The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry (17 page)

Main raste ki panti hoon, deepak hoon fan ka

Ye saara ujaala hai mere sukhan ka

Mujhe naich pehchaane logainch mere

Main anmol heera hoon Dakkan ki khan ka

I am the traveller of the path, I light the lamp of art

Through my dexterity this brightness do I impart

Alas, I remain unheeded! My people missed the signs

I am the invaluable gem of Deccan’s diamond mines.

Sulaiman Khateeb (1922–78) was indeed a true gem from the mines of the Deccan, a Koh-i-noor. He was born in present-day Karnataka, and his family was steeped in devotion to Khwaja Banda Nawaaz, the patron saint of Gulbarga. Orphaned as a baby, he managed to channel his experiences of marginality into his poetry, and wrote evocatively about the poor and oppressed, including those trapped in moribund social institutions such as oppressed daughters-in-law, impoverished widows, financially strapped parents of girls facing dowry demands, and victims of sectarian riots. The most incredible part about Khateeb’s work is that, despite its dark themes, it is witty—not smile-inwards witty, but roll-on-the-floor funny.
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Despite his own precarious financial existence (he worked for the Karnataka State Water Works Department and yet won no patronage from the state), Khateeb managed to hold his own as a poet of repute; despite his ability to write in traditional idioms (and his fluency in Persian), he treasured and nurtured the Dakkani style of speaking and writing in his work, legitimizing it in the eyes of a broader community of poets and listeners.

The poem I have translated is a small excerpt from a longer poem titled
Saas Bahu
, which is structured as a dialogue between a foul-mouthed, abusive and ignorant woman and her educated, urbane daughter-in-law who has no option but to listen to her mother-in-law’s rants and reflect on her status. I wish I could have translated the whole poem with all its twists and turns; I hope this excerpt will provide a fleeting, partial sense of his turn of phrase and linguistic felicity.

Saas:

Aanch ghar mein lagaa ko baithi hai

Ghar ka gampa gira ko baithi hai

Vo to potta sada ka deevana

Poora bandar banaa ko baithi hai . . .

Ujla dekha, uchhal gaya potta

Peela dekha, phisal gaya potta

Mere haatan se, kya karoon, amma

Saaf poora nikal gaya potta

Kaise jaale mein is ko pakdi hai

Admiyan khaane ki ek makdi hai

Bahu (
Deevan-e Ghalib
ka ek safa ulat-te hue):

Na suno gar bura kahe koi

Na kaho gar bura kahe koi

Rok lo gar ghalat chale koi

Bakhsh do gar khataa kare koi

Jab tavaqqo hi uth gaya Ghalib

Kyon kisi ka gila kare koi

Saas:

Kaun Ghalib, ye tera sagga hai?

Ki kaleje ko thham leti hai?

Itti deeda-dileri dekho ma!

Ghair mardon ka naam leti hai!

Bahu:

Baatein karti ho kis tarah ammi?

Baat heera hai baat moti hai

Baat lakhon ki laaj khoti hai

Baat har baat ko nahi kehte

Baat mushkil se baat hoti hai

Baat seene ka dagh hoti hai

Baat phoolon ka baagh hoti hai

Baat khair-o-sawaab hoti hai

Baat qahr-o-azaab hoti hai

Baat barg-e gulab hoti hai

Baat tegh-e itaab hoti hai

Baat kehte hain rabb-e arni ko

Baat ummul kitaab hoti hai

Baat bole kaleem ho jaye

Sun-ne wala nadeem hojaye

Baat khanjar ki kaat hoti hai!!

Saas:

Minje khanjar ki kaat boli na!

Minjhe kadhki so naat boli na!

Dikh ke murdon ki khaat boli na!

Ghud po pheke so taat boli na!

Minje chipkaa so chamboo boli na

Minje tadqaa so bamboo boli na!

Minje duniya ki kutni samjhee gey?

Laal mirchiyaan ki bukni samjhee gey?

Minje dammey ki dhuknee samjhee gey?

Minjhe phutti so phookni samjhee gey?

Marad aaney dey peet phodongee

Teri turbat banako ch’hodongi

Kitte jaatey hain tu bhi jaana gey

Aako khai-dast tujhe lejana gey

Ghis ke mirchiyan tujhe lagaana gey

Pooray peeraan ke haath jodonngee

Mitthe ghoday banaake ch’hodoongi

Ujlee shakkar ke chongay todoongi

Chaar nariyal mangaa ko phodoongi

Mere dil ko sukoon mil jayinga

Sukki daali pey phool khil jayinga

Bahu (aankhon mein aansoo laake):

Hum gharaane ki shaan rakhte hain

Band mutthi mein aan rakhte hain

Ghar ki izzat ka paas hai, varna

Hum bhi moonh mein zaban rakhte hain

Apni taleem rok leti hai

Baat badhte hi rok deti hai . . .

Mother-in-law:

She lit a fire in my house and relaxed

She broke our
gampa
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and relaxed

My son was always such an idiot

Now she has made him a monkey and she relaxed

He saw some white flesh and see how he slipped

He saw her ochre complexion and jumped

What can I say, friend, my own son

Is lost to me completely now

Look how she has ensnared him in her web

She is a man-eating spider, I tell you.

Daughter-in-law (turning the pages of the
Deevan-e Ghalib
):

Listen not if someone speaks ill

Speak not if someone speaks ill

Stop them if they go astray

Forgive those who bear ill-will

When expectation has been betrayed, Ghalib

How can one recriminate, still?

Mother-in-law:

Who, Ghalib? Is this a buddy of yours?

That you grab your heart with such feeling?

Look how forward is this wench, look

How she takes the name of unrelated men!

Daughter-in-law:

Why do you use such words, Ammi?

A word is a diamond, a word is a pearl

Not all words are worthy of being so termed

With difficulty, a word becomes a word

A word is a wound of the heart

A word is a garden of flowers

A word is a good deed, a blessing

A word is a curse, an epithet too

A word is the petal of a rose

And a sword of tyranny too

A word comes from God as well

A word is the mother of a book

The one who speaks can become a prophet

And a word can be a sword’s cut too.

Mother-in-law:

Look, she called me a sword’s cut

Look, she called me a cracked beam

Look, she called me a corpse’s bier

Look, she called me a jute rug thrown on trash

Look, she called me a battered mug

Look, she called me a broken bamboo stick

Do you think I am a crushing tool, wench?

Do you think I am crushed chilli powder, wench?

Do you think I am an asthmatic’s wheeze, wench?

Do you think I am a broken cylinder, wench?

Let my man come home, I will have your back broken

I will have your grave built today, just watch

So many die, why don’t you die too, wench?

Contract diarrhoea, and shit and vomit to death, wench!

I should smear you with crushed chillies, wench

I will beg all the saints for your death

I will fry sweetmeats when you die

I will make desserts with confectioner’s sugar

I will break four coconuts

I will be at peace at last

Like a dry branch that has suddenly flowered.

Daughter-in-law (tearing up):

I hold the dignity of the family dear

I hold our pride in my closed fist

The reputation of this house is our concern

Otherwise, I too harbour a tongue in my mouth

My education prevents me from replying

And stops me from escalating this conflict.

Habib Jalib (1928–93), the Marxist–Leninist troubadour of Pakistan—a thorn in the flesh of every dictator, and a beacon of hope for the oppressed—was best known for his open mocking of Zia-ul Haq (playing with his name ‘Zia’, which means light, and contrasting it with the word
zulmat
, meaning darkness):

Zulmat ko ‘Zia’, sarsar ko saba, bande ko khuda kya likhna? Kya likhna?

Patthar ko gohar, deewaar ko dar, jugnu ko diyaa kya likhna? Kya likhna?

Why write that darkness is light, that a rustle is the breeze,

That a human is God? Why?

Why call a stone a jewel, a wall a door, or call a firefly a lamp? Why?

His reward for such verses was long spells in jail under every possible dictator imaginable. His defiant verse must be read by imagining its context—that of a poet who was fully aware of the consequences of each public performance; and that of a person who had been incarcerated in brutal conditions, and would, after being released, immediately call attention to the oppressiveness of his interlocutors, and ready himself for another period in prison.

A longish documentary containing Jalib’s interviews and a few performances are available in the public domain on YouTube. The documentary showcases his personal bravery, and contains the poems I have translated below. Also, a very competent translation of ten of Jalib’s poems—of which I would highly recommend ‘
Maulaana
’—can also be found online.
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The second poem I have included here contains Jalib’s avowal that his repudiation of traditional romantic themes is a personal choice: note the penultimate sher where he privileges the ‘
dahr ke gham
’ (the pain of the world) over ‘
sarv qaamat ki javaani
’ (the beauty of youth).

Deep jis ka mahallat hi mein jale

Chand logon ki khushiyon ko le kar chale

Vo jo saaye mein har maslehat ke pale

Aise dastoor ko, subh-e benoor ko

Main nahin maanta! Main nahin jaanta.

Main bhi kharij nahin takhta-e daar se

Main bhi Mansoor hoon, keh do aghyaar se

Kyon daraate ho zindaan ki deewaar se

Zulm ki baat ko, jahl ki raat ho

Main nahin maanta! Main nahin jaanta.

Tum kaho phool shaaqon pe khilne lage

Tum kaho jaam rindon ko milne lage

Tum kaho chaak seenon ke silne lage

Is khule jhoot ko zehn ki loot ko

Main nahin maanta! Main nahin jaanta.

Tum ne loota hai sadiyon hamaara sukoon

Ab na hum par chalega tumhara fusoon

Charagar dardmandon ke bante ho kyon

Tum nahin chaaragar, log mane magar

Main nahin maanta! Main nahin jaanta.

That which lights lamps only in palaces

That which caters to the whims of elite classes

That flourishes in the shadow of all compromises

Such a system, such a light-starved dawn

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

I am not to be excluded from the scaffold

I am Mansoor
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too, let the outsiders know

And how dare you scare me with talk of dungeons

This talk of tyranny, this ignorance dark as night

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

You tell me that flowers are blooming on trees

You tell me that the thirsty have found wine at taverns

You tell me that the tattered robes are now stitched

This open lie, this robbery of the senses

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

You have robbed us of our peace for centuries

But your spell has now been broken finally

Do not pretend to be the healer of wounds

You are no physician, others may believe you so, but

I do not agree! I do not abide!

Aur sab bhool gaye, harf-e sadaaqat likhna

Reh gaya kaam hamaara hi baghaavat likhna

Laakh kahte rahen zulmat ko na zulmat likhna

Hum ne seekha hi nahin pyaare ba-ijaazat likhna

Na sile ki na sitaish ki tamanna hum ko
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Haq mein logon ke hamaari to hai aadat likhna

Hum ne jo bhool ke bhi shah ka qaseeda na likha

Shaayad aayaa isi khoobi ki badaulat likhna

Us se badh kar meri tehseen bhalaa kya hogi

Padh ke naakhush hain mera saaheb-e sarvat likhna

Dahr ke gham se hua rabt to hum bhool gaye

Sarv qaamat ki javaani ko qayaamat likhna

Kuchh bhi kahte hain kahein shah ke masaahib, Jalib

Rang rakhna yahi apna isi soorat likhna

All others forgot to defend the word of truth, alas

To write of revolution, I was left alone at last

‘Do not write that nights are dark,’ they warned me in their fear

But I never sought to write with permission, my dear

[Like Ghalib] I crave no reward nor desire praise

But in support of the downtrodden, my voice I raise

Not even by oversight sang I an ode to the king

Perhaps this adds rhythm to my poems when I sing

What greater acclamation could this poet hope for?

Than that my writings annoyed those that were in power

I admit that I forgot amid this stark oppression

To write of youthful beauty, and call it devastation

Jalib, the king’s courtiers are free to say what they feel

None can hide the crimson colour my poems reveal.
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