George Gordon, Lord Byron

    When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
    The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
    Oblivion! may thy languid wing
    Wave gently o’er my dying bed!

    No band of friends or heirs be there,
    To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
    No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
    To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

    But silent let me sink to earth,
    With no officious mourners near:
    I would not mar one hour of mirth,
    Nor startle friendship with a tear.

    Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
    Could nobly check its useless sighs,
    Might then exert its latest power
    In her who lives, and him who dies.

    ‘Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last
    Thy features still serene to see:
    Forgetful of its struggles past,
    E’en Pain itself should smile on thee.

    But vain the wish—for Beauty still
    Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
    And women’s tears, produced at will,
    Deceive in life, unman in death.

    Then lonely be my latest hour,
    Without regret, without a groan;
    For thousands Death hath ceas’d to lower,
    And pain been transient or unknown.

    ‘Ay, but to die, and go,’ alas!
    Where all have gone, and all must go!
    To be the nothing that I was
    Ere born to life and living woe!

    Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen,
    Count o’er thy days from anguish free,
    And know, whatever thou hast been,
    ‘Tis something better not to be.

    ReplyDelete
  11. All overgrown by cunning moss
    By Emily Dickinson

    All overgrown by cunning moss,
    All interspersed with weed,
    The little cage of “Currer Bell”
    In quiet “Haworth” laid.

    This Bird—observing others
    When frosts too sharp became
    Retire to other latitudes—
    Quietly did the same—

    But differed in returning—
    Since Yorkshire hills are green—
    Yet not in all the nests I meet—
    Can Nightingale be seen—

    [Alternative second and third stanzas]

    Or—
    Gathered from many wanderings—
    Gethsemane can tell
    Thro’ what transporting anguish
    She reached the Asphodel!

    Soft fell the sounds of Eden
    Opon her puzzled ear—
    Oh what an afternoon for Heaven,
    When “Bronte” entered there!

    ReplyDelete
  12. Haworth Churchyard
    By Matthew Arnold

    APRIL, 1855

    Where, under Loughrigg, the stream
    Of Rotha sparkles through fields
    Vested for ever with green,
    Four years since, in the house
    Of a gentle spirit, now dead—
    Wordsworth’s son-in-law, friend—
    I saw the meeting of two
    Gifted women. The one,
    Brilliant with recent renown,
    Young, unpractised, had told
    With a master’s accent her feign’d
    Story of passionate life;
    The other, maturer in fame,
    Earning, she too, her praise
    First in fiction, had since
    Widen’d her sweep, and survey’d
    History, politics, mind.

    The two held converse; they wrote
    In a book which of world-famous souls
    Kept the memorial;—bard,
    Warrior, statesman, had sign’d
    Their names; chief glory of all,
    Scott had bestow’d there his last
    Breathings of song, with a pen
    Tottering, a death-stricken hand.

    Hope at that meeting smiled fair.
    Years in number, it seem’d,
    Lay before both, and a fame
    Heighten’d, and multiplied power.—
    Behold! The elder, to-day,
    Lies expecting from death,
    In mortal weakness, a last
    Summons! the younger is dead!

    First to the living we pay
    Mournful homage;—the Muse
    Gains not an earth-deafen’d ear.

    Hail to the steadfast soul,
    Which, unflinching and keen,
    Wrought to erase from its depth
    Mist and illusion and fear!
    Hail to the spirit which dared
    Trust its own thoughts, before yet
    Echoed her back by the crowd!
    Hail to the courage which gave
    Voice to its creed, ere the creed
    Won consecration from time!

    Turn we next to the dead.
    —How shall we honour the young,
    The ardent, the gifted? how mourn?
    Console we cannot, her ear
    Is deaf. Far northward from here,
    In a churchyard high ‘mid the moors
    Of Yorkshire, a little earth
    Stops it for ever to praise.

    Where, behind Keighley, the road
    Up to the heart of the moors
    Between heath-clad showery hills
    Runs, and colliers’ carts
    Poach the deep ways coming down,
    And a rough, grimed race have their homes—
    There on its slope is built
    The moorland town. But the church
    Stands on the crest of the hill,
    Lonely and bleak;—at its side
    The parsonage-house and the graves.

    Strew with laurel the grave
    Of the early-dying! Alas,
    Early she goes on the path
    To the silent country, and leaves
    Half her laurels unwon,
    Dying too soon!—yet green
    Laurels she had, and a course
    Short, but redoubled by fame.

    And not friendless, and not
    Only with strangers to meet,
    Faces ungreeting and cold,
    Thou, O mourn’d one, to-day
    Enterest the house of the grave!
    Those of thy blood, whom thou lov’dst,
    Have preceded thee—young,
    Loving, a sisterly band;
    Some in art, some in gift
    Inferior—all in fame.
    They, like friends, shall receive
    This comer, greet her with joy;
    Welcome the sister, the friend;
    Hear with delight of thy fame!

    Round thee they lie—the grass
    Blows from their graves to thy own!
    She, whose genius, though not
    Puissant like thine, was yet
    Sweet and graceful;—and she
    (How shall I sing her?) whose soul
    Knew no fellow for might,
    Passion, vehemence, grief,
    Daring, since Byron died,
    That world-famed son of fire—she, who sank
    Baffled, unknown, self-consumed;
    Whose too bold dying song
    Stirr’d, like a clarion-blast, my soul.

    Of one, too, I have heard,
    A brother—sleeps he here?
    Of all that gifted race
    Not the least gifted; young,
    Unhappy, eloquent—the child
    Of many hopes, of many tears.
    O boy, if here thou sleep’st, sleep well!
    On thee too did the Muse
    Bright in thy cradle smile;
    But some dark shadow came
    (I know not what) and interposed.

    Sleep, O cluster of friends,
    Sleep!—or only when May,
    Brought by the west-wind, returns
    Back to your native heaths,
    And the plover is heard on the moors,
    Yearly awake to behold
    The opening summer, the sky,
    The shining moorland—to hear
    The drowsy bee, as of old,
    Hum o’er the thyme, the grouse
    Call from the heather in bloom!
    Sleep, or only for this
    Break your united repose

    ReplyDelete
  13. Haworth Churchyard
    By Matthew Arnold

    APRIL, 1855

    Where, under Loughrigg, the stream
    Of Rotha sparkles through fields
    Vested for ever with green,
    Four years since, in the house
    Of a gentle spirit, now dead—
    Wordsworth’s son-in-law, friend—
    I saw the meeting of two
    Gifted women. The one,
    Brilliant with recent renown,
    Young, unpractised, had told
    With a master’s accent her feign’d
    Story of passionate life;
    The other, maturer in fame,
    Earning, she too, her praise
    First in fiction, had since
    Widen’d her sweep, and survey’d
    History, politics, mind.

    The two held converse; they wrote
    In a book which of world-famous souls
    Kept the memorial;—bard,
    Warrior, statesman, had sign’d
    Their names; chief glory of all,
    Scott had bestow’d there his last
    Breathings of song, with a pen
    Tottering, a death-stricken hand.

    Hope at that meeting smiled fair.
    Years in number, it seem’d,
    Lay before both, and a fame
    Heighten’d, and multiplied power.—
    Behold! The elder, to-day,
    Lies expecting from death,
    In mortal weakness, a last
    Summons! the younger is dead!

    First to the living we pay
    Mournful homage;—the Muse
    Gains not an earth-deafen’d ear.

    Hail to the steadfast soul,
    Which, unflinching and keen,
    Wrought to erase from its depth
    Mist and illusion and fear!
    Hail to the spirit which dared
    Trust its own thoughts, before yet
    Echoed her back by the crowd!
    Hail to the courage which gave
    Voice to its creed, ere the creed
    Won consecration from time!

    Turn we next to the dead.
    —How shall we honour the young,
    The ardent, the gifted? how mourn?
    Console we cannot, her ear
    Is deaf. Far northward from here,
    In a churchyard high ‘mid the moors
    Of Yorkshire, a little earth
    Stops it for ever to praise.

    Where, behind Keighley, the road
    Up to the heart of the moors
    Between heath-clad showery hills
    Runs, and colliers’ carts
    Poach the deep ways coming down,
    And a rough, grimed race have their homes—
    There on its slope is built
    The moorland town. But the church
    Stands on the crest of the hill,
    Lonely and bleak;—at its side
    The parsonage-house and the graves.

    Strew with laurel the grave
    Of the early-dying! Alas,
    Early she goes on the path
    To the silent country, and leaves
    Half her laurels unwon,
    Dying too soon!—yet green
    Laurels she had, and a course
    Short, but redoubled by fame.

    And not friendless, and not
    Only with strangers to meet,
    Faces ungreeting and cold,
    Thou, O mourn’d one, to-day
    Enterest the house of the grave!
    Those of thy blood, whom thou lov’dst,
    Have preceded thee—young,
    Loving, a sisterly band;
    Some in art, some in gift
    Inferior—all in fame.
    They, like friends, shall receive
    This comer, greet her with joy;
    Welcome the sister, the friend;
    Hear with delight of thy fame!

    Round thee they lie—the grass
    Blows from their graves to thy own!
    She, whose genius, though not
    Puissant like thine, was yet
    Sweet and graceful;—and she
    (How shall I sing her?) whose soul
    Knew no fellow for might,
    Passion, vehemence, grief,
    Daring, since Byron died,
    That world-famed son of fire—she, who sank
    Baffled, unknown, self-consumed;
    Whose too bold dying song
    Stirr’d, like a clarion-blast, my soul.

    Of one, too, I have heard,
    A brother—sleeps he here?
    Of all that gifted race
    Not the least gifted; young,
    Unhappy, eloquent—the child
    Of many hopes, of many tears.
    O boy, if here thou sleep’st, sleep well!
    On thee too did the Muse
    Bright in thy cradle smile;
    But some dark shadow came
    (I know not what) and interposed.

    Sleep, O cluster of friends,
    Sleep!—or only when May,
    Brought by the west-wind, returns
    Back to your native heaths,
    And the plover is heard on the moors,
    Yearly awake to behold
    The opening summer, the sky,
    The shining moorland—to hear
    The drowsy bee, as of old,
    Hum o’er the thyme, the grouse
    Call from the heather in bloom!
    Sleep, or only for this
    Break your united repose

    ReplyDelete
  14. मेरे कन्ने चक्कू ए!

    ReplyDelete
  15. जे कानी ए दिए की जा तौफ़ान की!

    ReplyDelete
  16. आज का रैट थाम लेओ मुनिस बाबू: सतहत्तर पैहे कुन्टल!

    ReplyDelete
  17. चीनी के दाम बढ़ गए सर!

    ReplyDelete
  18. No coward soul is mine
    By Emily Brontë

    No coward soul is mine,
    No trembler in the worlds storm-troubled sphere:
    I see Heavens glories shine,
    And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

    O God within my breast.
    Almighty, ever-present Deity!
    Life—that in me has rest,
    As I—Undying Life—have power in Thee!

    Vain are the thousand creeds
    That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain;
    Worthless as withered weeds,
    Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

    To waken doubt in one
    Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
    So surely anchored on
    The steadfast Rock of immortality.

    With wide-embracing love
    Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
    Pervades and broods above,
    Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

    Though earth and man were gone,
    And suns and universes ceased to be,
    And Thou wert left alone,
    Every existence would exist in Thee.

    There is not room for Death,
    Nor atom that his might could render void:
    Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,
    And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

    ReplyDelete
  19. Mid-term Break
    By Seamus Heaney

    I sat all morning in the college sick bay
    Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
    At ten o’clock our neighbours drove me home.

    In the porch I met my father crying—
    He had always taken funerals in his stride—
    And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

    The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
    When I came in, and I was embarrassed
    By old men standing up to shake my hand

    And tell me they were ’sorry for my trouble.’
    Whispers informed strangers that I was the eldest,
    Away at school, as my mother held my hand

    In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
    At ten o’clock the ambulance arrived
    With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

    Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
    And candles soothed the bedside. I saw him
    For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

    Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple.
    He lay in a four foot box, as in his cot.
    No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

    A four foot box, a foot for every year.

    ReplyDelete
  20. The Race of Banquo
    By Robert Southey

    Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
    Leave thy guilty sire to die.
    O’er the heath the stripling fled,
    The wild storm howling round his head.
    Fear mightier thro’ the shades of night
    Urged his feet, and wing’d his flight;
    And still he heard his father cry
    Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly.

    Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly
    Leave thy guilty sire to die.
    On every blast was heard the moan
    The anguish’d shriek, the death-fraught groan;
    Loathly night-hags join the yell
    And see—the midnight rites of Hell.

    Forms of magic! spare my life!
    Shield me from the murderer’s knife!
    Before me dim in lurid light
    Float the phantoms of the night—
    Behind I hear my Father cry,
    Fly, son of Banquo—Fleance, fly!

    Parent of the sceptred race,
    Fearless tread the circled space:
    Fearless Fleance venture near—
    Sire of monarchs—spurn at fear.

    Sisters with prophetic breath
    Pour we now the dirge of Death!

    ReplyDelete
  21. As Winds That Blow Against a Star
    By Joyce Kilmer

    (For Aline)

    Now by what whim of wanton chance
    Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
    And feet that shod in light should dance
    Walk weary and laborious ways?

    But rays from Heaven, white and whole,
    May penetrate the gloom of earth;
    And tears but nourish, in your soul,
    The glory of celestial mirth.

    The darts of toil and sorrow, sent
    Against your peaceful beauty, are
    As foolish and as impotent
    As winds that blow against a star.

    ReplyDelete
  22. सुंदर जलप्रपात और मनोहारी दृश्य सच मे स्वार्गारोहण की कहानी का सा आभास कराते हैं।एक प्रपात यंहा भी है छतीसगढ मे ।चित्रकोट बस्तर मे है और ये भारत का सबसे चौड़ा जलप्रपात है नियाग्रा की याद दिला देता है।कभी मौका मिले तो इधर आईये पहाड़ और साल के अबूझ जंगल अद्भुत सौंदर्य समेटे है अपने आप में।

    ReplyDelete
  23. जीवन से भरा ये प्रपात
    मजबूर करे जीने के लिए!
    और
    मुनीश भाई के साथ
    वहीँ कहीं
    ऑन द रॉक्स पीने के लिए!

    मुनीश भाई! Anil Pusadkar जी की बात मान लो. सुना मैंने भी भोत है इस हिन्दुस्तानी नियाग्रा के बारे में! मगर आपका पहाडों से इश्क छूटे जब न! लगे रहिये! न जाने कितनों के सपनों को जी रहे हैं आप!

    ReplyDelete
  24. मैने पुछा मंजिले मकसुद कहा है "
    खिज्र ने राह बतायी मुझे मयखाने की "

    ReplyDelete
  25. मुनीश जी,
    वसुधारा के चित्र के बारे में तो मैंने पहले भी बता दिया था कि यह वसुधारा है. लेकिन इसकी कहानी मालूम नहीं थी.

    ReplyDelete
  26. Dear Ashok bhai,Manish, Vineeta,Anil ji,Viney,Deepak and Neeraj thnx for ur kind visit to Maykhaana.

    ReplyDelete
  27. अहा!! मेडिटेशन की अवस्था मे हो लिए देखते देखते..वहाँ पहुँचकर तो आनन्द ही आ गया होगा.

    ReplyDelete
  28. jab College me thai tab trekking per gaye thai us aur, Vasudhara se aur aage jaane ka plan tha lekin Uttarkashi wala bhookump aanki wajah se usse aage jaane ka plan cancel kiya.

    Waise to usse aage kuch nahi siway china ke border ke. Lekin log batae hain ki wahin se purane daur me trading ke kaafile jaate thai.

    Mana jaane ke raste me saraswati bhi parti hai jiske uppar ek bari chattan se bana bridge bhi parta hai.

    Tarun

    ReplyDelete
  29. Thnx Sameer ji ,Rajesh and Tarun ! There is around 25 k.m. of lovely trek ahead of this fall and it is easily accessible with local guides. Better u hire one from Maana itself.

    ReplyDelete
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