The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry
Page 19
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
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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.