Today, my friend Khalid Mir told me rather casually that he had been reading poems by Miroslav Holub. I had heard his name; and when K sent me this poem, I could not resist posting it here. Have read it again and again. For sometimes, I tell myself similar lines – of course in a highly unpoetical fashion. Yesterday,  I tweeted this verse from Ghalib: “Meri kismat meiN gham gar itna tha. Dil bhee ya rab kai diye hote“. Indeed many different ways to understand the heart and the one below is unique for its gritty imagery as well as playfulness.

Officially the heart

is oblong, muscular,

and filled with longing.

But anyone who has painted the heart knows

that it is also

spiked like a star

and sometimes bedraggled

like a stray dog at night

and sometimes powerful

like an archangel’s drum.

And sometimes cube-shaped

like a draughtsman’s dream

and sometimes gaily round

like a ball in a net. (more…)

  I wrote a piece on Urdu poet Mustafa Zaidi six years ago. Since then I have received immense feedback. Zaidi’s relatives, friends and admirers across the globe have contacted me and provided documents, information and related anecdotes. It is all turning into a book of sorts that hopefully will be written one day.

I had mentioned in my post that the cause of Zaidi’s death was shrouded in mystery while most believed that he committed suicide. As I have learnt, the circumstances of his death suggest otherwise. News reports and eyewitness accounts point to the absurdity of the claim that he died in a hotel as family members claim that he was found dead in his own home. Thanks to Zaidi’s ardent fan Abeer Zaidi, I have come to know of more precise facts. I remain grateful for that.

Zaidi, at his time of death had produced several outstanding, original collections of poetry. He was married to a woman of German descent and had two children but his last companion was a woman named Shehnaz, the love of his life. His last five poems titled ‘Shehnaz’  immortalised her. That October day in 1970, Shehnaz was found unconscious along with Zaidi’s dead body.

Following are the circumstances of his demise and the lack of evidence to support the commonly held view that he committed suicide:

On March 20, 1971, under the headline ‘Evidence of Zaidi’s nephew recorded’, the newspaper Dawn reported: “Mr. Shahid Raza, nephew of the former CPS officer and well known poet Mr. S.M. Zaidi yesterday said that there were signs of a struggle having taken place in the room in which his uncle’s body was discovered last October 12. He was testifying in the Court of the District Magistrate, Mr. Kunwar Idris, in the committal trial of Mrs. Shehnaz Saleem, Wife of Mr. Saleem Khan, who is charged with the murder of Mustafa Zaidi.”

The report goes on to say that Mr Raza entered his uncles house with police official and a maternal uncle the morning after his death and found the body lying on the bed. The receiver of the phone was dangling off the hook and the cord stretched across his body. There were stains of blood on his back as well as on the bed sheet and furniture. The room was scattered and a sofa was overturned.

The writer Laurel Steel has mentioned this report in her book, ‘Relocating the Post-Colonial Self’ and has also published some letters written by Zaidi to his wife in Germany to help him get a visa to join his family in Germany. Additionally Steel also mentions that on the day of his death he rose at 8 am and washed his car. Later in the day he received visitors including Shehnaz Gul and afterwards told his servant to go home to return the next morning. The question this must be asked, can this demeanor be that of a man bent on committing suicide in hotel room?

Decades later, this case is still an enigma and has left many of those who appreciated his life and work in denial and doubt.

To read my earlier article which was published in The Friday Times in 2005, please click here.

P.S. This post also addresses the issue raised by Kidvai saheb here. Many thanks for his appreciation of my earlier piece.

Today is Sahir Ludhianvi’s death anniversary. Am reposting this poem for the readers.

Sahir Ludhianvi’s immortal poem Taj Mahal has always fascinated me. It takes a most unconventional take at this beautiful monument where the poet protests at the choice of a romantic rendezvous.

Today, I found a lovely translation of this poem. I am reproducing it below – but first a few lines from Urdu:

Yeh chaman zar yeh jamna ka kinara yeh mahal
Yeh munaqqash dar-o-deevar yeh mehrab yeh taaq
Aik shahanshah nay daulat ka sahara lay ker
Hum ghareebon kee mohabbat ka uraya hai mazaaq

Taj Mahal

The Taj, mayhap, to you may seem, a mark of love supreme
You may hold this beauteous vale in great esteem;
Yet, my love, meet me hence at some other place! (more…)

 Sahir Ludhianvi laments the way Urdu was treated by Indian nation-state as it became alien overnight.

Ikees baras guzray aazadi-i-kaamil ko

Tab ja kay kahi’n hum ko Ghalib ka khayaal aaya

Turbat hai kaha’n us ki, maskan tha kaha’n uska

Ab apnay sukhan-parvar zahno’n may sawaal aaya

(more…)

I had posted Ali Sardar Jafri’s lovely poem and now a reader Farah Aziz directed me to this blog where a beautiful translation of the poem has been shared.

The setting imperial sun
broke into two parts
On this very Border, yesterday.
The dawn of freedom was wounded
On this very Border, yesterday.
This is the Border of blood,
Tears, sights, and sparks,
Where we had sown hatred
And reaped a harvest of swords.
Here, stars struggled
In the eyes of dear ones.
Here, beloved faces
Flickered in streams of tears.
Here, a mother lost her sons,
A brother, his sister.
This border thrives on blood,
Breathes flames of despise
She slithers like a snake
On the bosom of our land.
She comes to the battlefield
Crested with all her weapons .

I stand on this Border
Waiting for the Tomorrow’s  Happy Dawn.

Manmohan Singh whom I have always held in high regard, disappointed millions in South Asia with his distastefully ill-timed hard talk during his Independence day address. As if Pakistan’s current misery was a time to blow India’s trumpet. He surely was also unaware of what his patriotic Indian poet, Ali Sardar Jafri had written years ago -Dialogue Souldn’t Cease. Here is an Urdu version with a full translation. Perhaps, someone should pass a copy of this poem to the exalted Prime Minister of India.

GUFTGOO BAnD NA HO
BAAT SE BAAT CHALEY
SUBH TAK SHAAM-E-MULAAQAAT CHALEY
HUM PE HAnSTI HUEE
YE TAAROn BHARI RAAT CHALEY (more…)

14th and 15th August are two dates that evoke mixed feelings for those of us who want a peaceful subcontinent free of jingoism and weapons. Thanks to a facebook friend, I re-read this amazing poem by Ali Sardar Jafri. It evokes the nuances of Partition and the Independence. That fateful August saw a man-made disaster and 2010′s August is witnessing an epic, horrendous natural calamity.

I must find (or render) a translation of this sensitive, powerful poem. Here is what the first verse says in my slipshod translation:

Yesterday, the sun split into two and diminished at this border

Freedom’s dawn was also wounded at this very border…

***

Isi sarhad pe kal dooba tha sooraj ho ke do tukade

Isi sarhad pe kal zakhmi huyi thi subh-e-azaadi

Yeh sarhad khoon ki, ashqon ki, aahon ki, sharaaron ki

Jahan boii thi nafrat aur talwarein ugaayin thi

Main is sarhad pe kab se muntazir hoon subh-e-farda ka (more…)

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of a bright world dies

When day is done.

****

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done.

Francis William Bourdillon

You have fallen in love my dear heart
Congratulations!

You have freed yourself from all attachments
Congratulations!

You have given up both worlds to be on your own
the whole creation praises your solitude
Congratulations! (more…)

Rumi Foundation brings out a ‘Sufi journal’ called Hu. This year two of my essays have been published in the journal. I am posting the first one on Bulleh Shah.

***

If God was found by bathing and cleansing

He would have been found by frogs and fish

If God was found by wandering in the jungles

Stray animals would have found him

O Bulleh, the Lord can only be found

By loving hearts – true and pure…

(Translation by author)

Fifteenth century India witnessed a spiritual-cultural synthesis that was navigated by hundreds of yogis, Sufis and poets of India. Very much a people’s mobilisation, the Bhakti movement articulated a powerful vision of tolerance, amity and co-existence that is still relevant today. The powerful and soulful voices of Sufi poets of the sixteenth century therefore sing a shared tune: of love, rejection of formal identities based on caste, organized religion and class.

Bulleh Shah (1680-1758) of Kasur in Central Punjab is an extraordinary voice that provided a mystical message beyond caste, institutionalized religion and ideologies of power. Born in 1860 and named Abdullah Shah in a Syed family, he found a Murshid (spiritual master) in Shah Inayat who was an Arain (traditionally a non-landowning group). Bulleh’s family disowned him for trampling his caste and therefore identity in the rural context. However, Bulleh Shah, driven by Sufi ideals of equality of humans, rejected the formalized social identity framework based on hierarchies. The quest for knowledge, and the thirst for spiritual completion – what the masses perceive to be the domain of religion – was a pursuit beyond these divisive and hereditary conceptions of formal religion. When the orthodoxy declared him as an infidel, Bulleh replied: (more…)

by GEETA NANDAKUMAR

Song of the soul Farida Khanum

‘Aaj jaane ki zid na karo, haaye mar jaayenge ham to lut jaaenge, aisii baatein kiyaa na karo’.
Strains of her most popular ghazal in all the grandeur of her voice wafted all over the room. Rehearsing for a concert organised by the Indian Council for Cultural Relations and the NGO ‘Routes to Roots’ at the FICCI auditorium in New Delhi this week, Pakistan’s legendary ghazal icon Farida Khanum, looked svelte and poised even in her 70s. She was busy chiding the tabla accompanist, asking him to tone down the percussion. “Flow gently with the music,” she told him. Turning to me with a welcoming smile and immense warmth, she said, “There is too much cacophony and too little mellifluous music these days. Often, I am completely put off by the raucous play of percussion and refuse to sing even in Pakistan.” The irritation was palpable. The rehearsal continued as I soaked in the rich voice. Music that is manna! Age has only added to the infinite variety of her music. Finally, she broke off and asked for another percussionist. (more…)