Posts Tagged ‘Faiz’

Faiz – 1: The City

November 30, 2015

By Anjum Altaf

I ‘wrote’ a poem, The City, which appeared on 3 Quarks Daily on Monday, 30 November, 2015.

The poem is reproduced below followed by comments on its genesis, connections with Faiz Ahmed Faiz, and some reflections on translating poetry.

The City

My city bedecks itself in fetters

The carefree walk
The careless talk

No more

The head held high
The feet unbound

No more

No more
I trust

Light from dark
Wine from blood
Joy from mourning

Flowers in my city
Wilt into the dust

After the Paris attacks, Brussels went into a lock-down that continued for a number of days. Faiz’s poem Yahan se Sheher ko Dekho (Look at the City from Here) came to mind and seemed to speak to the situation.

But how could one convey the sense of the poem in English? This brought forth the dilemma of translating poetry. Personally, I am skeptical it can be done especially if it were intended for an audience unfamiliar with the language of the original. (See this essay by Dick Davis on why this may be so: On Not Translating Hafez.)

A poem is not the sum of its words. It is not a vehicle to transfer meaning. Rather, a poem evokes feeling, sentiment, and mood. If I were to annotate the dictionary meaning of every word in a poem, the outcome would not be a poem. For a translation to work, it has to be a poem in its own right. And, this is what makes the task extremely difficult because the images, metaphors, idioms, and rhymes that work in one language do not carry over into another – they may for neighboring languages like Urdu, Hindi and Persian but not when the transition is from Urdu to English or Japanese. A translator must have near native proficiency in both languages to be able to find meaningful parallels. An example would be the metaphor of the owl which would make translating the following Urdu couplet into English very tricky:

har shaakh pe ulloo baitha hai
anjaam-e gulistaN kya ho ga

Going the other way, one could consider the opening lines from ‘The Eve of St. Agnes’ by Keats:

St. Agnes’ Eve – Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl for all its feathers was acold;

The Urdu reader would certainly wonder what prompted the poet to choose the owl to open his poem with.

Recently I wrote a set of posts on Urdu (here, here, and here). In the commentary on the posts, I set out a challenge for the readers. It was to translate the following lines from Faiz into English for a reader not familiar with Urdu:

sabza sabza suukh rahii hai phiikii zard do-pahr
diwaaroN ko chaaT raha hai tanhaaii ka zahr

No one has responded yet but you can give it a try. Victor Kiernan has translated them as follows:

Listless and wan, green patch by patch, noonday dries up;
Pale solitude with venomed tongue licks at these walls

And Agha Shahid Ali, a very fine poet in the English language, has essayed the following translation:

On each patch of green, from one shade to the next,
the noon is erasing itself by wiping out all color
becoming pale, desolation everywhere,
the poison of exile painted on the walls.

Both these versions convey some of the meaning of the lines from Faiz but, in my view at least, they are literal translations and not English poems. What does ‘the noon is erasing itself by wiping out all color’ convey to an English speaker who does not know Urdu? And what does ‘Pale solitude with venomed tongue licks at these walls’ call forth as an image for the same reader? The intensity of loneliness is captured powerfully by the metaphors used by Faiz but English must have its own metaphors that better reflect the aesthetic of its history and culture.

As I see it, the self-inflicted problem of most translators of Urdu poetry into English is that they seem to be doing so for readers familiar with both languages and, furthermore, as if the Urdu readers were constantly looking over their shoulders to judge their faithfulness or lack of it to the original. This predilection, in my view, has limited the appreciation of as major a poet as Faiz Ahmed Faiz in the non-Urdu speaking world.

Why would an Urdu reader need to read an Urdu poem in English when he/she has access to the much richer original? A translation is meant for those who do not know the language of the original and for them faithfulness matters relatively little. What matters is if the emotion, the spirit of the original, carries over and gives some inkling of what the poet was trying to convey in the original. In order to do so, the translation into a foreign language has to be a poem in its own right, good or bad being a secondary issue, consonant with the cultural and literary aesthetic of the target language. The venomed tongue of pale solitude licking the walls stutters on this count. It only works for those who are familiar with the lines in the original.

For myself, one without native proficiency in both languages, I wouldn’t even try and attempt to translate a poet like Faiz whose poetry is laden with context-specific images which breathe life into the emotions he so successfully evokes. Rather, I do away with as much of the imagery as possible and convey the bare-bone skeleton which remains to be dressed with the clothing of images. Hopefully, the skeleton would suggest to the non-Urdu speaking reader what the poet is trying to do and his/her own imagination would furnish the appropriate images and metaphors from his/her particular aesthetic milieu.

This is what I have attempted with ‘The City.’ I would not be so bold as to claim it a translation of Yahan se Sheher ko Dekho. ‘The City’ is a poem in English inspired by Yahan se Sheher ko Dekho for which the latter serves as a point of departure. It is for readers to say to what extent I have succeeded in capturing the spirit of the original.

For those who are interested, the poem by Faiz is reproduced below in Roman script (it can be read in Urdu, Hindi, and Roman scripts here):

YahaN se sheher ko dekho to halqa-dar-halqa
Khinchi hai jail ki soorat har ek samt faseel
Har ek rahguzar gardish-e-aseeraaN hai
Na sung-e-meel, na manzil, na mukhlisi ki sabeel

Jo koi tez chaley rah to poochta hai Khayal
Ke tokne koi lalkaar kyuN naheeN aayee
Jo koi haath hilaye to Wahem ko hai sawal
Koi chanak, koi jhankaar kyuN nahiN aayee?

YahaN se shehr ko dekho to saari khalqat meiN
Na koi sahab-e-tamkeen, na koi wali-e-hosh
Har ek mard-e-jawaN mujrim rasn ba gulu
Har ek haseena-e-raana, Kaneez-e-halqa bagosh

Jo sayay duur chiraghoN ke gird larzaaN haiN
Na janey mehfil-e-ghum hai ke bazm-e-jaam-o-saboo
Jo rung har dar-o-deewar par pareshaaN haiN
YahaN se kuch naheen khulta yeh phool haiN ke LahU

– Faiz (Karachi, 1965)

A translation into English by Naomi Lazard is as follows:

If you look at the city from here
You see it is laid out in concentric circles,
Each circle surrounded by a wall
Exactly like a prison.
Each street is a dog-run for prisoners,
No milestones, no destinations, no way out.

If anyone moves too quickly you wonder
Why he hasn’t been stopped by a shout.
If someone raises his arm
You expect to hear the jangling of chains.

If you look at the city from here
There is no one with dignity,
No one fully in control of his senses.
Every young man bears the brand of a criminal,
Every young woman the emblem of a slave.

You cannot tell whether you see
A group of revellers or mourners
In the shadows dancing around the distant lamps,
And from here you cannot tell
Whether the color streaming down the walls
Is that of blood or roses.

(Source for the transliteration and the translation by Naomi Lazard is here.)

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The Lovely Peculiarities of Urdu

November 16, 2014

By Anjum Altaf

Urdu hai jis ka naam hamiiN jantey haiN Daagh
Saarey jahaaN meiN dhuum hamaarii zubaaN ki hai

Daagh, we know, the language, Urdu is its name
Celebrated over the entire world is its fame

A Hindi speaker, fond of Urdu, came across the following text in a letter by Premchand (dated 22 February 1925):

Priy Shivapujan Sahay ji, Vande.

Mujhe to aap bhool hi gaye. Leejiye, jis pustak par aapne kaii maheene dimagh-rezi kee thi vah aapka ahsaan ada karti hui aapki khidmat men jaati hai aur aapse vinti karti hai ki mujhe do-chaar ghanton ke liye ekaant ka samay deejiye aur tab aap meri nisbat jo rai qayam karen vah apni manohar bhasha men kah deejiye…… ”

He puzzled over the term dimagh-rezi and enquired on an Urdu forum whether it meant “banging one’s head against” which didn’t quite seem in consonance with the positive connotation apparent from the text.

Urdu readers, at least those over a certain age, were quick to decode the puzzle. The reader was misled by the term reza (or rezah) which in Urdu connotes fragment or fragmentation. The most common example is the term rezgaarii which is used for change in monetary transactions as in mujhe ek rupay kii rezgaarii de deejiye.

The more poetic usage is conveyed by the term reza-reza which means [fragmented into] tiny pieces. A particularly beautiful usage is made by Faiz in the following couplet (see Urdu, Hindi, English text and audio/video here; translation here):

Na GaNwao Naavak-e-Neem-Kash, Dil-e-Reza Reza GaNwa Diya
Jo Bachay HaiN Sang SameT Lo, Tan-e-Daagh Daagh LuTa Diya

Do not waste (your) half drawn arrow, (I have already) lost (broken pieces of my) heart
Collect and save the left-over stones, (my) injured or wounded body is (already) wasted

But Urdu, lovely Urdu, borrows heavily from Farsi and the Farsi term rezi is from the verb rekhtan, which means ‘to pour’, ‘to make something flow’. Dimagh-rezi would then suggest using the mind for hard or fine work – as one reader on the forum elaborated it could stand for “fine, intricate work requiring mental exertion”. (See the dictionary meaning – ‘mental exertion’ – here.)

My own contribution was to point to some terms that are commonly encountered in Urdu – rang-rez/rang-rezii for dyer/dyeing [of cloth] – (note the usage in this film song from Pakeezah: hamri na maano rangrejwa se poochho…). Similarly sang-rezii is working with stone, and the metaphorical usage arq-rezii for burning the midnight oil. While arq-rezii and dimagh-rezii are quite analogous, rang-rezii and sang-rezii rely on the sense of pouring – pouring color or stone without the extension to fine or elaborate work.

As soon as I made the suggestion, the term Angrez or Ingrez (for the English) popped into my mind leading to a curiosity as to its origin. Is this some different rez here fulfilling some other function or is it analogous to rang-rez and sang-rez in the sense of someone associated with rang and sang? In that usage, Ingrez would be someone associated with Inglistaan which is the Urdu for England – Ing being used here as the short form of Inglistaan. Alternatively, a reader on the Urdu forum has suggested the following evolution via Portuguese to Hindostani: English (E) –> Inglês (P) –> angrez (H). If this is correct than the term valandezi would come from the Portuguese holandês for the Dutch.  Since the Portuguese were the first Europeans in India, their pronunciations most influenced local adaptations – wallahu alam bisawab.

Having ventured into this territory I noted that the –ez ending is quite rare for nationality and I couldn’t think of any other than the archaic valandezi for Dutch/Portuguese. The default is of course the suffix -ii added to the name of the country as in hindustanii, pakistanii, cheenii, japanii, etc. with some significant variations as in german, fransiisii, itaalvii, haspanvii, etc.

From there, it was but natural to move on to language which is where we had started. In general, Urdu, like English, uses the same word for nationality and language as in german/german or itaalvi/itaalvi except when it comes to English where we have angrez/angrezii.

Urdu is indeed a mixed-up language which is why it was known as rekhta at one time:

reḳhte ke tumhīñ ustād nahīñ ho ġhālib
kahte haiñ agle zamāne meñ koʾī mīr bhī thā

you are not the only ustad of rekhta, Ghalib
it is said, there was a Mir in earlier times

(For explication see here where rekhta is defined as follows: Rekhtah: the Urdu language. The dictionary meaning is cement for a building. The way a house is built from lime, gravel, bricks, stones, brick-dust, etc., in the same way the Urdu language has developed from the mingling of Sanskrit, Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and various Prakrits. For this reason they call the Urdu language ‘Rekhtah’.)

Generous thanks to the contributors to this discussion on UrduList.

Mir Anjum Altaf is provost at Habib University.

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Who’s the Fairest of Them All?

March 6, 2011

By Anjum Altaf

In response to a question asking why Faiz Ahmad Faiz was so much more popular then other, clearly ‘better,’ poets, I had argued (here and here) that we should enjoy poets on their own terms and not bother overmuch with ranking them. Comparisons being difficult, I used a metaphor from music to suggest some of the ways in which poets differ – while Faiz could be considered a poet of the vilambit, Ghalib was one of the drut, and it makes as little sense to compare Faiz and Ghalib as it does to compare a vilambit to a drut.

I am aware that the argument can be pushed: Can we not compare poets of the vilambit or of the drut to elucidate what might be involved in such comparisons? (more…)

The Music of Poetry

January 25, 2011

By Anjum Altaf

For many years, I sat with a teacher of Hindustani classical music, not learning myself, but watching him explain the complexities of the art to others. When guiding a student through the vilambit phase of a raga, the teacher instructed him to envision a child asleep: the singer should aspire to pouring honey into the child’s ear, to give it the sweetest possible dreams without waking it up. (Translating this instruction into English deprives it of much of its charm, unfortunately.) Once the student began the drut phase, the instructions underwent a dramatic change. In the drut, the listener must be kept awake and engaged, unable to turn away from the music. Instead of vilambit-style vistaars, the singer was told to use sargams and taans, to be like a firecracker. The two parts of the raga are completely different, as are the pleasures they offer the listener. (more…)

Come Back, Ibn-e Eusuf

February 11, 2010

This is going to be a long explanation for why we will be posting something that is more than eighteen months out of date.

Some of you who have been with us for a while might remember A Modern Fable by Ibn-e Eusuf. We posted that in June 2008. We discovered Ibn-e, thought he was a good satirist, in the tradition of Manto and Ibn-e Insha, and gave him his first break in print (digital or otherwise) with A Modern Fable.

We had hoped Ibn-e would continue writing for us but we were right that he was good, with a razor sharp pen. He was immediately picked up by the Herald with an offer to reproduce A Modern Fable in their forthcoming issue (which they did). When Ibn-e asked our permission we were torn – Herald paid and we didn’t and Ibn-e needed the money. (more…)

After the Long March – What Now Comrades?

March 17, 2009

By Anjum Altaf

Let us begin when everything was as it was supposed to be.

Before you came,
Things were as they should be:
The sky was the dead-end of sight,
The road was just a road, wine merely wine.

It was November 2006. The sun was in the sky, everything was alright with the world, the Enlightened Moderate, everyone’s favorite, was firmly ensconced on the throne, the Chief Justice was still the Chief Justice, and the lawyers were beyond the dead-end of sight.

This is what we recommended, based on our analysis of the situation, in a paper presented in Islamabad:

So what is to be done beyond the struggle for civilian rule? In the absence of a political coalition to support the demand for improvements in human rights, civil society groups at the present juncture in Pakistan should look for mechanisms to strengthen the instruments of social control over governments, to weaken the latter’s control over critical areas of resource allocation, and to increase the accountability of its actions….

A critical area is the rule of law where the arbitrary power of the state or of one individual over another needs to be curtailed. Mechanisms need to be found to shelter the judiciary from the predatory powers of the executive and to try to ensure easier and more equitable access to and enforcement of justice. Civil society should devote efforts to wrest a lot more input in the design and staffing of the institutions of government providing justice and enforcing the law and a lot more control over the promotion of officials within these institutions. Once again, we learn from Tocqueville that this is not likely to be an easy struggle: “Unable to do without judges, it [the government] likes at least to choose the judges itself and always to keep them under its hand; that is to say, it puts an appearance of justice, rather than justice itself, between the government and the private person.” Do we need Tocqueville to remind us of this reality in Pakistan? Nevertheless, the efforts need to be made as part of a multi-dimensional strategy to exert pressure on the state.

Fast forward to November 2007: All hell had broken loose, the Enlightened Moderate had shown his true colors, the Chief Justice had been sacked, and the lawyers had appeared on the horizon. All the talk was about a new dawn with the restoration of true democracy.

Now everything is like my heart,
A color at the edge of blood: 

And the sky, the road, the glass of wine?
The sky is a shirt wet with tears,
The road a vein about to break.
And the glass of wine a mirror in which
The sky, the road, the world keep changing.

This is what The South Asian Idea had to say on the day the Emergency was declared:

So, going back to “free and fair” elections, back to “true democracy,” as promised by a dictator, ruling under an emergency, to a bunch of democrats ready to cut a deal, is not going to do much good. It will be very old wine in very old bottles. Well-wishers of Pakistan, at home and abroad, need to grasp the one promising development in an otherwise sorry history. They have to agree on a one-point agenda—the Supreme Court has to be restored; the independence of the judiciary has to be guaranteed. This is the only leverage we have at the moment, the one issue on which a broad coalition can unite. This is where the fight for “true democracy” begins. Whosoever is next anointed by God would need to be put to this test of sincerity. Otherwise, the moment and the opening would be lost. Those who are fighting would need to go on fighting.

Forward again to March 2009: The Long March is over, the Chief Justice has been reinstated, the Supreme Court has been restored.

What now? Is this the Revolution?

We don’t think so. As we said: This is where the fight for “true democracy” begins.

There is still no political coalition at the grassroots pushing for systemic change. This is still a movement led by civil society that needs to act on behalf of citizens to wrest control from the state to enlarge the space for democratic action.

Old habits die hard. Civil society has to ensure that the next person anointed by God to govern this country does not wrest back this hard-won advantage, does not shrink this space that has opened up. The independence of the judiciary would have to be guarded and guaranteed so that it can stand up to the other organs of the state and begin to act on behalf of the citizens of the country.

And there could be some new complications on the horizon.

We wish the Peoples Party had succeeded because it had representation in every province of the country and could have furnished the glue for national unity. But that was too much to hope for – as we had mentioned “this is a society at a stage of development where political parties are personal affinity groups.” If the Peoples Party had been a political party we would have seen it exerting control over its leader and not the other way around.

Now, although an important victory has been won, there is the danger of provincial polarization much as we saw when the Awami League emerged dominant in one province and had no support elsewhere in the country.

How will the political parties (that are not really political parties) deal with this complication? How will civil society force the politicians to maneuver through these rapids with care?

Civil society has been here before – Ayub Khan was toppled by the students and Bhutto fell at the hands of the traders. But then civil society folded, gave back its gains, and succumbed to the charms of the status quo. Professor Ralph Russell noted this many years ago: “For a century now all sections of the modern sophisticated elite have continued the traditions of their medieval forbears (in regarding it as the whole duty of the unsophisticated masses to do as the elite tells them) and the traditions of Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan (of looking for essential support – even if, in some cases, only moral support – to more powerful forces based outside their own country, be it the British, the Americans, the Russians or the Chinese).

And even more ominously, as a friend from Ahmedabad put it: Who will protect us from civil society? 

As we have said: The fight has just begun. Some parts of the picture have brightened, others are threatened with darkness. Even civil society has to prove itself. It is still a long way to go.

Don’t leave now that you’re here –
Stay. So the world may become itself again:
So the sky may be the sky,
the road a road,
and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

[Excerpts are from the poem by Faiz (rang hai dil ka merey) translated by Agha Shahid Ali (Before you Came). The quote from Ralph Russell is from his essay Strands of Muslim Identity in South Asia.]

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