The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry
Page 4
Husain jab ke chale baad-e dopahar ran ko
Na thha koi ke jo thhaame rakaab-e tausan ko
Sakina jhaad rahi thhi abaa ke daaman ko
Husain chup ke khade thhe jhukaaye gardan ko
Na aasra thha koi shah-e karbalaai ko
Faqat savaar kiya thha bahan ne bhai ko
That fateful afternoon, ready to fight stood brave Husain
No one to help him mount his horse, loneliness fed his pain
Little Sakina brushed his robe, her sadness to contain
Husain simply stood with head bowed, and quietude did reign
Karbala’s hero was alone, no friends left to pay heed
His brave sister then stepped up, to help him mount his steed.
One could speak of other categories where longer poems have been done in specific rhyme schemes, like the mukhammas, a nazm with a five-line scheme (as in Nazeer Akbarabadi’s ‘Aadmi-Nama’ in this volume).
Nazm
Nazm translates to mean ‘poem’, and in that sense, every poem is a nazm. However, in ordinary usage, nazm refers to that poem which does not fall into any specific rhythmic category. Typically, the nazm is associated with narrative continuity, that is, it tells a single story, unlike the syncopated content of the ghazal. It is also longer than the qataa or the rubaai, and does not follow the stringent structural demands of a musaddas. Many of the works of Sahir, Faiz, Majaz and others in this anthology, come under the nazm category.
The aazad nazm is nothing more than a nazm liberated from the conventions of metre, and often, rhyme. The works of Noon Meem Rashid, Javed Akhtar and Gulzar in this volume are exemplars of the aazad nazm. Free verse in Urdu, however, retains still a lot more rhythm than a free verse poem in English or other European languages.
Other categorizations and terms
One may choose to categorize poems according to content rather than form, in which case a poem might be seen as a naat (a religious poem in praise of Prophet Mohammed), a hamd (a poem in praise of Allah), a qaseeda (a poem in praise of some person or being other than these two entities), or, as noted earlier, a marsiya (an elegy). One could speak of a poem according to performance, such as a qawwali, which is a group song with specific repetitive manoeuvres. For a delightful example of a performed qawwali, watch the Sabri Brothers perform ‘Saqiya aur pila’ (‘Some more wine please, cupbearer’) on YouTube.
Another term one hears about a lot is a deevan. A deevan is an anthology of a poet’s work, but usually contains only ghazals. The ghazals are ordered according to the last letter of the ghazal, and the deevan must contain ghazals that end with at least each letter of the Urdu alphabet. So the smallest possible deevan will have around twenty-five poems. Usually, they are much larger; for instance Ghalib’s deevan has 234 poems.
I hope the reader is not daunted by these terms and categories. Like I’ve mentioned earlier, discussions of poetic form should be considered secondary to the enjoyment of a poem’s rhythms. Onwards then, to the poets and poems themselves.
POEMS
Amir Khusrau
Amir Khusrau (1253–1325), the thirteenth-century maestro, is associated with Persian literature as well as the qawwali form of Sufi mystical poetry, but his forays into the Urdu/Hindavi tradition find him at his playful best. His popular qawwalis like ‘Zehaal-e miskin nakun taghaaful’ (‘Do not ignore the plight of the poverty-stricken’) are pure Persian, and exhibit immense gravitas. By contrast, one of the best-known Urdu/Hindavi poems, ‘Chhap tilak sab chheeni re mosay naina milaike’ (‘You have stolen my looks merely by gazing into my eyes’) is much more lyrically light, and has been performed repeatedly for more than 700 years.
In this anthology, I have chosen to highlight that aspect of Khusrau’s work which not only straddles the spurious Hindi–Urdu divide but also brings out the light-hearted quality of his poetic personality, one that puts him in the company of authors such as Lewis Carroll or Sukumar Ray.1 I translate below a few of Khusrau’s riddle poems and a qawwali. In contemporary culture, this qawwali (‘Chhap tilak’) features often as a song in movies: for instance, in the 1978 film Main Tulsi Tere Aangan ki. It has been performed by a variety of singers including Sabri Brothers, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Richa Sharma and—my favourite—Abida Parveen. Note how the poet affects a feminine first person, and expresses affection for a male beloved (‘Nijaam’ here refers to Nizamuddin Auliya, the dear companion of Khusrau).
1Do-sukhne (Double entendres)
These are specific riddles, where two questions lead to the same answer, made possible by deploying a word in the answer that has two meanings.
Deevar kyoon tooti?
Rah kyoon luti?
Raj na tha.
Why did the wall fall, won’t you say?
What made life unsafe on the highway?
There was no mason/There was no governance.
*
Ghar kyon andhiyara?
Faqeer kyon badbadaya?
Diya na tha.
Why does the house languish in the dark?
Why did the beggar angrily bark?
There was no lamp/Nothing was given.
*
Raja pyasa kyoon?
Gadha udasa kyoon?
Lota na tha.
Why was the king thirsty, my lad?
And why did the donkey appear so sad?
There was no tumbler/He had not rolled in the mud.
2Paheliyaan (Riddles)
Many of Khusrau’s riddles are structured so that the answer lies within the text of the riddle itself.
Beeson ka sir kaat liya,
Na maara na khoon kiya.
Jawaab: Nakhoon
[Author’s Note: Na+khoon]
I cut off twenty heads and still,
No blood did I shed, no one did I kill.
Answer: Nail (cutting).
*
EEk guni ne ye gun keena
Hariyal pinjrey mein de deena
Dekho jadoogar ka kamaal
Daale hara, nikaale laal.
Jawaab: Paan.
A wise man did perform this feat
I’ll cage this green parrot, he said
Observe the sorcerer; this trick is neat
In went the green and out came red!
Answer: The betel leaf (green before chewing, red after).
*
Ek naari ke sir par hai naar
Pi ki lagan main khadi laachar
Sees chuve aur chale na jor
Ro ro kar woh kare hai bhor
Jawaab: Mombatti
Observe the woman with fire on her head
She burns as she awaits her beloved
Her body melts, her spirit mourns
And thus she suffers till the day dawns
Answer: Candle.
Chhaap tilak
Chhaap tilak, sab cheeni re mo-say naina milai-ke
Prem bhatee ka madhva pilai-ke
Matvali kar leeni re mo-say naina milai-ke
Gori gori baiyyaan, hari hari chudiyan
Baiyyaan pakad dhar leeni re mo-say naina milai-ke
Bal bal jaaoon main torey rang rajwa
Apni si kar leeni re mo-say naina milai-ke
Khusrau Nijaam ke bal bal jayyiye
Mohey suhaagan keeni re mo-say naina milai-ke
My looks, my self
My looks, my self, you have stolen them
Merely by locking eyes with me.
That love potion you made me drink
Has me teetering on the brink
Merely by locking eyes with me.
You clasped the fair hands of your queen
Those hands encased in bangles green
Merely by locking eyes with me.
I offer myself to my prince
Let me in your colour rinse
Merely by locking eyes with me.
Khusrau, I give myself up to
My dear Nizaam with such pride
He has turned me with his love
Into a radiant, blushing bride
Merely by locking eyes with me.
Quli Qutub Shah
Quli Qutub Shah (d. 1612) was one of the more celebrated kings of the Deccan, ascending the throne of Golkonda at a young age, and often credited with founding the city of Hyderabad.1 He is also known to have composed poems in Telugu, which was consistent with his ecumenical temperament. His language reflects a curious mix of linguistic influences, comprising a bit of Turkish, a bit of the local Pali-oriented dialect, some Arabic words, and a lot of Sanskrit as well.
The ghazal I have chosen to represent his work is relatively simple, but as can be seen, this pioneering work has helped establish the stylistic conventions of the ghazal that endure even today, such as the rhyme schemes and the trope of unattained love. This ghazal has been deployed often in popular culture, most notably in the poignant climax of Shyam Benegal’s 1975 film Nishant. The enjoyment of the poem will be enhanced by listening simultaneously to Malika Pukhraaj’s
magical rendition.
Piya baaj
Piya baaj pyala piya jaaye na
Piya baaj ek til jiya jaye na
Nahin ishq jis vo bada kood hai
Kadhi us se mil besiya jaye na
Kahe the piya bin saboori karoon
Kahaa jaaye lekin kiya jaye na
Qutub Shah na de mujh deevane ko pand
Deevane ko kuchh pand diya jaye naa
Without my love
I cannot quaff the goblet without my love.
Nor can I live a moment without my love.
Crude is the one who does not feel
Love’s power
I just cannot stand such a heel
He’s no lover.
‘Be patient without your love, this moment too will pass’
Such counsel to follow is impossible, alas!
Qutub Shah, your guidance to the madman, although wise
Has no effect, for his love is beyond your advice.
Wali Dakkani
Wali Ahmed Khan (1667–1707) was associated with Aurangabad and Hyderabad, but died in Gujarat. He practised his craft in the late seventeenth century, and was acknowledged as the master of the ghazal format and of the proto-Urdu poetic tradition by stalwarts such as Mir and Ghalib. Many see Wali as the point of origin of Urdu poetry, perhaps because he was the first to publish a deevan. Mohammad Husain Azad, the author of Aab-e Hayaat, seems to have thought so as well. Wali will always be remembered for his optimistic poetry—exemplified by the couplet ‘Raah-e mazmoon-e taaza band nahin / Ta-qayaamat khula ha baab-e sukhan’ (‘The road to new ideas is not closed / The door of poetry will remain open forever’)—which presaged the emergence of a long-standing literary tradition. Unfortunately, his name has now become associated with tragedy; in March 2002, his tomb, which had been a prominent landmark in the city of Ahmedabad, was demolished, razed and paved over by the mobs that ravaged Gujarat in the post-Godhra conflagration.
The ghazal I have chosen here exemplifies his clean rhymes, his ability to move from the Dakkani idiom to the North Indian Rekhti, and his allegiance to the ghazal as poetic form. This ghazal has been performed by many singers, most notably by Iqbal Bano.
Jise ishq ka teer kaari lage
Jise ishq ka teer kaari lage
Use zindagi kyon na bhaari lage
Na chhode mohabbat dam-e marg lag
Jise yaar jaani so yaari lage
Na hoye use jag mein hargiz qaraar
Jise ishq ki beqaraari lage
Har ek waqt mujh aashiq-e paak ko
Pyaare teri baat pyaari lage
Wali ko kahe tu agar ek bachan
Raqibaan ke dil mein kataari lage
The one who is struck by cupid’s deadly dart
Once you are struck by Cupid’s deadly dart
You’ll find life a heavy burden, dear heart
Those who have felt their lover’s fragrant breath
Won’t cease in the ways of love until their death
Solace will never dilute my passion
Love’s impatient heat has left me ashen
My love’s transparent, unblemished and clear
Each word of yours I find lovely, my dear
With your Wali, if you share but a word
His rivals writhe as if pierced by a sword!
Mirza Sauda
The eighteenth century marked the beginning of a prolonged renaissance in Urdu poetry, and was kicked off by the triumvirate of Sauda, Dard and Mir. Mirza Sauda (1713–81) was Mir Taqi Mir’s contemporary, and one of the early exponents of what came to be called the ‘Delhi School’ of poetry. Mir’s senior in age, he tends to be eclipsed by his more illustrious counterpart even though he made an invaluable contribution to the decentring of the hegemony of Farsi as sole crucible of classical poetry. His language tended to be more decorous than Mir’s, still imbued with Persian rhetoric. He did write—in the fashion of poets of his time—a volume of Persian poetry, but was known principally for his Rekhti work, and also for his mischievous satires. His satires were often composed on the spot, derided those in power, and sometimes led to financial losses. One story goes thus: A rich man’s son once approached Sauda in public to become a tutor. Sauda asked him to recite some of his verses. The expectant pupil recited some verses of high quality, which Sauda immediately recognized as plagiarized fare. Sauda asked the man, ‘What is your takhallus?’ Replied the young man, ‘Ummeedwaar’ (hopeful). On the spot, Sauda declaimed: ‘Hai faiz se kisi ke shajar unka baardaar / Is vaaste kiya hai takhallus “ummeedwaar”’ (‘With another’s labour, his tree is fruitful, / Perhaps this is why his nom de plume is “hopeful”’). The shamefaced youngster exited hastily; Sauda had won bragging rights, but lost a potential patron.
I have chosen a single haunting ghazal that, to my mind, exemplifies Sauda’s serious work.1 Unlike Mir’s accessible rhythms, Sauda affected a style of verbal flourish, perhaps owing to his felicity in writing qasidas (panegyrics).
Hua so hua
Jo guzri mujh pe mat us se kaho hua so hua
Balaa-kashaan-e mohabbat mein jo hua so hua
Mubaadaa ho koi zaalim tera gireban-geer
Mere lahu ko to daaman se dho, hua so hua
Pahunch chukaa hai sar-e zakhm dil talak yaaro
Koi siyo, koi marham karo hua so hua
Kahe hai sun ke meri sar-guzasht vo be-rehm
Ye kaun zikr hai, jaane bhi do, hua so hua
Ye kaun haal hai ahvaal-e dil pe ai aankhon
Na phoot phoot ke itna baho, hua so hua
Diya use dil-o-zeest ab ye jaan hai ‘Sauda’
Phir aage dekhiye jo ho so ho, hua so hua
This too will pass
Share not my fate with that heartless one, this too will pass
How the love-afflicted were undone, this too will pass
My tormentor, lest someone espy your stained garments
Wash off my blood from your red shirt-front, this too will pass
The wound has lanced my body; its pain has reached my heart
Call the surgeon to stitch it, someone! This too will pass
On hearing of my sorry fate, my heartless love said:
Don’t harp on this tale, don’t spoil the fun, this too will pass
Do not trouble your eyes on seeing my poor fortune
Why do those tears so copiously run? This too will pass
I sacrificed my love, my heart, my will—just life remains
Who can divine poor Sauda’s fate? None, this too will pass.
Khwaja Mir Dard
Another m
ember of the ‘Delhi school’, Dard (1721–85) was a Sufi, and also one of the first proponents of a very direct authorial voice in the ghazal.1 Mystical in bearing, he had a passion for music, which is reflected in the rhythms of his poems. His ascetic manner did not help him financially, as he refused all attempts by local noblemen to patronize him in any way. In his own eyes, Dard was truly a man of God. Representing the transitory phase between Persian and Urdu, Dard wrote most of his prose in Persian—a tome titled Ilm-ul Kitaab (The Knowledge of the Book) is especially noteworthy—but began gravitating to the people’s tongue for his poetic output. His mysticism often cast the world as a brief stop in a longer spiritual sojourn, and saw death as just another move in that ongoing journey. In his most famous sher, he conveys this with a simplicity that perhaps owes a connection to Mir: ‘Dosto dekha tamaasha yaan ke bas / Tum raho ab ham to apne ghar chale’ (‘Friends, I’ve had enough of this display / I am off, if you wish, you can stay’).
Interesting in this context is the defiant pose that Dard strikes in the third couplet of this ghazal, vis-à-vis the religious straw man (sheikh). The sher (which is one of Dard’s most widely quoted couplets and also famously performed by the singer Mukesh) taunts the sheikh for viewing his soaked garments (presumably with wine, since the maqta also extols drinking), stating that if he were to wring his clothes, the angels would view the squeezed liquid pure enough to use for their ablutions. The implicit celebration of the repudiation of religious strictures also characterizes Mir’s work, and became an important element in the aesthetic traditions of the Delhi school.