Monday, September 17, 2012

Hindi Poetry


I write in English, but occasionally in Hindi too.

Here are two of my Hindi poems with their translations by me. Comments on the poems and translations are welcome. Please bear with my Hindi handwriting.


                                                                        1



                                                                 2






 THE  METROPOLIS  AND  THE  SKY 

The spotless blue sky
Said to the metropolis:
Look at me
How I
Casting aside
The dark and ragged sheet of clouds
Am new again
As I was
On the day of Creation.

And you
Your excretions
Into subterranean channels
Draining
Your down-and-out
To shanties beyond your boundaries
Restraining
Pretend to be spotless

Rise above yourself
And look down below
At the innumerable black spots
Embossed on your body
Like fly-shit
And that envelop of fumes
Which from your each pore
You continually on yourself pour
And how drinking that slow poison
You are committing suicide

If you can take respite
From your continual wheeling motion,
Borrow from me my seer’s eye
And peep into the dark recesses –
That are the source of all this muck

But the blind and deaf metropolis
Remained dumb
            -----

 OUR  OWN  HALF-TRUTHS

You think
You have solved
The riddle of life
By drawing a straight line between
Yes and no
Right and wrong
Good and bad
Virtue and sin

And I 
Vascillating between
Yes or no
Right or wrong
Good or bad
Virtue or sin
Have lost my way

Destiny has tricked us both

Life is
Neither the geometrical proposition
Neatly proved
By you
Nor the kite-string
Irrevocably tangled
In my hands

Neither you nor I
Have the means to untangle this thread 
And we’re both destined
To live out
Our own half-truths
            -----




Thursday, July 5, 2012

Saadat Hasan Manto


Saadat Hasan Manto (1912-1955): on His Three short Stories 

Year 2012 is the birth centenary year of Saadat Hasan Manto, the great Urdu short story writer. Born in pre-partition India in a village close to Samrala  in Ludhiana district  of Indian Punjab, he migrated to Pakistan in 1948.

I had the occasion to read on the Internet a few write-ups on him by Indian admirers of Manto,  and one written by SarmadSehbai a Pakistani poet, playwright and drama director. SarmadSehbai's write-up, The Politics of Exclusion, published in The Dawn, Lahore on 14 May 2012, was forwarded to me  by  a well-known Punjabi poet (once associated with the Naxalite movement in Punjab in the 1970s), Amarjit Chandan, now settled in UK, one of  my valued Internet acquaintances.

After reading that write-up I recollected my brief encounter with Manto’s works in the late 1970s when I was working on my M.Litt dissertation on the Indian Partition: The PartitionTheme in Hindi and Indo-Anglian Fiction. It was then that  I had read a few short stories by Manto, including the three most famous ones: Thanda Gosht (Cold, Like Ice), Khol Do (Open It) and Toba Tek Singh, all the three about the Partition.

After reading the write-up I re-read these three stories once again, in translation as well as in the original, and given here is my reaction.


The write-up by SarmadSehbai suggests how Manto, well known in Bombay’s film world, decided to migrate to Pakistan after he had been ‘betrayed’ by some of his friends, and how in Pakistan he was denounced and sidelined because  neither the newly created Pakistani state nor the Progressive Writers’ branch (PWA) of Pakistan  and nor many other  Pakistani writers  were willing to  endorse his unorthodox and subversive portrayal  life. He was accused of and tried for obscenity, though without success. However, one of his staunch supporters was Faiz Ahmad Faiz. Publishers and newspapers and journals refused to publish him, and he died an admired but a broken man, destroyed by financial difficulties and drinking.

The three stories named above would be rated  as classics  in any literature. They demonstrate what shaped Manto’s perception of the contemporary reality. Around the time  of the Partition,  parts of the Indian sub-continent had undergone  a metamorphosis; it was as if the human subconscious -  its corner that is the repository of fear, anger, hatred, revenge, brutality, aggression, sadism, greed and lust - had turned inside out; as if  the real and the surreal had interchanged their locations. What was prohibited,  hidden and  repressed, buried deep in the darkest recesses of the mind, had become manifest not in a dream or a nightmare but in real life; and what was on the surface, rational and civilizing,  was buried deep under, almost effaced from the memory. It was a long dark night when the Superego had gone to sleep and Id had risen like a monster to roam freely.

In these three stories, the spine-chilling horror of the first two and the surreal absurdity of the third arise out of Manto’s confrontation with this dark spectacle of the times. Perhaps his critics were shocked not because they saw something obscene and socially and culturally unacceptable, but because they were made to confront their (and our) hidden selves, as SarmadSehbai’s article seems to suggest. We must admire the way Manto constructs the three stories, each unique in its own way. In Thanda Gosht (Cold, Like Ice) Iswar Singh's frozen libido could perhaps be unravelled only in this way. His confession comes out  after his sexually virile wife’s (and Iswar Singh’s own) playful and elaborate attempts to arouse him fail, and she inflamed by her unfulfilled passion, suspicion and jealousy stabs him with his kirpan ( the same with which he had killed six Muslimsand forces the confession out of him, which leaves Iswar Singh cold like the  dead girl he had abducted after killing the six men  and tried to seduce. The whole movement of the story is so skilfully crafted towards its inevitable climax, the revelation of  Iswar Singh’s ‘ice-cold’ libido and finally perhaps his body. In Khol Do (Open It) the enormous gulf between what the reader knows and what the girl’s father, Sarajuddin, does not know and which makes him, in all innocence, shout with joy that his sexually ravaged daughter is ‘alive’ creates a dramatic irony (so carefully built up) that reminds one of Sophocles’ Oedipus, and its surprise ending of Maupassant’s The Necklace. Sarajuddin’s fate is as terrifying as that of Oedipus. The third story, Toba Tek Singh reads like a literal transcription of the surreal and absurd tragedy of the Partition, in which  one day a person wakes up to discover that the place  where he was born  and had lived his whole life,  where his forefathers had lived for centuries, is not his home but an enemy country, and he must leave it and flee with his life to an alien land about which he knows nothing, and he is, like Bishen Singh in the story, neither here nor there. If these three stories bring out the darkness within the human soul, we cannot blame Manto for he showed what he saw and what others were unwilling or unable to see, or at least with the same intense and ruthless gaze. And the interesting thing is that Manto only shows, and everything is self-evident.
       
These stories remind me of another story, Kafan, (The Shroud) by Prem Chand, published in 1936, the year of his death. Here Prem Chand is able to discover in everyday life the debasement and dehumanization that Manto saw in that sub-continental conflagration just a decade later.  Prem Chand’s story is not merely about two dehumanised individuals, it is a surreal image of the rural India of his times (may be of our own too) where generations long poverty, and hunger, exploitation and marginalisation have emptied the human heart of all feeling. In this story Prem Chand, like Manto but unlike himself, only shows. If anything, his sympathies include the seemingly debased father-son duo, Ghisoo and Madhav. 

These stories still make great reading.

Friday, May 25, 2012

ALL'S WELL: A POEM


ALL’S  WELL


Every evening after dinner
When I go out for a walk
I seldom fail to talk
To the chowkidar, and ask:
‘How’s life?’
And every time I hear him tell:
‘Sir, all’s well.’

And then as I move out for a stroll
I roll my tongue over his words.
With his thin stunted and worn out body
His sickly wife and four scrawny kids
On thirty rupees a day
What do these words convey?

My over-stuffed pouch begins to gurgle
With wind, and I long to tell him
Of the debates I often have with my comrades:
How his father and grandfather were victims
Of colonialism, of imperialist conspiracies
How he himself has been undone
By the aborted socialist revolutions.
But now, all these spurious prescriptions
Having been consigned to the garbage heap
Of history, his children have simply to wait
For the sweet nectar of life to filtrate
From the seventh heaven
Of liberalization.

These amazing truths to him I yearn to tell
But perhaps he already knows
That’s why every time I ask: ‘How’s life?’
He says: ‘Sir, all’s well.’
             -----

As will be obvious from a reading, this poem was written many years before the arrival of the now famous lyric, All Izz Well, from the Hindi film 3 Idiots. Rancho, the hero of the film, tells us that he learnt  this expression from the chowkidar in his locality. This coincidence, that the same words are spoken by a chowkidar in the film and my poem separated in time and place, seemed interesting to me. This made me bring this poem  of mine out  on my blog,  and also delve a little bit into the history of this expression.

To me the expression immediately brings up the memory of Shakespeare’s play All’s Well That Ends Well (1601). From the Internet one would find out that the expression is not original to Shakespeare and he seemed to have borrowed it from John Heywood (16th century English playwright, poet and collector of proverbs) who used it in 1546 in a play, and this expression was already in use as a proverb in the English language.

However the proverb All’s Well That Ends Well  has a very different connotation and meaning  from its clipped version All’s Well, whose Hindi versions, Sab thik hai/sab kuchch thik thak hai, people in the Hindi-speaking world  are familiar with. 

The proverb in itself and also in Shakespeare’s play implies that ‘a risky enterprise is justified so long as it turns out well in the end’. But, of course, this is being wise after the enterprise has ended happily. It could well have ended in a disaster, in which case we would need some other proverb, something like: Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

After Shakespeare,  the English Victorian poet Robert Browning came to my  mind for I thought he had used the clipped version of the  expression, but when I checked  I found that he had indeed used it but with a slight change. The following lines from Robert Browning’s dramatic lyric Pippa Passes (1841)  are very famous indeed:
                                                           
  
Pippa’s Song
                                                           
The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven—
All's right with the world!

Browning has replaced ‘well’ with ‘right’.

These lines, expressing a mood of facile optimism (portraying a peaceful world over-seen  by a benign God), might have set the tone for so many subsequent uses of the expression All’s Well.  I can’t think of any but one example, among many, I can pick up from the Internet is a Christmas EP disc  All Is Well  (2006) by a famous American singer Clay Aiken (an American Idol icon, one can listen him on YouTube)  which contains four songs  all expressing the conventional Christian idea of redemption (regaining the paradise that was  lost by Adam and Eve through the sin of disobedience) through the sacrifice of Jesus. The four songs in the Aiken EP sing of the birth of Jesus and  the promise of redemption, Isaiah’s  prophecy in the Old Testament about Emmanuel’s arrival, the arrival of Santa with his Christmas gifts,  a hope for an end to all strife and wars, and a prayer for peace in the world. The essence of the message is that ‘all is well’ because of the coming of Jesus, of his sacrifice and compassion. It is an assertion of faith in the sacrifice of Jesus. Here are the opening lines of the song titled: All Is Well:

All is well all is well
Angels and men rejoice
For tonight darkness fell
Into the dawn of love's light
Sing A-le
Sing Alleluia

All is well all is well
Let there be peace on earth
Christ is come go and tell
That He is in the manger
Sing A-le
Sing Alleluia



What about the lyric in 3 idiots All Izz Well was the watchword that Rancho’s chowkidar used  to make the residents feel that everything was fine and they could sleep peacefully without any fears. The truth was that the locality was hit by thefts, giving the lie to the chowkidar’s  assurance. The watchword gave the residents a false sense of security and resulted in a loss of faith in the chowkidar. The chowkidar, unlike Jesus, turned out to be a false messiah. However, in the film the expression All Izz Well becomes a magic mantra which, when chanted or sung, rescues one out of any crisis.

The message in all this is perhaps that never mind the difficulties in life, everything works out well in the end if one has faith in oneself and God, or something like this. What a soul comforting thought!

In my poem, the focus is on the Chowkidar’s own life. And the expression takes on an altogether different meaning. The Chowkidar’s reply, ‘Sir, all’s well’ to the speaker’s question is evasive, to say the least. He is able to see the hypocrisy behind the speaker’s superficial interest in his well-being, So he hides his own misery behind what has become a stock expression. 

It would be interesting to see the viewers' reactions to my poem and also  suggest other ramifications of the expression All’s Well.



Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Begum Akhtar

 









Begum Akhtar

How does music affect us? A question that is very difficult to answer. The answers must be different for different people. But one thing on which many may agree is that music, great music, often takes both the musician and the listener beyond time and space. This is especially true of devotional music, where the singer sings of and for God, as we say. Sufi music possibly tends to do this precisely, leading the performer and the listener towards ‘fana’, dissolution, or annihilation of the self. Here are a few lines from a Sufi poet (I don’t know who) that say something similar, though in a different context:

The more I polish the mirror of my heart
The less I see myself
The shadow becomes brighter and brighter
Until it disappears

I don’t know whether worldly music also affects its listeners  in the same way, but from the vast audiences that are held mesmerized by the modern performers one may conclude that something similar may also be happening there. Perhaps it’s the intrinsic power of music, the purity of notes and beats and their range, sequence, repetition, the tempo, the rise and fall, harmony and counterpoint combined with the performer’s passion that is more important than anything else. The experience  of ‘submergence’ must be universal, whatever one believes or does not believe in. And, Begum Akhtar, who sings mostly of worldly love and its pain and joy, can also affect one in the same way.

Here are two of my poems that try to capture this kind of experience of listening to music.

TO  BEGUM  AKHTAR

In this mortal world
Full of grim struggle
Where every human act
Chops time into tiny bits
The continuous flow of melody
From your lips
Heals all lacerations
And knits the disjointed time
Into a seamless whole.
The ethereal smile
Floating on your lips
Like a cumulous cloud
Binds us into a mesmeric trance
While the heavens sway
To the queenly sway of your head.
            ------



 DISSOLUTION

The singer
A plump mass of flesh
Surrounded by her accompanists
Sat there on the stage
On her haunches, legs folded into each other
Her ethereal voice radiating through the air

She sang with such passion
It seemed her body was melting
Losing its fleshliness
Imperceptibly dissolving into a melody
That seeped through the bounds of the auditorium
Into the air beyond
Into the sky, and the infinite space
Across the solar system and the neighbouring stars
Submerging one galaxy after another
Until it permeated the whole universe
And then
There was neither the lady nor the accompanists
Neither the auditorium nor the audience
Neither the earth nor the sky
Neither the stars nor the galaxies
Neither the universe nor the melody
---