The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry
Page 18
Neelgoon choti pe apni baad-e khezan hai thami
Sun ke un ka geet istemraar mein
Be-sada aabi jaras hai, ghaar mein
Baaz-gashtaana hai un ke purghina paighaam mein
Aab-e nuqradar ka vaada tilaai jaam mein
Lamha-e Iqbal ka muzhda (bataur-e armaghan
Pesh karta hai sadaf moonh dhaanp kar la’al-e giraan)
Ediyan un ki gulaabi choom kar jal ki tahen
Barhami khote hue apni thamein
Ek zarreen rau ke istefsaar par
Sar-nigoon ho kar chatakti hai chataanon ki kagar
Varta-e majhool ki na-vaqifi
Pech aabi khol ke karta hua apni nafi
Munhamik bizzaat ek itlaaf mein hai mubtela
Subha sath-e aab ko deti hui rang-e tila
Neelgoon gehraaiyon hain un ki aankhon ki attah
Taif ghaltaan jin mein lete hain panaah
Nuqrai shaakhon se zarreen seb seenon par dhare
Dekhti rehti hain kohre ke pare
Sahil-e dahshat se lekin ehteraaz
Aabna-e bahr mein daakhil nahin koi jahaaz
Simt-e manzil hai khamoshi se ravaan
Taajiron ka kaarbardaari se bojhal kaarvaan
Haath mathon par tikaye, raah kosh
Kaalbud mastool par hain, tez chashm-o-tez gosh
Zer-e lab sargoshiyon mein zikr-e bandargaah hai
Pesh been rooh-e amal hai, isteraahat khwah hai
Seven sisters
On a vast coral island
Seven sisters, somnambulist,
As the day dawns, pursue their nightly dreams
A red rock becomes their lookout
As they gaze at the wide expanse of the ocean
And espy no more than the foam of returning waves.
Tall of stature, and blond, all seven
Their virgin red lips aquiver
Their eyebrows arched like scimitars
An unending storm rages in their breasts
The threshold of the waterfront marks their limit
All that breaches it is their dream.
Their eyes suddenly sparkle like diamonds
But alas, the highway of water is desolate
Their eyes resume their bleak expression
As the hint of a sail recedes from their view
The rubies they hold fall from their hands
Which return into unquestioning depths.
They pick up their golden lyres, with the seven strings
And sing their golden masterpiece
Their seven-octaved voices reach the shores
On the blue-tipped mountaintops, the wind stops
The watery bell stops ringing in its cave.
Their returning song carries promises of untold riches
Of golden chalices bearing silvery draughts
And intimations of eternal moments
(A seashell shyly promises a priceless pearl)
The waves touch their pink heels
And are rendered silent.
As if responding to a question from an undertow
The craggy cliff bows its head and shatters
A maelstrom announces its ignorance
By unspooling its watery negations;
As if engaged in a ritual of self-ruination
The morning scatters its gold on the surface of the sea.
In the blue depths of their eyes
Only ghosts seek sanctuary
Silver apples pressed to their bosoms
They peer toward the foggy horizon in expectation
But terror-struck sailors
Enter not the bay.
Toward its destination, bears on silently,
A caravan of trading ships, laden with commodities
Hands on foreheads, tracing a straight course
The dark silhouettes sharp of eyes and ears
In whispers speak of a known harbour
And the promise of rest
Before their journey to another harbourage.
Iftikhar Arif
Iftikhar Arif (b. 1943) was born in India, and moved to Pakistan in 1965. His first book, Mehr-e Doneem (Sliced Moon), was published in 1983, and his most recent book, Kitab-e Dil-o-Duniya (The Book of the Heart and the World), in 2009. He has won a variety of literary awards, including the prestigious Hilal-e Imtiaz in 2005. He is also a well-known literary critic, whose work on Faiz has garnered praise.
Arif’s work cuts across genres, as my two selections here show.1 In the first, Arif produces a qaseeda in praise of Imam Husain (the figure of the Battle of Karbala), who is very popular among Shias, and among Urdu-lovers. The last sher here is significant, because it conjures up a sense of Husain’s power as one who can intercede on behalf of sinners. In two lines, the poet is able to sketch a complex scenario. We are introduced to a moment during the Day of Judgement, where Ali intercedes on the poet’s behalf to Prophet Mohammed, also known as the shafa-e mehshar (one who will heal on Judgement Day), imploring the Prophet to let Arif into heaven, because, despite being a sinner, he belongs to Husain.
In stark contrast, the second selection is a straight-up poem constituting a lover’s wish-list. In it, Arif deftly juxtaposes irony with desire to produce a confessional effect.
1Sharaf ke shahr mein
Sharaf ke shahr mein har baam-o-dar Husain ka hai
Zamaane bhar ke gharaanon mein ghar Husain ka hai
Kahaan ki jang, kahaan jaa ke sar hui hai ke ab
Tamaam aalam-e khair-o-khabar Husain ka hai
Zameen kha gayi kya kya buland baala darakht
Hara bhara hai jo ab bhi, shajar Husain ka hai
Savaal bayat-e shamsheer par javaaz bahut
Magar jawaab wahi mo’tabar Husain ka hai
Muhabbaton ke havaalon mein zikr aane lagaa
Ye fazl bhi to mere haal par Husain ka hai
‘Huzoor Shaafa-e mehshar,’ Ali kahen ke ye shakhs
‘Gunaahgaar bahut hai magar Husain ka hai’
In the city of privilege
In the city of privilege, every roof and wall belongs to Husain
Of all clans, there is none like the house that belongs to Husain
When was this war fought, when was it won? Someone say!
For it appears that all this world of good belongs to Husain
The earth has long since swallowed such big forests but still
The lush and verdant tree is the one that belongs to Husain
The question of obeisance was made legitimate by the sword
But the reply, confident and courageous, belongs to Husain
That my name began to crop up in legends of love
This bestowal on my being also belongs to Husain
On Judgement Day, Ali will speak to Mohammed and say
‘Pardon him; though a great sinner, this one belongs to Husain.’
2Dayaar-e Noor mein
Dayaar-e noor mein teera-shabon ka saathi ho
Koi to ho jo meri vahshaton ka saathi ho
Main us se jhooth bhi boloon to mujh se sach bole
Mere mizaaj ke sab mausamon ka saathi ho
Vo mere naam ki nisbat se mo’tabar thehre
Gali gali meri rusvaaiyon ka saathi ho
Main us ke haath na aaoon vo mera hoke rahe
Main gir padoon to meri pastiyon ka saathi ho
Vo khvaab dekhe to dekhe mere havaale se
Mere khayaalon ke sab manzaron ka saathi ho
In these moments of light
In these moments of light, a friend for darker days I seek
Someone to comfort me during my panicked phase I seek
Even if I lie constantly, he should speak naught but truth
A mate for all my capricious moods and ways, I seek
His fortitude should outlast my golden ‘glory days’
His support, when I lie forlorn in a shamed haze, I seek
I may become elusive but he should remain mine
If I fall to abjection, his arms to raise me, I seek
If he must dream, all his fancies should have me as referent
That my wonder and delight should leave him amazed, I seek.
S.M. Shahed
Syed Mohammed Shahed (b. 1944) exemplifies the neorealist tradition of progressive Urdu poetry in its most raw form, with sweeping broadsides against organized religion, class prejudice and unreason. He sacrifices the rigour of rhyme and metre for a naked directness that brings to mind the works of Soviet modernists like Mayakovsky, and the early Pablo Neruda.
Trained as a mechanical engineer, Shahed kept his craft on hold during his career, but his art has seen a blossoming since his retirement. His work is archived online at the website UrduShahkar1, where he has included several translations of progressive poets along with his own work. My favourite is the set of painstaking translations of the marsiyas of Josh Malihabadi, who had used the stories of Imam Husain as metaphors for contemporary social issues. Shahed’s translations are works of painstaking annotation, reminding one of Martin Gardner’s translations of the works of Lewis Carroll.
Here, I have translated one of Shahed’s recent poems ‘Fikr’ (‘Thought’). In this poem, he links the Abrahamic sacrifice of his son, a cornerstone of Islamic and Judeo-Christian faith, to the sacrifices of Sita and Ekalavya in Hindu mythology. He finds both traditions unreasonable and exploitative and invites humanity into a realm that rejects blind faith in favour of a reason-based scepticism of religious iconography.
Fikr
Khwabon ki basharat ki sadaqat mat puchh
Andhe ahkam ki andhi ye ita’at mat puchh
Qurban ho javaani eeman ke naam par
Bandhi jo ankh pe patti tha parda aql par
Dhobi ki baat dharm ka farmaan ban gayi
Sita ki baat vahm ka ilzam ban gayi
Chalne se aag par bhi na mushkil hui asaan
Neeti dharam ke naam pe Sita hui qurban
Yakta tha Eklavya bhi apne kamal mein
Phaansa is liye use jati ke jaal mein
Neeti dharam pe dhabba lagega ye dar jo tha
Kaata angotha ta kahen adna janam jo tha
Andhi neeti, andha imaan, ta’at bhi hai andhi kyoon
Khudgharzi ka jal banaya chhupi hui hai baat ye kyoon
Kab tak apni aql ko insaan band kivad mein rakkhega
Kab tak neet, dharam, eeman ko andha ban kar poojega
Neeti, rivaj, hukm-e khuda sab hi kya vajib ham par
In ki sazish bani siyasat aur jamaya hukum ham par
Neeti, rivaj, hukm-e Khuda sab ka bol bana mutlaq
Bol ke peechhe apna maqsad chhup ke kiya pura bahaq
Tod den is andhi ita’at ka tassalut
La-diniyat se hai hamein ye fikr ki davat
Vo fikr jo khoon-e javani ko yoon qurbaan na kare
Vo fikr jo andhe rivayat ki hami na bhare
Vo fikr jo mizaan mein dharam ko tole
Vo fikr jo har neeti kasauti pe kase
Vo fikr khudai ke jo farmaan jaanche
Vo fikr jo khwabon ki basharat se bache
Vo fikr jo tahqeeq ki koshish to kare
Vo fikr jo inkar ki jura’at bhi kare
Vo fikr jo ankh pe patti na bandhe, aql pe parda
Thought
Ask not of the veracity of revealed dreams
Ask not of blind obeisance to blind orders
That youth be sacrificed at the altar of faith
The blindfold on the eyes, a curtain draped on the intellect.
A washerman’s throwaway line launches a religious edict
And Sita is enveloped in a suspicious accusation
A walk across fire fails to prove her purity
Sita is sacrificed in the name of dharma.
Ekalavya, unique at the apex of his skill
But he too is ensnared in the web of caste
Fearful that tradition and faith might be stained
Is tricked to cut his own thumb, circumscribed by low birth.
Blind tradition, blind faith, why is obeisance blind too?
Why does the self-serving snare remain hidden?
How long will humans trap their intellect in locked rooms?
How long will they pray blindly to traditions?
All these traditions made compulsory by God’s will
A conspiracy this, to rule over us
All these traditions made inevitable by God’s will
Hidden is the motive that underlies them
Let us break this cycle of blind devotion
Impiety invites us into the realm of reason:
The thought that refuses to sacrifice youth
The thought that rejects blind folklore
The thought that puts religion on the scale
The thought that tests tradition on a touchstone
The thought that re-examines godly commands
The thought that sidesteps revealed dreams
The thought that at least attempts to question
The thought that even dares to refuse
The thought that neither blindfolds the eye nor curtails the intellect.
Javed Akhtar
After Sahir and Majrooh, the expression of the progressive aesthetic as well as the use of Urdu vocabulary in Hindi films is a responsibility that has been shouldered admirably by Javed Akhtar (b. 1945). Akhtar’s film poetry has been close to the traditions established by his PWA predecessors, but he has maintained his poetic originality.
In 1995, Akhtar’s book of poetry Tarkash hit the shelves, and became an instant hit in multiple languages. One hopes for similar success for his new book Lava, which was published in 2012. David Matthews has competently translated Tarkash into English in a well-laid-out book.1 Akhtar’s poetry is infused with a delectable use of Persian vocabulary—not many current lyricists would use ‘posheeda’ (hidden) and ‘khwabeeda’ (dreamy) in a movie song, as in a song from the 1998 movie Wajood. His lyrics ingeniously emphasize the common heritage of Hindi, Urdu and Hindustani. Take, for instance, how this purveyor of Persian words effortlessly and unselfconsciously inserts khadi boli and Sanskritized Hindi in the songs of the 2001 hit Lagaan (Tax): ‘Bijuri ki talwaar nahin, boondon ke baan chalaao’ (‘Not the sword of lightning, use the bow of raindrops’) or the Ramleela imagery in the 2005 film Swades (My Country): ‘Pal pal hai bhaari vo bipta hai aayi’ (‘Each moment is weighty, such is my misfortune’). It is an interesting and welcome sidelight that, apart from being highly competent, Akhtar is a very ‘conscious’ lyricist, who not only pays attention to situations, tonalities, dialects and an overall narrative motive while writing his songs, but is very articulate in his ability to dissect and explain his choice of words and metre. Akhtar’s personal website contains several video clips of him reciting his work.2
In an earlier book, Ali Mir and I have devoted a chapter to Akhtar’s non-film poetry, and have also analysed his film songs.3 In this volume, I translate three of his poems: ‘Mother Teresa’, ‘Aasaar-e Qadeema’ (‘Ancient Remnants’) and ‘Ye Khel Kya Hai’ (‘What Game Is This?’). The first two are from Tarkash, while the third is from Lava.
1Mother Teresa
Ai ma Teresa
Mujh ko teri azmat se inkar nahin hai
Jaane kitne sookhe lab aur veeran aankhen
Jaane kitne thhake badan aur zakhmi roohen
Koodaghar mein roti ka ek tukda dhoondte nange bachhe
Footpathon par galte sadte buddhe kodi
Jaane kitne beghar bedar bekas insan
Teri chhaon mein jeene ki himmat paate hain
Inko apne hone ki jo sazaa mili hai
Us hone ki sazaa se thhodi si hi sahi, mohlat paate hain
Tera lams maseeha hai
Aur tera karam hai ek samandar
Jis ka koi paar nahin hai
Ai ma Teresa
Mujh ko teri azmat se inkar nahin hai
Main thehra khudggarz
Bas ek apni hi khatir jeena wala
Main tujh se kis moonh se poochhoon
Tu ne kabhi ye kyon nahin poochha
Kis ne in bad-haalon ko bad-haal kiya hai?
Tu ne kabhi ye kyon nahin socha
Kaun si taaqat insanon kofootpathon aur koodagharon tak pahunchati hai
Tu ne kabhi ye kyon nahin dekha
Wahi nizam-e zar
Jis ne in bhookon se roti chheeni hai
Tere kahe par bhookon ke aage
Kuchh tukde daal raha hai
Tu ne kabhi ye kyon nahin chaaha
Nange bacche, buddhe kodi, bebas insaan
Is duniya se jeene ka haq maangen
Jeene ki khairaat na maange
Aisa kyon hai
Ik jaanib mazloom se tujh ko hamdardi hai
Doosri jaanib zaalim se bhi aar nahin hai?
Lekin sach hai
Aisi baaten main tujh se kis moonh se poochhoon?
Poochhoonga to mujh pe bhi vo zimmedari aa jaayegi
Jis se main bachta aaya hoon
Behtar hai, khamosh rahoon main
Aur agar kuchh kehna hai to yehi kahoon main
Ai ma Teresa
Mujh ko teri azmat se inkar nahin hai
Mother Teresa
O Mother Teresa
Your greatness, I am not one to deny
Wonder how many dry lips and desolate eyes
Wonder how many tired bodies and wounded souls
The naked children who root around garbage dumps seeking a piece of bread
Lepers rotting on pavements
Wonder how many homeless, rootless, hopeless people
Wonder how many broken, trampled, helpless people