The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry (13 page)

If nothing else, we have at least dared to dream of dawn

That which we’d never glimpsed, to that place our gaze has gone.

Raja Nazar Mohammed Janjua (1910–75) preferred to be known as Noon Meem Rashid. He will also be known as a true exponent of the modernist craft and a master of Urdu free verse. He published four volumes of poetry, each with a wonderful title. They were
Maavra
(Beyond),
Iran mein Ajnabi
(A Stranger in Iran),
La Musawi Insan
(Nothingness = Human) and
Guman ka Mumkin
(The Possibility of Doubt).

Rashid worked for the United Nations, lived in England, and willed that his body be cremated. These disparate demographic details offer glimpses of the life of a modernist. In his poetry, he was especially contemptuous of the ghazal, choosing to free his words from rhyme, metre, linearity and social commentary. His poems dredge up from the subconscious a vibrant spectrum of individual ideas—quite unique in their time, but often imitated later by a growing army of acolytes.

Rashid’s poems do not lend themselves to easy interpretation, and I would not recommend them to the neophyte reader without some serious handholding.
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The poem I have translated below is the first part of an extended poem (Rashid wrote it in four discrete parts; each can be read on its own, or as part of a series). The story in brief involves an Iraqi potter named Hasan, who falls madly in love with a mysterious beauty called Jahanzad. Hasan’s passion induces in him a nine-year period of insanity that causes him to become distant from his craft. In a moment of relative lucidity, he encounters Jahanzad again, and unapologetic about his affliction, suggests that he may become the potter of old again, but only if his love is requited. It is a strange story of desire and creativity, of sanity and madness, and also represents the best traditions of the Urdu aazad nazm (free verse poem), where relaxing the strictures of rhyme and metre do not absolve the poet of the imperatives of rhythm.

Jahanzad, neeche gali mein tere dar ke aage

Ye main sokhta sar, Hasan Koozagar hoon!

Tujhe subha bazaar mein boodhe attar Yusuf 

Ki dukkan par main ne dekha

To teri nigaahon mein vo taabnaaki

Thhi main jin ki hasrat mein nau saal deevana phirta raha hoon

Jahanzad, nau saal deevana phirta raha hoon!

Ye woh daur tha jis me main ne

Kabhi apne ranjoor koozon ki jaanib

Palat kar na dekha . . .

Woh kooze, mere dast-e chabuk ke putle

Gil-o-rang-o-raughan ki makhlooq-e bejaan

Woh sargoshion mein ye kehte:

‘Hasan Koozagar ab kahan hai?

Woh hum se, khud apne amal se

Khudawand ban kar khudaaon ki manind hai rooy-e gardaan!’

Jahanzad, nau saal ka daur yoon mujh pe guzra

Ke jaise kisi shehr-e madfoon par waqt guzre.

Taghaaron mein mitti

Kabhi jis ki khushboo se waarafta hota tha main Sang-basta padi thi

Suraahi-o-meena-o-jam-o-suboo aur faanoos-o-guldaan

Meri hech-maya ma’eeshat ke, izhaar-e fan ke sahaare Shikasta pade the.

Main khud, main Hasan Koozagar, pa-ba gil, khaak bar-sar, barahna

Sar-e chaak zhooleeda-moonh, sar ba-zaanu

Kisi gham-zada devta ki tarah waaheme ke

Gil-o-la se khaabon ke sayyal kooze banata raha tha

Jahanzad, nau saal pehle 

Tu naadan thi lekin tujhe ye khabar thi

Ke main ne, Hasan Koozagar ne

Teri qaaf ki si ufaq taab aankhon mein dekhi hai vo taabnaaki

Ke jis se mere jism-o-jaan, abr-o-mahtaab ka

Rahguzar ban gaye the

Jahanzad, Baghad ki khaab goon raat

Vo rood-e Dajla ka saahil

Vo kashti, vo mallah ki band aankhen

Kisi khasta-jaan, ranj-bar koozagar ke liye

Ek hi raat vo kahrbaa thi

Ke jis se abhi tak hai paiwast us ka wajood,

Us ki jaan, us ka paikar

Magar ek hi raat ka zauq darya ki vo lehr nikla

Hasan Koozagar jis mein dooba to ubhra nahin hai!

Jahanzad, is daur mein roz, har roz

Vo sokhta bakht aa kar

Mujhe dekhti chaak par paa-ba-gil, sar-ba-zaanu

To shaanon se mujh ko hilaati . . .

(wahi chaak jo saal-haa saal jeene ka tanhaa sahaara raha tha!)

Vo shaanon se mujh ko hilaati:

‘Hasan Koozagar, hosh mein aa

Hasan apne veeran ghar par nazar kar

Ye bachchon ke tannoor kyon-kar bharenge?

Hasan, ai mohabbat ke mare,

Mohabbat ameeron ki baazi

Hasan apne deevar-o-dar par nazar kar’

Mere kaan mein ye nawa-e hazeen yoon thi jaise

Kisi doobte shakhs ko zer-e gardaab koi pukaare!

Vo askhon ke ambaar phoolon ke ambaar thhe, haan

Magar main, Hasan Koozagar, shehr-e auhaam ke un

Kharaabon ka mahjoor tha jis

Mein koi sadaa, koi jumbish

Kisi murgh-e parran ka saaya

Kisi zindagi ka nishaan tak nahin tha!

Jahanzad, main aaj teri gali mein

Yahaan, raat ki sard-goon teergi mein

Tere dar ke aage khada hoon

Sar-o-mu pareshaan

Dareeche se vo qaaf ki si tilismi nigaahen

Mujhe aaj phir jhaankti hain

Zamaana, Jahanzad, vo chaak hai jis pe meena-o-jam-o-subu

Aur faanoos-o-guldaan

Ke maanind bante bigadte hain insaan

Main insaan hoon lekin

Ye nau saal jo gham ke qaalib mein guzre!

Hasan Koozagar aaj ek tauda-e khaak hai jis

Mein nam ka asar tak nahin hai

Jahanzad, bazaar mein subha attar Yusuf

Ki dukkan par teri aankhen

Phir ek baar kuchh keh gayi hain

Un aankhon ki taabinda shokhi

Se uthi hai phir tauda-e khaak mein nam ki halki si larzish

Yahi shaayad is khaak ko gil bana de!

Tamanna ki wus’at ki kis ko khabar hai, Jahanzad, lekin

Tu chaahe to ban jaoon main phir

Wahi koozagar jis ke kooze

Thhe har kaakh-o-ku aur har shehr-o-qariya ki naazish

Thhe jin se ameer-o-gada ke masaakin darakhshaan

Tamanna ki wus’at ki kis ko khabar hai, Jahanzad, lekin

Tu chahe to main phir palat jaoon un apne mehjoor koozon ki jaanib

Gil-o-la ke sookhe taghaaron ki jaanib

Ma’eeshat ke, izhaar-e fan ke sahaaron ki jaanib

Ke main us gil-o-la se, us rang-o-raughan 

Se phir vo sharaare nikaaloon

Ke jin se dilon ke kharaabe hon roshan!

Jahanzad, in the street below, just ahead of your house

I stand with heart aflame, Hasan the potter.

In the morning I saw you in the shop of that old perfumer, Yousuf

And your eyes had the same passion

The desire for which committed me to nine years of madness.

Jahanzad, nine years of insanity!

That was the time when I

Cast not another look at my spurned pots

Those pots, statues enslaved by my creative whip

Lifeless creations of clay, colour and grease

They would speak in whispers

‘Where is Hasan the potter?

He has distanced himself from us, from his labour, and

Like gods, he has become invisible.’

Jahanzad, those nine years happened to me

Like time happens to ruins, to buried cities

The dust in the flowerpots

Whose fragrance once enamoured me

Lay under stones

Goblet and cup and chandelier and lantern and vase

The artefacts through which I expressed my existence, my art

Lay broken

Me, myself, Hasan the potter, immobile as a tree

A dusty face in front of the wheel, head bowed

Lay there like a sad deity

And with the clay and the nothingness of doubts, I made pots of empty dreams.

Jahanzad, nine years ago,

You were innocent, but I’m sure you knew

That I, Hasan the potter, had seen

In your bright eyes, like the mystical mountain of Caucasus

Such heat, such passion

That my body and soul had become

The wayfarers of clouds and the moon.

Remember Jahanzad, that dreamy Baghdad night

The banks of the Tigris

The boat, the closed eyes of the boatman

I tell you that for a tired, disheartened potter

That one night was such a maelstrom

That even now, his being, his life, his body

Remain associated with them

But the passion of one night turned into such a tidal wave

That Hasan the potter, once he went under, has not surfaced yet.

Jahanzad, in those days, every day

That unlucky wife of mine would come

Find me on the wheel immobile, bowed of head

(The same wheel that had been our sole means of support for years)

And she would shake me by the shoulder

Gently she would shake me

‘Hasan the potter, regain your senses

Hasan, cast a glance at your ruined house

How will the ovens of the children be filled?

O love-struck Hasan

Love is for the rich

Hasan, look around at your own hovel!’

To my ears, that sorrowful voice was akin

To someone calling a drowning man in a whirlpool

Those tears were light like flowers but

I, Hasan the potter, had been banished to that city of illusions

Where no sound, no movement

No shadow of a bird overhead

No sign of life remained!

Jahanzad, I am now in your street

In this cold darkness of the night

I stand again before your house

Hair tousled, mouth agape

From the window, those Caucasus-like magical eyes

Once again gaze at me

The world, Jahanzad, is a wheel where

Like goblets and glasses and vases, humans are built and broken

I am a human too

But these nine years I have spent in a funk of grief

Have turned Hasan the potter into a clod of earth

That does not harbour even a sign of moisture.

Jahanzad, in the market, at the shop of the old perfumer Yousuf

Your eyes have spoken to me again

And out of their beauty has emerged

A hint of moisture that may turn this clod of earth into clay again.

Who is aware of the limits of passion, Jahanzad, but

If you wish, I can again become that potter

Whose creations were the pride of palace and hovel

Of city and village

Which adorned the houses of rich and poor alike.

Who is aware of the limits of passion, Jahanzad, but

If you wish, I will return to my deserted pots

Those flowerpots filled with clay and nothingness

Toward the joy of creation and its display

That from that clay and nothingness, that colour and grease,

I produce again such sparks

That would light up the ruins of many a heart!

If there ever was a ‘Mount Rushmore’ of Urdu poetry, Faiz’s face would be under serious contention for being carved in granite. Like Ghalib and Iqbal, Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911–84) has been written about, translated and commented upon relentlessly. The official website of Faiz
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contains audio files, and anyone looking to find a great collection of Faiz poems being sung, performed, declaimed and celebrated would do well to search for the poet’s work on YouTube, and then proceed to knock themselves out in delight. Faiz’s work has been well translated by V.G. Kiernan in a pleasing format that includes the poem in Urdu script, its transliteration and two forms of translation.
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Faiz was a Ghalibian, a Gandhian and a Marxist rolled into one. His poetry was infused with an unsurpassed lyricality, but spoke evocatively and urgently against regimes of exploitation. He was an early member of the Progressive Writers’ Association, and formed a Punjab chapter in 1936. He wrote poems against colonialism, and after Independence/Partition, settled in Lahore. He was among the Pakistanis who travelled to India in 1948 to attend Gandhi’s funeral. His activism in the labour movement irked the right-wing elements in the Pakistani state, especially Ayub Khan. Months after Khan’s elevation to the position of commander-in-chief of the Pakistan Army in 1951, Faiz and several of his colleagues were imprisoned under trumped-up conspiracy charges. He was incarcerated for four years, during which he wrote some of his finest poetry.
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Even after his release, he was subject to surveillance and harassment, and spent a lot of years in quasi-exile in the Soviet Union and the Middle East where his poetry developed a truly international ethos. He won the Lenin Peace Prize in 1962, and things came full circle when the Government of Pakistan eventually awarded him its highest civilian honour, the Nishan-e Imtiaz (posthumously in 1990).

During his incarceration, Faiz’s poetry exhibited a strong metaphorical connection with the trope of
qafas
(cage) and the relationship of the prisoner with the
saba
(breeze). His poems abounded with Sufi metaphors; for example, he incorporated Mansoor Hallaj’s famous declaration ‘
An-al Haq
’ (‘I am God’) as a political cry in his nazm ‘
Hum dekhenge
’ (‘We will see’; incidentally that particular nazm became the anthem of Pakistanis struggling for democratic rights and civil liberties under Zia-ul Haq; Iqbal Bano’s magical rendition of the poem at the height of Zia’s powers is a joy to hear).

In this volume, I have translated four of Faiz’s poems, all of which have been extremely well performed by a number of well-known artistes.
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Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

Chashm-e nam, jaan-e shoreeda kaafi nahin

Tohmat-e ishq-posheeda kaafi nahin

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

Dast-afshan chalo, mast-o-raqsaan chalo

Khaak bar-sar chalo, khoon ba-damaan chalo

Raah takta hai sab shahr-e janaan chalo

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

Haakim-e shahr bhi, majmaa-e aam bhi

Teer-e ilzaam bhi, sang-e dushnaam bhi

Subh-e nashaad bhi, roz-e nakaam bhi

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

In ka dum-saaz apne siva kaun hai?

Shahr-e jaanan mein ab baa-safaa kaun hai?

Dast-e qaatil ke shaayaan raha kaun hai?

Rakht-e dil baandh lo, dil figaaro chalo

Phir hameen qatl ho aayen yaaro chalo.

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo.

Come in shackles to the marketplace

The teary eye is not enough

Nor is the accusation of concealed love

Come in shackles to the marketplace

With hands held high, swaying and dancing, come

Walk with sand in your hair and blood on your shirtfront

The city of our beloved beckons, come

Come in shackles to the marketplace

The ruler of the city awaits, as does the multitude

The arrow of slander and the stone of invective awaits too

The forlorn morning too, and the unfulfilled day

Come in shackles to the marketplace

Who is their champion save us?

In the city of our beloved, is there anyone left pure?

Who is ready for the executioner’s sword?

Pack up your hearts’ belongings, O broken-hearted ones

Let it be us again who are murdered, friends

Come in shackles to the marketplace.

Tum aaye ho na shab-e intezaar guzri hai

Talaash mein hai sahar, baar baar guzri hai

Junoon mein jitni bhi guzri, bakaar guzri hai

Agarche dil pe kharaabi hazaar guzri hai

Hui hai hazrat-e naaseh se guftagu jis shab

Vo shab zaroor sar-e ku-e yaar guzri hai

Vo baat saare fasaane mein jis ka zikr na tha

Vo baat un ko bahut na-gavaar guzri hai

Na gul khile hain, na unse mile, na mai pi hai

Ajeeb rang mein ab ke bahaar guzri hai

Chaman mein ghaarat-e gulcheen se jaane kya guzri

Qafas se aaj saba beqaraar guzri hai

Neither you came, nor did this night of waiting cease

The impatient morning has come and gone many times

The time spent in passion, was spent well

Even though the heart suffered its share of pain

Every night that the well-wisher advised me to desist

That night I spent at my lover’s lane

That matter which was never mentioned in the story

Was the one to which my love took the greatest offence

Neither roses bloomed, nor was my love met, nor wine drunk

In such a strange way this spring has been squandered

I wonder what havoc the gardener wreaked on the garden

For the zephyr has passed through my cage rather agitated.
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Ye dagh dagh ujaala, ye shab-gazeeda sahar

Vo intezaar tha jis ka, ye vo sahar to nahin

Ye vo sahar to nahin jis ki aarzoo le kar

Chale thhe yaar, ke mil jaayegi kahin na kahin

Falak ke dasht mein taaron ki aakhri manzil

Kahin to hoga shab-e sust-mauj ka sahil

Kahin to jaa ke rukega safina-e gham-e dil

Jawaan lahu ki pur-asraar shah-raahon se

Chale jo yaar to daaman pe kitne haath pade

Dayaar-e husn ki be-sabr khwaab-gaahon se

Pukarti rahin baahen, badan bulaate rahe

Bahut azeez thi lekin rukh-e sahar ki lagan

Bahut qareen tha haseenaan-e noor ka daaman

Subuk subuk thi tamanna, dabi dabi thi thakan

Suna hai ho bhi chuka hai firaaq-e zulmat-o-noor

Suna hai ho bhi chuka hai visaal-e manzil-o-gaam

Badal chuka hai bahut ahl-e dard kaa dastoor

Nishaat-e vasl halaal aur azaab-e hijr haraam

Jigar ki aag, nazar ki umang, dil ki jalan

Kisi pe chaara-e hijran ka kuchh asar hi nahin

Kahaan se aayi nigaar-e saba, kidhar ko gayi?

Abhi chiragh-e sar-e rah ko kuchh khabar hi nahin

Abhi giraani-e shab mein kami nahin aayi

Najaat-e deeda-o-dil ki ghadi nahin aayi

Chale chalo, ke vo manzil abhi nahin aayi

This pockmarked light, this night-inflected morning

This is not the dawn that we had awaited

Truly this is not the awaited dawn

That we friends had dreamed, sought, and in search set out.

The last harbour of the stars in the wasteland of the skies

Somewhere, there had to be a bank on this slow river of the night

Where the boat of the wounded heart could find ground

When we comrades walked on the tumultuous highways of young blood

So many hands clutched at our shirts to stall us

On the roads of beauty lay impatient boudoirs

Where embraces awaited, and bodies called out

But the face of the dawn was too beloved

The laps of the luminous beauties were too limited

And we went on, with bated passion, and muted exhaustion

And now they tell us that darkness and light have been separated

That journey and destination have finally been united

The experiences of the pain-afflicted are now transformed

Such that the joy of meeting is now legal and the pain of separation banned.

But is that true?

For the fire in my gut, the longing of my eyes, and the pain in my heart

Do not show any signs of being cured of parting

Where did the painted morn come from, where did it go?

The lamp at the highway has no news of it

The abatement of the darkness is not here yet

The deliverance awaited by eyes and hearts is not here yet

Keep moving, for the destination is not here yet.

Mujh se pehli si mohabbat, meri mehboob na maang

Main ne samjha thha ke tu hai to darakhshaan hai hayaat

Tera gham hai to gham-e dahr ka jhagda kya hai

Teri soorat se hai aalam mein bahaaron ko sabaat

Teri aankhon ke siva duniya mein rakhhaa kya hai

Tu jo mil jaaye to taqdeer nigoon ho jaaye

Yoon na thha, main ne faqat chaaha thhaa yoon ho jaaye

Aur bhi dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke siva

Raahaten aur bhi hain vasl ki raahat ke siva

Anginat sadiyon ke taareek bahimaana tilism

Resham-o-atlas-o-kam-khwaab men bunvaaye huwe

Jaa-ba jaa bikte huwe koocha-o-bazaar mein jism

Khaak mein lithde huwe, khoon mein nahlaaye huwe

Jism nikle huwe amraaz ke tannooron se

Peep bahta hua gal-te huwe naasooron se

Laut jaati hai udhar ko bhi nazar, kya keeje?

Ab bhi dilkash hai tera husn magar kya keeje?

Aur bhi dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke siva

Raahaten aur bhi hain vasl ki raahat ke siva

Mujh se pehli si mohabbat, meri mehboob na maang

My love, do not ask me for that old love again

I had felt that with you around, the world would be luminous

If I had your sorrows, what were the sorrows of this world worth?

Through your visage, spring had beauty

What else was left on this earth but your eyes?

If I could have you, my fortune would be resplendent

It was not to be, it was just my fantasy.

Indeed, there are more pains in the world than love

And more joys than the joy of union

For countless centuries, dark odious spells

Stand cloaked in silk and velvet and fine fabric

While on streets and markets, bodies are sold like commodities

Coated with dust, bathed in blood

Bodies fresh out of the ovens of disease

Pus flowing quietly from rotting, unhealed wounds

But the gaze returns there too, what am I to do?

Your beauty is alluring still, but what am I to do?

Indeed, there are more pains in the world than love

And more joys than the joy of union

My love, do not ask me for that old love again.