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The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry

Page 19

by Mir


  Enter your hearth and find the courage to live

  The punishment that is their existence

  From that, they find respite, however fleeting

  Your touch is a messiah

  And your kindness an ocean

  That is boundless

  O Mother Teresa

  Your greatness, I am not one to deny.

  I am but a selfish person

  Who lives only for himself

  With what face can I ask you—

  Why did you never ask

  Who has rendered these pitiful people so pitiful?

  Why did you never think

  What power consigns human beings to lives on pavements and garbage dumps?

  Why did you never see

  That the same elite regime

  That has stolen the food from these hungry mouths

  Is, on your bidding,

  Throwing a few scraps their way?

  Why did you never wish

  That these naked children, these old lepers, these helpless people

  Demand from this world the right to live

  Not the permission, the largesse to live?

  Why is it so

  On one hand you love the oppressed

  But the oppressor too, you do not decry?

  But it is true

  With what face can I ask that of you?

  If I did ask

  The whole responsibility would become my task

  Which, so far, I have chosen to avoid.

  Better that I should hold my peace

  And if I have to open my mouth, I should say please

  O Mother Teresa

  Your greatness, I am not one to deny.

  2Aasaar-e Qadeema

  Ek patthar ki adhuri moorat

  Chand taambe ke puraane sikke

  Kaali chaandi ke ajab se zevar

  Aur kai kaanse ke toote bartan

  Ek sehra mein mile zer-e zameen

  Log kehte hain ke sadiyon pehle

  Aaj sehra hai jahaan

  Wahin ek shehr hua karta thha

  Aur mujh ko ye khayaal aata hai

  Kisi taqreeb, kisi mehfil mein

  Saamna tujh se mera aaj bhi ho jaata hai

  Ek lamhe ko, bas ik pal ke liye

  Jism ki aanch, uchat-ti si nazar

  Surkh bindiya ki damak

  Sarsaraahat tere malboos ki, baalon ki mehak

  Bekhayaali mei kabhi lams ka nanha sa phool

  Aur phir door tak vahi sehra

  Vahi sehra ke jahaan

  Kabhi ik shehr hua karta thha

  Ancient remnants

  A shattered stone statue, old copper coins

  Strange ornaments of blackened silver

  And several broken bronze vessels

  Were found underground in a desert.

  And people divined that centuries ago

  A city had existed there.

  And I remember

  Seeing you by chance in a gathering, a party

  For a moment, just for a second

  The warmth of your body, your momentary gaze

  The shine of red vermilion, the rustle of your clothes

  The smell of your hair, and unconsciously, a tiny flower of touch

  And again, that unending desert

  That desert where once

  There used to be a city.

  3Ye khel kya hai

  Mere mukhaalif ne chaal chal di hai

  Aur ab

  Meri chaal ke intezaar mein hai

  Magar main kab se

  Safed khaanon

  Siyaah khaanon mein rakkhe

  Kaale safed mohron ko dekhta hoon

  Main sochta hoon

  Ye mohre kya hain

  Agar main samjhoon

  Ki ye jo mohre hain

  Sirf lakdi ke hain khilone

  To jeetna kya hai haarna kya

  Na ye zaroori

  Na vo aham hai

  Agar khushi hai na jeetne ki

  Na haarne ka bhi koi gham hai

  To khel kya hai

  Main sochta hoon

  Jo khelna hai

  To apne dil mein yaqeen kar loon

  Ye mohre sach-much ke baadshah-o-vazeer

  Sach-much ke hain piyaade

  Aur in ke aage hai

  Dushmanon ki vo fauj

  Rakhti hai jo mujh ko tabaah karne ke

  Saare mansoobe

  Sab iraade

  Magar main aisa jo maan bhi loon

  To sochta hoon

  Ye khel kab hai

  Ye jang hai jis ko jeetna hai

  Ye jang hai jis mein sab hai jaayaz

  Koi ye kehta hai jaise mujh se

  Ye jang bhi hai

  Ye khel bhi hai

  Ye jang hai par khiladiyon ki

  Ye khel hai jang ki tarah ka

  Main sochta hoon

  Jo khel hai

  Is mein is tarah ka usool kyon hai

  Ki koi mohra rahe ke jaaye

  Magar jo hai baadshah

  Us par kabhi koi aanch bhi na aaye

  Vazeer hi ko hai bas ijaazat

  Ke jis taraf bhi vo chaahe jaaye

  Main sochta hoon

  Jo khel hai

  Is mein is tarah ke usool kyon hai

  Piyaada jab apne ghar se nikle

  Palat ke vaapas na aane paaye

  Main sochta hoon

  Agar yahi hai usool

  To phir usool kya hai

  Agar yahi hai ye khel

  To phir ye khel kya hai

  Main in savaalon se jaane kab se ulajh raha hoon

  Mere mukhalif ne chaal chal di hai

  Aur ab meri chaal ke intezaar mein hai

  What game is this?

  My opponent has made a move

  And now

  Awaits mine.

  But for ages

  I stare at the black and white pieces

  That lie on white and black squares

  And I think

  What are these pieces?

  Were I to assume

  That these pieces

  Are no more than wooden toys

  Then what is a victory or a loss?

  If in winning there are no joys

  Nor sorrows in losing

  What is the game?

  I think

  If I must indeed play

  Then I must believe

  That these pieces are indeed king and minister

  Indeed these are foot soldiers

  And arrayed before them

  Is that enemy army

  Which harbours all plans evil

  All schemes sinister

  To destroy me

  But were I to believe this

  Then is this a game any longer?

  This is a war that must be won

  A war in which all is fair

  It is as if somebody explains:

  This is a war

  And a game as well

  It is a war, but between players

  A game between warriors

  I think

  If it is a game

  Then why does it have a rule

  That whether a foot soldier stays or goes

  The one who is king

  Must always be protected?

  That only the minister has the freedom

  To move any which way?

  I think

  Why does this game

  Have a rule

  That once a foot soldier leaves home

  He can never return?

  I think

&nb
sp; If this is the rule

  Then what is a rule4?

  If this is the game

  Then what is the name of the game5?

  I have been wrestling for ages with these questions

  But my opponent has made a move

  And awaits mine.

  Fahmida Riaz

  It delighted my parochial heart to find that Fahmida Riaz (b. 1946) had spent some childhood time in Hyderabad before migrating to Pakistan. Her first book was published at the precociously young age of twenty-two. Called Patthar ki Zaban (The Language of Stones), it launched her as a voice to be reckoned with in Urdu poetry. Her second volume Badan Dareeda (The Body, Exposed) led to conservative outcry, but provided a completely new idiom to Urdu poetry. It was her outspoken political views that forced her to go into exile; she lived in India, but has since returned to Pakistan.1

  My favourite translation of a Riaz poem, other than her own efforts, is of ‘Chadar aur Chaardiwaari’ (‘The Veil and the Four Walls of Home’), translated by my brother Ali Mir.2 In this anthology, I include three small poems/excerpts. The first expressed her disillusionment at the Indian nuclear blasts of 1998, comparing the silliness of that decision to that of her own country’s. The second is a stunningly evocative poem on the practice of stoning adulterers, and is inspired by a historical account of a stoning in which, while a couple was being stoned to death, the man kept trying to shield his doomed lover from the stones that would eventually take both their lives. The final poem—a franker expression of female sexuality—refers to the Biblical/Islamic tale in which Cain slew Abel when his sacrifice of a goat was not accepted by Allah. In some versions, Cain had desired his sister Aqleema for himself although she was forbidden to him.

  1Naya Bharat

  Tum bilkul hum jaise nikle

  Woh moorakhta, woh ghaamadpan

  Aakhir pahunchi dwaar tumhaare

  Prait dharam ka naach raha hai

  Saare ulte kaarya karoge

  Tum bhi baithe karoge socha

  Kaun hai Hindu, kaun nahin hai

  Ek jaap sa karte jao

  Kitna veer mahaan tha Bharat

  New India

  You turned out just like us

  The same silliness, the same obstinacy

  Has finally reached your doorstep as well.

  Now that the mad ghost of religion has begun to dance

  You will do everything wrong

  You will ask—Who is a true Hindu? Who is not?

  Now go and start chanting

  How great, how glorious was Bharat once!

  2Rajm

  Paagal tan mein kyon basti hai

  Ye vahshi tareek aarzoo

  Bahut qadeem, udaas aarzoo

  Taareeki mein chhup jaane ki

  Ek lamhe ko

  Ek lamhe ko

  Rab-e Qahhar! Ye mojiza kya hai?

  Tera khalq kiya hua Aadam

  Lazzat-e sang ka kyon khwaahaan hai?

  Is ki sahr-zada cheekhon mein

  Ye kis barzakh ka naghma hai?

  Kya thhi badan ke zakhm ki lazzat?

  Betaabi se yoon raqsaan hai

  Har bun-e moonh se surkh-o-siyaah lahu ka darya ubal pada hai

  Stoning

  In the mad heart does reside

  A wild, dark desire

  An ancient desire, ineffably sad

  To be one with the blackness

  For a moment

  A moment.

  My overpowering God! What is this miracle

  That your creation, this Adam

  Seeks the pleasures of this mortal stoning?

  In which limbo was this song born?

  Why did the body seek these wounds?

  It is as if it dances, impatient

  While every wound froths with red and black blood.

  3Aqleema

  Aqleema

  Jo Habeel aur Qabeel ki maajaai hai

  Maajaai

  Magar mukhtalif

  Mukhtalif beech mein raanon ke

  Aur pistaanon ki ubhaar mein

  Aur apne pet ke andar

  Aur kookh mein

  In sab ki qismat kyon hai

  Ik farba bhed ke bachhe ki qurbani

  Vo apne badan ki qaidi

  Tapti hui dhoop mein jalte

  Teeley par khadi hui hai

  Patthar par naqsh bani hai

  Is naqsh ko ghaur se dekho

  Lambi raanon se oopar

  Ubharte pistaano se oopar

  Pecheeda kookh se oopar

  Aqleema ka sar bhi hai

  Allah, kabhi Aqleema bhi kalaam kare

  Aur kuchh poochhe

  Aqleema

  Aqleema

  Who was the sister of Abel and Cain

  Sister

  But different

  Different between her thighs

  And in the swell of her breasts

  And inside her stomach

  And in her womb

  And the fate of all these body parts

  Was linked to the sacrifice of a fattened goat.

  She, a prisoner of her body,

  Stands on a hillock

  And burns in the hot sun

  As if she has been drawn on stone

  Look at this drawing carefully

  Move above the long thighs

  And the swell of the breasts

  And above the complicated womb—

  There is Aqleema’s head

  Allah, talk to Aqleema sometimes

  Ask her something.

  Parveen Shakir

  Vo to khushboo hai, hawaaon mein bikhar jaayega

  Mas’ala phool ka hai, phool kidhar jaayega

  He is fragrance, and into the winds he will flow

  The problem lies with the flower, where will it go?

  Parveen Shakir (1952–94) was a civil servant in Pakistan, who enjoyed immense fame before her untimely death in an automobile accident. Her first book of poems, Khushboo, was published when she was twenty-four.1 Her use of feminine tropes in the ghazal tradition marked her as an innovator in the form; for example, she is considered a pioneer in the deployment of the term ‘khushboo’ (fragrance), or in referring to the protagonist of the ghazal as ‘ladki’ (girl). Her poetry was self-conscious in rebelling against patriarchy. For example, consider the following verse:

  Aks-e khushboo hoon, bikharne se na roke koi

  Aur bikhar jaaoon to mujh ko na samete koi

  I am fragrance, nobody stop me from diffusing

  And if I diffuse, nobody try to corral me.

  Despite these obvious female-centric tropes, her poetry was still written mostly in the classical mode, and did not seem to aspire to the more consciously feminist aesthetic that her contemporaries in Pakistan like Kishwar Naheed, Fahmida Riaz, Ishrat Afreen and others pioneered. The ghazal I have chosen to translate here reflects this.2

  Kuchh to hava bhi sard thhi

  Kuchh to hava bhi sard thhi kuchh thha tera khayaal bhi

  Dil ko khushi ke saath saath hota rahaa malaal bhi

  Baat vo aadhi raat ki raat vo poore chaand ki

  Chaand bhi ain chait kaa us pe teraa jamaal bhi

  Sab se nazar bachaa ke vo mujh ko aise dekhta

  Ek dafaa to ruk gayi gardish-e maah-o-saal bhi

  Dil to chamak sakega kya phir bhi tarash ke dekh lo

  Sheeshaa-garaan-e shahr ke haath ka ye kamaal bhi

  Us ko na paa sake the jab dil ka ajeeb haal tha

  Ab jo palat ke dekhiye baat thi kuchh muhaal bhi

  Meri talab tha ek shakhs vo jo nahin milaa to phir

  Haath dua se yoon gira bhool gaya savaal bhi

  Shaam ki na’samajh hava, poochh rahi hai ek pata
<
br />   Mauj-e hava-e koo-e yaar kuchh to meraa khayaal bhi

  Us ke hi baazuon mein aur us ko hi sochte rahe

  Jism ki khwaahishon pe thhe rooh ke aur jaal bhi

  Partly the breeze was cold

  Partly it was that the breeze was cold

  And partly that I was thinking of you

  Slowly that night, as my happiness grew

  I felt a sharp twinge of that hurt old.

  Let us talk then of that late night

  That moment illuminated in the moon

  The best of months, the moon of June

  Illuminating your beauty in its light

  Secretly, my love fixed me with his glance

  While affecting a casual, insouciant air

  It did seem once for a moment there

  Time had stopped; the earth had ceased its dance.

  How can you make a sad thing shine

  But try you must to do your part

  Can you brighten my broken heart

  Dear jewellers of this city of mine?

  My heart’s sadness I could not quell

  When I realized I’d never win him

  But now that I reflect on my whim

  The quest was quite impossible.

  There was only one for whom I did care

  When I could not have him, it transpired

  That my hands at my sides stayed fixed, mired

  No longer could I lift them in prayer.

  The evening zephyr, so naive,

  Seeks its destination till the end

  Dear breeze of the street of my friend

  Have some consideration for me.

  In his embrace I did lay quiet

  And all I did was think of him

  Dominating my body’s whim

  My soul was a spiderweb, tight.

  Jameela Nishat

  Jameela Nishat (b. 1955) was born in the old city of Hyderabad, and still lives and works there. She runs a resource centre for women, while fulfilling other commitments. An English teacher by training and profession, she imbues her poetry with a frank description of what it means to be a Muslim woman in a world where the twin forces of patriarchy and Islamophobia are ascendant.

  Nishat’s poetry was featured in the influential volume Women Writing in India (edited by Susie Tharu and K. Lalita). Her language is often infused with the idiom of her native Dakkani. The poem below speaks of the experience of Muslim women whose clothing leads them to be identified racially, almost as if it were an extension of their bodies, their selves. The poem hinges on a young Muslim girl who is driven away from the cinema hall by a danda (stick). This refers perhaps to the moral police that tries to prevent devout women from watching movies.

 

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