The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry (21 page)

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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

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.

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 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

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 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 (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.

Burqa pehan kar nikli

Degree bhi main ne li

Computers main ne seekha

Doosron se aage

Main ne khud ko paaya

Ammi bhi bahut khush thhi

Abba bhi bahut khush

Haathon mein apne

Main ne

Koh-e Toor uthaya

Zamaane ko raund daloon

Ye dil mein main ne thhana

Ban jaaoongi Sikandar

Kali naqaab ke andar

Har saans ne pukaara

Mauj masti main karne nikli

Theatre mein joonhi pahunchi

Dande ne mujh ko roka

Burqa mana hai ladki

Kaale naqaab mein kaala dhuaan sa uthha

Us waqt

Vahin par

Main ne

Burqa utaar phenka

I stepped out in a burqa

And yet graduated from college

Learned computer programming

And found myself

Head and shoulders ahead of my peers

My mother was thrilled

And my father, he was ecstatic

In my hands,

I held Mount Sinai

I could conquer this world

So my heart believed

I would be Alexander in a black veil

Every breath screamed.

One day I stepped out to have fun

And as I entered a cinema hall

Was accosted by a stick

‘Girl, no burqas allowed here!’

From under the black veil arose the black smoke of fury

At that very moment

I

Threw away my burqa.