Preface to 'Dast e Saba' by Faiz Ahmad Faiz (Translation)

An era has passed since Ghalib wrote that an eye that can’t see the river Tigris in a drop of water is not an eye that has sight but rather it is a children’s play. If Ghalib was our contemporary, then probably one of the critics would have called out that Ghalib had insulted the children’s play. Or that Ghalib appears to be a proponent of propaganda in literature. To urge a poet’s eye to see Tigris in a drop is utter propaganda. His eye is only interested in beauty and if beauty is seen in a drop then it should be of no concern to the poet if the drop belongs to either Tigris or a street. To show Tigris is the job of a sage, philosopher or a politician; this not the work of a poet.

If what these individuals said was right, then regardless of the fact that the honor of the ways of the skilled artists remained intact or not, their job would have become much easier. But fortunately or unfortunately, literary art (or any other art) is not children’s play. That’s why even Ghalib’s sight of the eyes is not enough; it’s not enough because not only a poet or a writer has to see Tigris in a drop of water but they also have to show it. Furthermore, if we consider Ghalib’s Tigris to be life and the system of existing realities, then it means that the writer himself is a drop of that Tigris. It means that the responsibility of uniting with the countless other drops in order to determine the river’s direction, flow, shape and it’s destination also falls squarely on the shoulders of the writer.


You can say that the job of the poet isn’t mere observation, rather struggle is also mandatory for him. Observing the perturbed drops in the Tigris of life depends on his sight. Showing it to others depends upon his literary prowess, but to intervene in its flow shows the strength of his passion and the heat of his blood.

All these three endeavors require unceasing effort and struggle.

The system of life is not a stagnant, stone-kissing, imprisoned water of a pond which can be comprehended by the faulty view of the observer. Between the treacherous ways of the distant mountains, snow melts, streams emerge and they tear apart the stones to meet each other. Then this cutting and growing water expands and contracts itself in the valleys, forests and plains. The perceiving sight that has not seen the stages and features of life’s ocean in human history won’t be able to see Tigris in a drop. Then, let’s say that the glimpse of the poet reached these distant and current places but if in their depiction, his speaking prowess didn’t support him, or that to reach the next destination, his life and body didn’t agree to do all the struggle then the poet is not vindicated by his art.

Probably it is not essential to explain this long and expanded metaphor in the language of daily day life. I just want to say that to be aware of the collective struggle of human life, to participate in that struggle to the extent that one can, is not only a requirement of life but also the demand of art.

Art is a part of life and artistic struggle is an aspect of that struggle. This demand always stays, therefore the struggle of a seeker of art has no nirvana. His art is an eternal struggle and an unceasing effort.

In this effort, success or failure depends upon one’s capacity and ability. But to be busy in that effort is nevertheless both possible and essential.

These few pages are also an effort of this kind. In showing the aspects of the effort of fulfilling the great responsibilities of art, it’s possible that the elements of showing off, bragging or narcissism might be observable. But no matter how minor the effort is, it’s better than one’s shame and escape from either life or art.


Faiz 

Central Jail Hyderabad
16th September 1956

'Silhouettes': A Translation of 'Parchayan' by Sahir Ludhianvi (Part 3)

Click here to read Part 1
Click here to read Part 2

You, a thousand miles away from here, somewhere in solitude
Or in a musical salon
Will be casting dreams about me, sitting in a stranger’s lap

And I, with a grief in my chest, work hard day and night
Dying for the sake of living
By humiliating my art, I fill the coffers of strangers

I am helpless, you are helpless, helpless is the whole world
The suffering of the body is heavier than heart’s
In this era, the price of living is either crucifixion or estrangement

I couldn’t rise to the cross, neither could you reach the threshold of industriousness
You loved me, but couldn’t embrace me
You and I are such souls, who couldn’t reach the destination of fulfillment

We live for the sake of living, but the chitas* burn in breaths
Silent loyalties burn
In the grave realms of facts, the shawls of dreams burn

And today, under these trees, two shadows have swayed again

 

Again, two hearts have come to meet
The tempest of death has risen again, the clouds of war have come over
I am thinking that they too, might (not) suffer the same end as ours
That their passion too, might (not) fail

Written in their fortunes too, there might (not) be an evening drenched in blood
The evening drenched in the blood of sun, I remember still
The end of the golden dreams of desire, I remember still.

Our love couldn’t bear the stroke of catastrophes
But at least they should get the night of (culmination of) desires

We only inherited the strife of homeless death
But at least they should get the ecstatic, singing life

For many days, it has been a hobby of politicians
That when kids grow up, they are murdered

For many days, it has been an obsession of rulers
That in faraway countries, famine may be sowed

For many days, the dreams of youth have been deserted
For many days, love searches for a refuge

For many days, on the highways witnessing oppression
The honor of the statue of existence searches for a refuge

Let’s go, to all the downtrodden souls
and tell them to give voice to each of their wounds

Our secret, is not ours alone, but belongs to everyone else
Let’s go and make the whole world our confidant

Let’s go to the political gamblers and tell them
That we abhor the tradition of conflict and war

The one that is not compatible with any color except (that of) blood
We abhor that mantle of existence

Say that if a murderer ever comes here
Then on every step, the land will keep becoming narrower

Every wave of the air would change its course to pounce
Every branch will become a vein of stone

Let’s stand and say today, to every warrior
That we need acres for the sake of work

We are not fond of snatching away anyone’s land
We only need ploughs on our lands

Say that no merchant should ever turn towards here
No maid shall be sold in this place

These fields have woken, these crops have revolted
No flower bed shall be sold here

This is the land of Gotham, and Nanak
Barbarians shall not walk on this pure land

Our blood is the heirloom for the new generation
On our blood, armies shall never be fed

Say_ _ _ that if we remain silent even today
Then this glowing soil is bound to be doomed

From the atomic monsters, shaped by madness
The Earth is threatened, the sky is threatened

In the previous war, only homes burnt, but this time
There’s no wonder if even these solitudes incinerate

In the previous war, only bodies burnt, but this time
There’s no wonder if even these silhouettes incinerate

Silhouettes of imaginations emerge

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*chita: Woods that Hindus use to burn the dead corpses. 


Acknowledgment: Special thanks to Fahad Mehmood Sokhta for his help. Visit his blog here.

'Silhouettes": A Translation of 'Parchayan' by Sahir Ludhianvi (Part 2)

Click here to read Part 1

How delightful were those times, how beautiful were those moments
How delicate were those sehrey*, how beautiful were those garlands


Every bloomed street of the hamlet was like an island of dreams
Every wave of the self, every stream of the morning breeze was like a reservoir of symphonies


Out of nowhere, from the lush fields, started coming the sounds of trots
Carrying the heavy odor of the gun powder, started coming the winds from the West


On the radiant face of Modernity, spread the clouds of exploitation
Savageness danced in every village, forests spread in to every city


From the civilized countries of the West, came a few uniformed men
Came the arrogant pompously, the intoxicated (who were) swaying

In the silent chest of the Earth, the tent poles were being rooted
On the ways soft like butter, boot scratches started making their marks


Beneath the horrific (sound of the) band of the armies, the sounds of the spinning wheels drowned
Beneath the sweltering dust of the jeeps, the robes of the flowers drowned


The price of humans started falling, the worth of commodities started rising
The stir of the chaupaul*** started decreasing, the conscription offices started increasing


The sturdy, gregarious men of the hamlet started going as soldiers
The trail from which few return, travelers started going on that path


With these departing batches, departed honor, departed youth
Departed also the young sons of mothers, the adored brothers of sisters


Melancholy started coming over hamlets, the springs of the galas ended
From the supple branches of Mango trees, the rows of swings vanished


Dust started flying in the markets, hunger started growing in the field
The impoverishment of the impoverished houses, grew in to a plight


Inflation grew in to shortage, the whole hamlet became bankrupt

The shepherdesses lost their way, the maidens left the panghat **
So many virgin maidens, left the doorstep of their mothers and fathers


Of the poverty stricken peasants, the plough and ox was sold, the fields were sold
From the hands of the desire to live, all the means to live were sold


When there remained nothing to sell, then the trading of bodies started happening
The thing that was forbidden even in solitude, started being dared in company


The silhouettes of imaginations emerge
You are coming at dusk, (your hair) hair scattered


Carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid accusations 

Silhouettes of imaginations emerge 

From the tearing apart of lust worshiping eyes
(You are) Hiding the reluctant nudity of the body


I have gone to the city and returned after peeking in to every door
Nowhere the worth of my labor was found

In the political casinos of the oppressors
Nowhere was the worth of the wisdom acquired by ill-luck found


Silhouettes of imaginations emerge


In your house reigns the doomsday’s noise
The messenger has brought a ‘telegraph’ from the battle field
The rendition of whom you held dearer than life,
That brother got killed in the ‘line of fire’


Silhouettes of imaginations emerge

On every footstep is a cluster of ignominies
On every corner are carnivals of disgraces 


Neither friendship, nor formality, nor whole-heartedness, nor sincerity
No one is of anyone else, today all are alone


Silhouettes of imaginations emerge

That pathway which is as deserted as my heart
Who knows where it is about to take you

The murderers of conscience are buying you
On the horizons is the redness of the blood of heart’s craving


Silhouettes of imaginations emerge


The evening drenched in the blood of sun, I remember still
The end of the golden dreams of desire, I remember still


That evening I realized that in this world, like fields
The smile of the scared maidens is also sold


That evening I realized, that in this world driven by wealth
The identity of two naive souls is also sold


That evening I realized, that when the parents’ harvest is snatched away
The priceless mark of the mother’s love is also sold


That evening I realized, that when brothers are killed in war
The youth of the sisters is sold in the taverns of capital


The evening drenched in the blood of sun, I remember still
The end of the golden dreams of desire, I remember still.

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*sehrey: A traditional head dress worn by the groom on his wedding. It covers his face.

**panghat: A small water fountain in homes in rural subcontinent.

***chaupal: A gathering place in the village 


Acknowledgment: Special thanks to Fahad Mehmood Sokhta for his help. Visit his blog here.


Update: 12-08-2016

Click here to read Part 3

Roads and Ways

May be we are searching
For a way, out of the way
Where the drifting shadows of the wall
Fail to temper our soul
Where footsteps echo without surety 
And that echo is listened 
Without insecurity
Where the contact with the ground
Is an affirmation of the things
To come: Not a reminder
Of the ones that didn't
That when we grow tired 
We speak about being touched
By something that we didn't know
Since we knew time

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Amidst the wheels searching for a way
Through the dust and heat of Mall road
Countless other ways are trodden 
By those relentless wheels driven by
The engine's collective unconscious:
The way of a non-wheel entity 
Wanting a quiet walk by the road
Or of a non-engine primate
Trying to read a book
In the adjacent Oval ground
The way of the one
Too perplexed to cross such a road
Non-engines of this age, and city
Lost the luxury of walking
Miles on a silent road.
(The road that used to be a way)

------------------------------------------

They break the roads
Without caring for the ways
Never built, never traveled
The ways that waited all too long
To watch themselves cemented
And 'honored' by concrete
The ways not frequented by neurotic wheels
The ways that are not sometimes seen
The ways that welcome a quiet walk
The ways that ease away
The woes of a capitalist day
Sanctuaries against productivity, without profit
But such places 
Won't win them elections, or profits.

----------------------------------------------

It's better to tell people they can move
Anywhere they want
Courtesy of the steel tracks being laid
Anywhere they want, as long as they are away
From the personal fields that are going
Infertile: Because so many people 
Are restlessly moving away
Or living in the charm
Of being able to do that.

'Silhouettes': A Translation of Parchayan by Sahir Ludhianvi (Part 1)

 Silhouettes

An ivory cloak enwrapping the nascent night

Is fleeting like a flocculent dream

Scenic flowers, petals and branches

(Are) limbering like a sylphlike body

The soft edges of the sky have dissolved (themselves) in the air

The earth is beautiful, like the land of dreams

Silhouettes of imaginations emerge

Sometimes like doubt, sometimes like faith

The trees we sought refuge under

Are standing still even today, like a guardian

Under their shade, two pulsating hearts have yet again

Come to listen and speak through silent lips

Who knows, with what struggle and effort

Have they stolen these transient moments

It was the same air, the season, the time

From where hence, we began our love

With a pulsating heart, shaking gazes

We made a trifling request in front of the invisible presence

That the buds of desire bloom in to flowers

The prayers of heart and sight (may) be answered

Silhouettes of imaginations emerge

You are coming (towards me), dodging the surveilling world

Lowering your gaze, hiding away your body

Shying away, fearing the whisper of your own footsteps

Scared by the swaying of your own shadow

Silhouettes of imaginations emerge

A yacht is sailing along (the direction of ) the winds

The sailor sings on the instrument of the stream

With every tiding wave, your body

Sways in my open arms

Silhouettes of imaginations emerge.

I am clipping a flower in your bun

Your eyes are straining with joy

I don’t know what I am about to say today

(My) tongue is dry, my voice stutters

Silhouettes of imaginations

Your tender arms are around my neck

The shadows of my lips are on yours

I am confident, that we won’t ever part

You doubt that we are strangers despite union

Silhouettes of imaginations emerge

The books that are scattered on my bed

You are picking them up with humility and grace

On the wedding night, on dhooluk which are sung

You are singing those songs in stifled tones

Silhouettes of imaginations emerge.

Update 12-08-2016
Click here to read Part 2

Click here to read Part 3

Book Review: The Catcher in the Rye

Victor Frankl believes that in the human psyche, there is a higher quest than the desire to maximize pleasure (satisfying sexual desires according to Freud) and minimizing pain; the quest for meaning. I have always wondered why this quest exists in more intensified form in some individuals than in others. Why the meaningless small and phony talk is perfectly fine for some individuals but causes massive discontentment in others. That 'other' is a part of a very insignificant minority, so the world keeps wondering if there is something wrong in their orientation. This is the story of an individual belonging to that insignificant minority. And from that perspective, it is a harsh critic on the institutions and norms of the society.

The first institution that comes under bitter criticism by the protagonist Harold is the institution of Education and its extensions in the form of schools. Holden has already left three schools when he flunked Pencey, a great prep school he was enrolled in. The reasons he gives for having such an aversion from schools is the sort of alienation and meaninglessness he encounters there. A lot of things can be derived from this. The idea that schools in that era (or even this one) encouraged mechanical thinking and excluded out of the box and free thinking from their narratives. The example is given by the protagonist of an open expression class, where the students practiced impromptu speeches. A student got a D just because he digresses from an apparently meaningless topic such as his farm to something meaningful such as the intricate details of those whose lives belonged to that farm. Students who shouted 'Digression, Digression!' when that thing happened were given a higher grade, an incentive to out cast those who don't fit in the system.

The institutionalization of that mechanical thinking leads to a higher social status for those who have been certified in mastering it, such as Ivy League students as mentioned in the novel. The protagonist sees them as phonies of the highest order. However those who, because of their different way of thinking and living fail that system, are even denied the certainty of belonging to a home where they can go no matter what happens. Harold wastes his time and resources around in New York because he fears that he would not be welcomed home after flunking another school. Clearly no one is willing to understand him and clearly, what he thinks about himself is inferior than what the school authorities think about him in the eyes of his parents.

One of the reasons why we tell each other our experiences and notions is because when others approve of them and tell you that they feel the same thing, it gives you a sense of certainty, of not being alone. That is how we derive our identity and strengthen it. Harold searches for that sense of certainty and belonging through out this novel. He faces bitter isolation and estrangement and he tries to overcome that by asking 'if you feel the same thing' to everyone he encounters. But people are so identified with the commodities trending in the society; shows, cars, dresses etc that they fail or are not willing to engage in a dialogue that goes beyond that. That further isolates Harold. He pursues drugs in order to numb that isolation which is a recurring theme in the post modern era. For anyone reading the review, we need to get back to each other beyond commodities and beyond treating each other as means to an end. Else we will be treated by those very commodities and their manufacturers as a means to their end, which is maximizing profit.

Harold finds solace in his relation with his young sister Phoebes. Despite her immature age, she tries to consider whatever Harold has to say without being judgmental or becoming tired. Amidst trying out everything illegal for his age, he keeps thinking about that relationship and what her sister would say if he told her about his sense of estrangement. In the end, that is the one relation that pulls him back by the willingness to go the distance with him. (which I resent though :P) May be, that's what we need in the relationships of the post modern era; space, consideration and non-judgment.

Talk To Me : A Translation of 'Baat Kar' by NM Rashid

Talk to me
            Show to me my face for it has 
 Been burned by the warmth of your eyes
Talk to me
Remove the curtain on my view
On which there is a rainbow of pretense
Stretched out
The rainbow which is not a mirror of aspiring
And neither a step stone of the ink of passion!

You saw that yesterday, I (A beggar)
Under the shadow of the wall of morning
Was found shivering
Your eyes, your lips kept staring
How could I have believed in their warmth for I
was in the depth of the catastrophes of my heart,
Swayed by memories

  Talk to me
For between the night turning in to the dawn
There is no distance

  Talk to me for your discourse
Is a verdict against the face of death*
Now transcend beyond the eyes and ears and lips
On the paths of desolate cities
Dip the chandeliers of voice

The waves of secrets
Will emerge, streak after streak!  


*Improvement needed. Suggestions are welcomed.