The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry (20 page)

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 UrduShahkar
1
, 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.

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

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.

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.

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

Jaane kitne toote kuchle bebas 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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

If this is the rule

Then what is a rule
4
?

If this is the game

Then what is the name of the game
5
?

I have been wrestling for ages with these questions

But my opponent has made a move

And awaits mine.