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Sunday, January 27, 2013

The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu (translated by Royall Tyler, Penguin Classics)

The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu, in an impressive translation by Royall Tyler, is a classic of world literature. The tale from eleventh century Japan recreates (in over eleven hundred pages) a time and a region long lost, distant from memory and everyday life, and yet full of timeless and contemporary human passions and feelings. Before talking about the tale itself, we must commend the translator for imbibing prose and poetry within text with a clarity and a fluidity rare in translations. The elegant, lucid and engaging English translation provides ample footnotes to guide readers unfamiliar with names, places, idioms, customs, laws, culture and court life of the eleventh century Japan.  While reading a massive novel from another language, written in another century, we always worry about how much is left untranslated or is not communicated at all. Most translations from Indian languages into English give me a massive heartburn. Here the original is far beyond my reach, and I admire the quality of both the text and translation. Maybe I know it is best to gain what I can by reading the translation, than not read it at all. Perhaps the whole process of reading The Tale of Genji for me resembles a typical passionate communication between a suitor and a beloved described over and over again in the book. Two bodies sit separated by many blinds and customs; the conversation is carried on through calligraphed messages and through intermediaries. When one puts his or her heart into it, this conversation, however indirect, provides relief, knowledge, insight, understanding, pleasure and peace, exactly as The Tale of Genji manages to do for me, possibly for any reader.

The Tale of Genjii is a magnificent work of art, full of romances and songs, music and poetry, and yin and yang. It is a highly readable saga of princes and commoners who rise in regard and rank through their own actions and through influence of whoever holds them dear. The talks and deeds related to renunciation of the world and Buddhist penances are interspersed with a narrative where characters display a strong attachment to the world stemming from their family ties & cares and beloveds. Genji, called the Shining Prince for his exceptional beauty and charm, is a son of the emperor. His life is the centerpiece of the tale, and the narrative is primarily built around his trials and triumphs in politics, love and religion. The list of romances described in the book runs long, and on every page, appears a phrase or a verse, often a line or a couplet, mostly inspired by some famous poem seemingly known to one and all, written as part of banter between lovers, or as complaint or praise by suitors. Several different string instruments (biwa, kin, etc) and flute are held in great regard, and exceptional musical ability is admired and encourages in princes, women and nobles. Painting, dance, calligraphy, poetry and dress-making are all integral to the tale. There are no wars, no duels, there is almost no blood-shed, and there are no peasants, few commoners, no armies. The Tale of Genji has many memorable, moving and majestic sentences and passages on or about: the vagaries of weather, the charms & effects of changing seasons, festivals full of regal splendor, pilgrimages, impromptu or planned concerts and performances, monks and monasteries, births and deaths, dresses and fragrances, gifts and messages, the meanings and resonances of symbols like cherry blossoms, pine trees, acorn, bridges, rivers, mountains and wisteria leaves, admiration for Chinese tales and dresses, silks, and so on.

Some of the most striking things in The Tale of Genji for me are about the role of women in family and society. Women are secluded and hardly meet any men, they are seen only by their lovers (ideally their husbands), while the princes and the nobles grab every chance to go after anyone they get even a faint whiff or glimpse of. Often a prince appears in the bed of a woman without warning, (usually with the help from trusted associates/ helpers/ nurses of the woman) and by returning back on the next two nights, makes the chosen (fortunate or unfortunate) woman his bride. Finding good husbands for daughters is a big concern for fathers, and the progress in rank at court requires strong support of a wife's family. There are a few positions at court available only to women, and multiple wives who surround the powerful princes vie for his attention. Perhaps I note how women lived behind blinds and curtains, away from eyes of any men, including their close relatives, as it is often assumed that such practices exist or existed only in the Near-Eastern, South Asian or in the Middle-Eastern cultures. Also by reading the tale you discover how committed the Japanese men were (maybe still are) to the so-called gallantry. The men go shooting-off love poems to anyone they take a fancy to, including wives of others (including close relations), and when courtship fails, they sometimes end up taking them by force. Given how men behave, the need to seclude and protect the women seems to be justified.  A lot of action in the novel happens at night, behind closed doors, in forbidden chambers, and the author often leaves off a description by saying the details did not reach her, or the details or verses spoken were trite enough to be left out. Such remarks however never break the narrative. Another striking thing in
The Tale of Genji is the mention of spirits who take hold of other peoples bodies (minds), afflicting them, and how Buddhists priests drive such spirits out with prayer and chants, after making them to confess their whims. I grew up seeing such things in the Himalayan villages and towns, and a mention of every appellation and rites like that in the book drew my attention.

In the world literature written between eighth to fourteenth century AD, a few other exceptional books come to my mind. The Conference of Birds by Attar is a Persian classic, a sufi composition, full of fables and instruction, is very inspirational and to my eyes, it is also sensational in how sexuality is described therein. Geet-Govinda by Jayadeva in Sanskrit is probably the most important text among many that are counted in Radha-Krishan romance, Krishan-bhakti or God-as-a-beloved tradition. Decameron by Boccaccio in Italian has a string of tales, and some are quite risque, and yet many have moral connotations as well. After reading
The Tale of Genji, and thinking about all the classic medieval texts I have read, I conclude that though our ancestors were quite given to romance, there was always a stream of spiritual aspirations within them. Perhaps we have become more hypocritical and prudish than our ancestors when it comes to sexuality, and at the same time, we have become more withdrawn from religion and spirituality. The classics mentioned here, along with TThe Tale of Genji in respective cultures have influence every writer and poet who came after them, and thus these continue to influence the corpus of human thought, feeling, morality and memory.

The Tale of Genji, like War of Peace, Mahabharata, Shahnameh or Odyssey, is endless and immortal. Murasaki paints a masterpiece with a wide canvass that continues the stories through multiple generations, including hundreds of characters, developed quite remarkably within this story, portrayed with beauty and grace. The author named Genji's most beloved Murasaki. Though Genji and Murasaki attract our deepest interest and sympathies, the book is like a garden with many characters, each prone to seasonal changes in favor and form, and though all trees have their own stories of spring blossoms and autumn leaves, and  snow or rain drops or dew, the narrative binds them together quite nicely. Murasaki seemed to have written the tale with a lot of empathy for human condition. To love who must not be loved, to carry guilt of yielding to a forbidden desire, to raise another's child as your own, to love a lookalike sister or a cousin in lieu of the lost or dead beloved, to leave safety of palace and guards and go out on escapades that can destroy reputations, to steal your best friend's love interest, to become a monk and yet keep worrying about renounced relations, or to haunt your beloved after your death: there are many dark shades to the characters and their thoughts and actions in this tale. The characters often talk of cherry & plum blossoms, of fleeting life, of nature of beauty and romance, of poetry and skill, of music, and wile reading The Tale of Genji the reader begins to respond to the thoughts and words of the ancient world. Reading The Tale of Genji then becomes an experience rich in mixed emotions, of tenderness, joy, sympathy, melancholy, sorrow, nostalgia and enchantment. Wonderful and overwhelming tale, highly recommended!

Tuesday, January 01, 2013

Books read in 2013

Read in 2013 (96 = 59 + 37; NF 19) 

FICTION IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION --  (21): The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu [translated by Royall Tyler], Casanova in Bolzano by Sandor Marai, Decameron by Giovani Boccaccio [translated by G. H. McWilliam], The Masterpiece by Emile Zola, Palace of Desire by Naquib Mahfouz (translated by William Maynard Hutchins), The Master and the Margarita by Michail Bughalov, The Unknown Masterpiece and Gambara by Honore Balzac, An Elephant's Journey by Jose Saramago, The Fall by Albert Camus (translated by Justin O'Brien), The House of Spirits by Isabel Allende, Trouble in Gangtok and The Secret of the Cemetry (Adventures of Feluda) by Satyajit Ray (translated by Gopa Majumdar), Sugar Street by Naquib Mahfouz, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana by Umberto Eco, The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekov (adapted by David Mamet), The Master of Go by Yasunari Kawabata, A Hero of Our Times by Mikhail Lermontov, The Gospel According to the Jesus Christ by Jose Saramago (translated by Giovanni Pontiero), Monkey: A Folk Novel of China by Wu Che'ng-en (translated by Arthur Waley), Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami,

NOVEL / FICTION IN ENGLISH (16): The Man Who Would be the King and other stories by Rudyard Kipling, The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Gent by Washington Irving, Beethoven was One Sixteenth Black and Other Stories by Nadine Gordimer, Arrow of God by Chinua Achebe, (Captain Courageous by Rudyard Kipling), Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell, Deception by Philip Roth, Love and Mr Lewisham by H. G. Wells, Tar Baby by Toni Morrison, Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding, Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy, The Road by Cormac McCarthy, The Painter of Signs by RK Narayan, Summer Crossing by Truman Capote, Vanity of Duluoz by Jack Kerouac, Waiting for the Barbarians by J. M. Coetzee.

ENGLISH POETRY (35): The Odes of Horace or Quintas Horatius Flacus in Latin & in English: Book 1, 2, 3, 4 & The Ceremonial Hymn (translated by Len Krisak), Collected Poems by Nissim Ezekiel (including A Time to Change, Sixty Poems, The Third, The Unfinished Man, The Exact Name, Hymns in Darkness & Later Day Psalms), The Open Door: One Hundred Poems, One Hundred Years of the Poetry Magazine edited by Don Share and Christian Wiman, A Further Range, A Witness Tree, Steeple Bush, In the Clearing, A Masque of Reason and A Masque of Mercy by Robert Frost, The Art of Writing: Lu Chi's Wen Fu (translated by Sam Hamill), Islamic Mystical Poetry Sufi Verse from the Early Mystics to Rumi by Mahmood Jamal, Cemetery Nights by Stephen Dobyns, Hymns from Adi Granth (included in Khushwant Singh's A History of Sikhs), Your Native Land, Your Life by Adrienne Rich, Sonnets to Orpheus by Ranier Maria Rilke, Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso: The Divine Comedy by Dante (Translated by Henry Longfellow), The Coney Island State of Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Blood Orange by Angela Narciso Torres, King Me by Roger Reeves, Diving into the Wreck and Telephone Ringing in the Labyrinth by Adrienne Rich.

Hindi / Urdu / Punjabi (3+2+1) Raag Darbari by Shrilal Shukla, Uttaradhikari by Yashpal, Mansarovar: Bhaag 1 by Munsi Premchand, Awaazon ke Ghere by Dushyant Kumar, Deepshikha by Mahadevi Verma
Nepali Kranti Katha by Phanishwarnath Renu, 

Sanskrit (0+0): 

MAHABHARATA (by Mahrishi Ved Vyas; tr. by Kisari Mohun Ganguly) (0/18): 

PHILOSOPHY / RELIGION / MYTHOLOGY  (0): 

NON-FICTION (13): India: A Wounded Civilization by V. S. Naipaul, The Search for God and Guinness: A Biography of the Beer that Changed the World by Stephen Mansfield, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, Sor Juana  by Octavio Paz, Red Sun by Sudeep Chakravarti, (Crying by Tom Lutz), The Education of a British-Protected Child by Chinua Achebe, A History of Sikhs, Volume 1: 1469-1839 and Volume II: 1839-2004 by Khushwant Singh, Soldier Sahibs by Charles Allen, Becoming a Writer by Dorothea Brande, Of Africa by Wole Soyinka, The Test of My Life: From Cricket to Cancer and Back by Yuvraj Singh with Sharda Ugra and Nishant Jeet Arora,

POPULAR SCIENCE / ECONOMICS (5): Chaos by James Gleick, Froth by Mike Denny, Soap Bubbles by C. V. Boys, (Soap, Science and Flat Screen TVs: A History of Liquid Crystals by David Dunmur and Tim Sluckin),  The Log from the Sea of Cortez by John Steinbeck.

 Favorite reads of the year (Fiction / Novels /Short Stories/ Non-Fiction)
(1) The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu [translated by Royall Tyler]
(2) The Cairo Trilogy by Naguib Mahfouz (translated by William Maynard Hutchins)
(3) Monkey: A Folk Novel of China by Wu Che'ng-en (translated by Arthur Waley)
(4) The Man Who Would be the King and other stories by Rudyard Kipling
(5) Collected Poems by Nissim Ezekiel
(6) Decameron by Giovani Boccaccio [translated by G. H. McWilliam]
(7) The Divine Comedy by Dante [translated by Longfellow]
(8) Raag Darbari by Shrilal Shukla
(9) A History of Sikhs, Volume 1: 1469-1839 and Volume II: 1839-2004 by Khushwant Singh
(10) The Log from the Sea of Cortez by John Steinbeck
(11) Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
(12) The Masterpiece by Emile Zola
(13) Your Native Land, Your Life, Diving into the Wreck and Telephone Ringing in the Labyrinth by Adrienne Rich
(14) Sor Juana  by Octavio Paz,  
(15) Red Sun by Sudeep Chakravarti,  
(16) The Education of a British-Protected Child by Chinua Achebe

(If I am through more  than 50% of the book, it goes into the list of the year past, otherwise it appears in the new list next year. See here for the books read in 2012, with a selection of my favorite reads in the year past.)

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Translation: Don't Go Far Off by Pablo Neruda

दूर न जा, दिन भर के लिए भी न जा, क्यूंकि,
मैं नहीं जानता कैसे कहूँ -- दिन लम्बा होता है
और मैं रहूंगा तुम्हारे इंतजार में, जैसे खाली स्टेशन 
जबकी रेलगाड़ियाँ खड़ी होंगीं कहीं दूर, सुसुप्त |

न छोड़ना मुझे एक-आध घंटे के लिए भी, क्यूंकि
तब दर्द की सारी बूंदावलियां बह निकलेंगी एक धार|
मुझमें समा जायेगा किसी घर की तलाश में भटकता
धुआं, मेरा हृदय को अटका जायेगा |

ओह! तुम्हारा साया न धूमिल हो कभी सागर तट पर 
कोरी दूरियों में न कभी फड़फड़ाएं तुम्हारी पलकें,
एक लम्हें के लिए भी न छोड़ना मुझे प्रियतमा 

क्यूंकि उस एक पल में तुम निकल जाओगी कहीं दूर,
मैं भटकता फिरूंगा सारे धरातल पर, पूछता 
क्या तुम लौटोगी? क्या तुम रहने दोगी मुझे यहाँ, मरता?
**
No estés lejos de mí un solo día

"No lejos de mí un solo día"
Pablo Neruda

No estés lejos de mí un solo día, porque cómo,
porque, no sé decirlo, es largo el día,
y te estaré esperando como en las estaciones
cuando en alguna parte se durmieron los trenes.

No te vayas por una hora porque entonces
en esa hora se juntan las gotas del desvelo
y tal vez todo el humo que anda buscando casa
venga a matar aún mi corazón perdido.

Ay que no se quebrante tu silueta en la arena,
ay que no vuelen tus párpados en la ausencia:
no te vayas por un minuto, bienamada,

porque en ese minuto te habrás ido tan lejos
que yo cruzaré toda la tierra preguntando
si volverás o si me dejarás muriendo.
**
"Don't Go Far Off"
Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying? 


(PS: My translation is a Hindi translation from an English translation; you can say it is twice removed from the original. I recall Neurda's poem after Tagore, probably that was written in the same spirit. I found the English translation online, and I do not know who to credit for this translation. I will love to hear comments from someone who know all the languages involved. This poem is part of a self-assigned translation project to bring some of my favorite poems (translated and otherwise) into Hindi, and as the idea is to master the process of translation over time, all criticism will help me to make better versions in future.)

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Nacropolis by Jeet Thayil

Nacropolis by Jeet Thayil is an opiate, a page-turner, a hookah-smoke-filled exploration of Bombay through adventures in grotesque and conversations of the underbelly. The metropolis is presented as the beloved city of drug- and dream- addicts. Jeet recreates Nacropolis from a realm of nostalgia often neglected by the middle-class moralists, censored by the self-righteous white-collared archivists and invariably ignored by the anglicized writers whose familiarity with Indian multitudes on streets matches the know-how acquired by weekend foreign tourists. In Nacropolis, each page is like a new puff, each puff leads to a new insight or cough or nightmare or hiccup. In the backdrop of storytelling by sedated characters, unfold the inescapable, newsworthy events of the nineteen seventies and eighties (including riots, movies, politicians, cricket). Each event pushes the protagonists from one level of addiction to another, for it is the cocktail of politics, economics, society & religion that provides kicks sterner than any dope can deliver. This portrait of the dark-alleys on Bombay, written with a lyricism and condensation of a poet, is a brew too strong for average readers, addicted to a Bollywood reality, televised farces and to endless narratives penned by a cult of schooled writers who view the real world through tinted glasses of their high-rise, high-minded lifestyles.

Nacropolis by Jeet Thayil struts its hijra hero/heroine through smoke-filled corridors resonant with echoes of paid-sex and free-style storytelling. After Khushwant Singh's Bhagmati in his novel 'Delhi', Jeet gives Bombay her own Dimple to rule the land of hukkah and blah. Like G. V. Desani and Rushdie, Jeet offers a fantastical recreation of Indian kitsch and kaleidoscopic reality. Jeet takes a wide-lens exposure of the hitherto unlettered realms of the city, zooms into the folds of flesh that present their share of secrets and sin, fantasy and filth, joy and depravity. Though written with an intoxicating sincerity, certain passages do reach out beyond the seams of reality and fantasy; maybe that is to be expected while reading the ramblings of a feverish cast. To those who believe that chauvinistic regionalism and choice religion can be stamped onto the 'Mumbai'-dwellers, Nacropolis presents a needle-prick protest by invoking transnational deities and homegrown demons that exist and persist in the city streets.

In Nacropolis, the cast of memorable characters include a Mr Lee who escaped from China when it turned communist (and he provides a heady portrait of his nation in transition), Rashidbhai, a drugdealer whose life and business are transformed first by Dimple and later by the emergence of heroin, Rumi who is full of violence, vapor and jazz (and is a US-returned Brahmin unhappily married to a Jain), choicest hippies & junkies, and a Bengali who delights in literature and opium. By reaching back to the twenty years Jeet spent chasing opium and oblivion in his beloved Bombay, he has retrieved an ode and created an elegy to a lost world of addictions and aspirations. Like any great work of fiction, Nacropolis combines wordplay, narration, imagination, tone, music and wistfulness, to create a masterpiece that will force readers to reassess their own experiences of, and perspectives about, their cities, histories, addictions, acquaintances and memories. 

First appeared in Reading Hour, Fall 2012

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

To Salman Rushdie & Joseph Anton, with respect

Meeting Salman Rushdie was like the half-a-minute "darshan" we have in the famous Indian temples. He was in Cambridge, Massachusetts on 9th October, 2012, on his book tour, following the publication of his latest book: Joseph Anton. There I was standing in a really long line first to get into the venue, and everyone around me was busy recounting when the author's work had entered their lives, how it had transformed their writing and thinking lives. Then like true devotees we sat and admired the personal and personalized idol of so many of us present there, every sentence Salman said made the audience crack-up or giggle. Maybe the effect was accentuated by the choice of a Church as the venue, with Salman on the podium acting as the prosecuted, hence highly revered, holy priest of free speech. Finally, there was another long line to redemption, as Salman signed the books and the beady-eyed readers got to exchange a sentence or two with him. 

Joseph Anton is another solid book by Salman Rushdie, it is a memoir where we get to hear his version of story and of twelve years spend in hiding after the fatwa. Among other things, Salman describes his own awe and respect for many writers, and how and where he met them first, and what that meant to him. A detailed review of book will follow in due time, and here I will just recount my two minutes of conversation with him. Over the years, I have read nearly every book and essay written by Salman Rushdie. After a lifetime of waiting and wanting, to stand next to him and speak a sentence or two while getting the book signed was very special, as I stood close to the great man who has transformed and influenced imagination and words of everyone who thinks about India, including the Indians. 

Salman Rushdie, and his other self, Joseph Anton both have earned our respect primarily based on the quality of his writing, how it captures the complexity and vibrancy of India, how it challenges Western as well as Eastern notions of imaginary homelands, of how newness enters the world, of the ocean of the stream of the stories of the all mankind, of limits and meanings of freedom and creative expression, of revealed and hidden words and verses that determine the course of our lives. In his memoir, Salman reminds us that good writing has always outlived regimes and people who prosecuted the writers. Indeed, the Booker of the Bookers Midnight's Children and a dozen other books have insured the writing will outlive our contemporaries and times. In the memoir, Salman captures the fears and joys of a dozen years in near-captivity, and the struggles he underwent emotionally, personally and as a writer, before he could reemerge as a writer and a person. The imperfect human who manage to exist as Joseph Anton for a twelve years and continue to write as Salman Rushdie has given me much to read and a lot to think about over the years. Salman Rushdie's writing does not strike a chord in me, rather it strikes a sitar melody, a santoor harmony and a full orchestra of thought.

In my half-a-minute darshan I told Salman, that in that room I was probably the only other Indian who also has a house in Solan, Himachal Pradesh. I told him my father was posted in Solan when Salman fought the court case to get his ancestral house back (recounted in Joseph Anton), and my father's immediate boss was the government official who had to evacuate the house before Salman got it back. A friend I made while standing in the line clicked a picture moments before Salman said, "Oh really! Where in Solan do you live?" There was a long line of people who wanted his autograph and our conversation remained incomplete. One day, we will sit face to face and talk for hours...  

Saturday, September 08, 2012

Ghazal - An Eastern Inheritance

Ghazal: the last words of a dying deer to its beloved, strung together in the form of rhyming couplets. Ghazal is an elegy and an ode, a lyrical and stylized lament, a whimsical play of words, a wistful cry rolled into five couplets or more. Ghazal, like sonnet or villanelle or haiku or sestina, is an example of a formal poem and is supposed to be written under strict metrical and rhyming constraints. Each couplet (sher) is a complete thought and a poem in itself. Each couplet ends with a repeating word or phrase (like tonight is the refrain or radif above), and the word immediately before the refrain (expel, cell, hell) rhymes across the couplets. The opening couplet (or matla) announces the refrain and the rhyme scheme (called kaafiya) in the first line itself, and the remaining couplets arrive in the same meter (bahr). The meter, rhyming penultimate word and the refrain synergistically provide an effect of passion, obsession, perhaps even a periodic sob or sigh, and though each new couplets begins with a first line that can travel a different landscape of feeling, the return to refrain in second couplet is like a homecoming. The penultimate word signals the return. The last couplet (maqta) often contains the chosen name or pseudonym of a poet (takhalus), as if the poet signs off with a couplet that contains his last words, his epitaph. These constraints within the form are similar to the constraints imposed by the society on love, thought, liberty and ideas. The English language is one of the few Western/European languages where ghazal (pronounced ghuzzle) has made an appearance on the page. My essay is formally about the Anglicized ghazal, but to imagine, inspire, write and judge poems in a particular form, requires an awareness of its clichés and characteristics. No poet in English must write an essay or a collection of sonnets without a certain familiarity with Shakespeare, though missing out on sonnets written in Indian languages is perhaps permissible.

In the beginning, in seventh century, ghazal was Arabic. By the tenth century, she conquered many hearts and lands in the East. The form reached its maturity as a form in the hands of Persian masters. In the West, when Goethe and Lorca experimented with this form: they were primarily inspired by the ghazal of Hafiz (or Hafez), the fourteenth century Farsi poet, said to be the greatest exponent of the form. The celebrated thirteenth century poet, Amir Khusrau was probably the first major poet to popularize ghazal in the Indian subcontinent and first to infuse words from khadi boli (early version of Hindi/Urdu). Subsequently, Urdu poets like Wali Deccani, Mir Taqi 'Mir', Ghalib, Dard, Dagh, Zauq, Momin, Faiz, Faraz, Firaq, Faiz and Faraz, as well as Dushyant Kumar (Hindi), Shiv Kumar Batalvi (Punjabi) and numerous Bollywood lyricists contributed to the popularity of ghazal in India. Ghazal, performed by celebrated, classically trained singers in varied languages have supplied many unforgettable rhymes to love-stricken as well as to literary minded classes and masses in India, Pakistan, Iran, Arab world and elsewhere. Mirza Ghalib, whose ghazals are infused with philosophical questions, is probably the most celebrated poet in the Urdu language. The introduction of ghazal to American poets is often linked to the Ghalib translation project of Aljaz Ahmed in 1960s. Adrienne Rich, William Stafford and W. S. Merwin all worked with a literal translation of Ghalib's Urdu ghazals to render their own versions in English. The translation project spawned an interest in the form, but early on, American poets wrote ghazals without an awareness of its rich, multi-cultural, multi-layered history, and without attention to any formal constraints.

In fact, before Agha Shahid Ali (1949-2001) took a loudspeaker and a sledgehammer to chide poets for calling any string of couplets written by them as a ghazal, English (American) poets created verses without constraints, without refrain, without meter, without a unity that is enforced by the rhyme scheme and the lament-like undercurrent. They created so-called ghazals without allusions or gratitude to a rich Eastern inheritance. Anguished by reading what passed for ghazal in English and acutely aware of the sub-textual richness of the form due to his Indian heritage, Shahid pointed out that "the Americans had got the ghazal quite wrong". Like a teacher and Eastern mystic he patiently explained, with examples he created, how to craft a ghazal in English. He later edited an anthology "Ravishing Disunities: Real Ghazals in English" where many contemporary poets wrote ghazals that Shahid accepted into the fold (many that I would dismiss as unrealized or unsuccessful attempts). Before revisiting the formal elements necessary for composing a ghazal, here are selected couplets from a ghazal by Shahid that appears in his collection titled "Call Me Ishmael Tonight":

Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?
Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?

I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—
A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.

Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken;
Only we can convert the infidel tonight.

In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed.
No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.

And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee—
God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.

Celebrated ghazals by masters in Arabic, Persian, Urdu or Hindi have all the formal elements woven into a tapestry that is intricate, complex, and beautiful. In these cerebral yet popular ghazals, even through all constraints (social and literary) are respected, the resulting verses are musical and lyrical, ready to be recited or sung to diverse audiences who marvel at every turn of phrase, every choice of rhyme, and find relief, release, joy in the ageless words of the poet. In fact, performance of a ghazal in the East involves a protocol unmatched by any I know of in the Western poetry. The poet first recites a line, then repeats it, accentuating the effect by changing the tone or by stretching out or stressing a word. The audience repeats a phrase or the line, an expectation is built up. Now the second line of the couplet is released amongst much fanfare. Soon the refrain is on only everybody's lip, but the mystery of what could come before the refrain sustains the excitement. One couplet won the approval of the audience, now the next is another battle, another farewell, another journey, another quest, till the final verse brings the lament to a halt, after which only a silent ache, a memory remains.

Ghazal is by nature an address by a poet-protagonist (dying deer) to a beloved (who could be imaginary, distant or absent). Ghazal is always a declaration, but hardly ever a monologue. A farewell song with a detached sense of a lost cause, and also craving expressed with a latent hope that it will reach the intended ears. Sentimentality, abstracted to the extent that it becomes a metaphor for any unfulfilled or unrealizable dream or desire or rather every cause worth pining, dying or fighting for. The sufi poets of the subcontinent and of Persia compose verses addressing the almighty as the ultimate beloved. All good ghazals arrive in multiple incarnations, sensuous from the lips of a courtesan, spiritual in the company of dancing dervishes or sufis, entertaining when recited in a drunken party and thought provoking for critics and casual listeners. In Farsi or Urdu, every ghazal engages in a dialogue with verses that came before, and the task of writing fresh verses involves a heightened sensibility that helps in creating suspense, surprise, pleasure, catharsis, nirvana. Why must a ghazal in English care for the inheritance of loss, these cultures full of constraints, semantics of unfulfilled desires or the mysticism of foreign lands? One compelling reason, I think, is the fact that just India alone has more English speakers than the US and UK combined. If we account for all the countries and cultures that have memory of ghazal in another language, ignoring this inheritance is like imagining that English language without the backdrop of European history, religious practices, politics, literature and languages.

Is an Arbaic, Urdu, Persian, Turkish, Hindi, Punjabi, Marathi ghazal translatable into English, or is it so deeply rooted in a culture that is so alien to the Western culture and audiences that every translation is bound to fail as a poem in its own right in English? Can any English ghazal appear as true to the form to readers and poets with a bilingual imagination, familiar with excellent ghazals in another language? The difficulty in writing ghazals in English for someone like me is how to recreate her tension in a way that can appeal to a reader from the West as well as from the East simultaneously (though often due to different reasons). When the Muslim poets express their desire for wine, praise the goblet or a tavern, they break religious or regional laws. Lines can cost lives, breaking the constraints can bring shackles and prison cells. The audience in such cases derives a guilty pleasure in hearing echoes of protest within a poem outwardly addressed to a distant, lost, unresponsive or unattainable beloved. The presentation of sensual desires through seemingly platonic or Victorian lines, and the pronouncement of doubt in another (God, king, beloved) appeals as extraordinary literary feats only when insurmountable barriers exist and words carry throbbing of an anguished art. A lament, a near-blasphemy presented in such style that the listener is forced to marvel at the music and the meaning and scream in pleasure: Wow (wah!). Poetry in the west is often a leisurely activity of Lord Byrons, Emily Dickinsons, and New Englanders but when saying anything or everything is permitted, how can you find the tension, tacit protest, that sustains the paradoxical, wistful writing of a ghazal?

I personally feel that Anglicized ghazal is in an early stage of development and a Hafez or a Ghalib will arrive in English when the language and the world is ready for him (or her). I began writing ghazals in English after my friend and mentor Thomas Lux urged me to to. He tested my sensibility for the form by first giving me so-called ghazals of an American poet. After seeing my disgust, he introduced me to the Shahid's ghazals. My personal quest for the lines that are of inevitable, inexhaustible beauty continues. The biggest challenge is how to write lines that a bilingual imagination like mine does not corrupt with ideas untranslatable for listeners arriving with only one shared language. I believe Shahid managed to bring the sensibility of the East to ghazal in English. Years ago, I acknowledged the form has a formidable future in English, when I listened with astonishment, pleasure and joy to Heather McHugh recite "Ghazal of the Better-Unbegun" with a gusto that would make any Urdu or Farsi poet proud:

Too volatile, am I? too voluble? too much a word-person? 

I blame the soup: I'm a primordially

stirred person.

Two pronouns and a vehicle was Icarus with wings. 

The apparatus of his selves made an ab-
surd person.

The sound I make is sympathy's: sad dogs are tied afar. 

But howling I become an ever more un-
heard person.

McHugh, you'll be the death of me -- each self and second studied!
Addressing you like this, I'm halfway to the
third person.


**
 (PS: The poems quoted by Heather and Shahid are quoted here are the intellectual property of the poets or their representatives, and are quoted here with a deep reverence for their excellent command of the form).

Wednesday, August 01, 2012

Juhi, Daughter-in Law of Roohi

- For Gurudev Thomas Lux*
                   


Roohi, my mother's father's uncle's fourth daughter-in-law
was Ma's father's only relative in our father's village.
Even Roohi's husband's great-grandfather was related
as a brother to my father’s grandpa's grandpa. I called Roohi
grandma, and she treated me well. But she was one vicious 
matriarch, and her docile son married Ma's friend Juhi.


From their primary school days, whisperers Ma and Juhi
shared stories. After marriage, both talked of Mas-in-law.
Roohi, villagers said, had magical powers. All the vicious
events, deaths or diseases of cattle or men in the village,
were begotten by her squinted, accursed glance. Roohi
spewed the vilest curses… on villagers related, unrelated


to us. I was ten that morning, when an uncle, related
to Roohi, told us that on a dung-heap lay beaten Juhi.
No one dared to help her – for all were scared of Roohi.
No one dared to help her or suggest the recourse to law.
Ma and I carried Juhi back from the Shamshaan of the village.
She was turned into a red-blue pulp by that vicious


ma-in law. No movies show that bodies can face such vicious
blows. After twenty stitches, an enfeebled Juhi correlated
her story: “…for bringing the lowest dowry in the village,
for stealing and misusing Roohi's son’s money.” Later Juhi
testified: “I was attacked by ghosts.”  As if the men of law
couldn’t tell! But who could have dared to implicate Roohi?


I was fourteen, when we caught a rumor that Roohi
was starving a pregnant Juhi, another whim of her vicious
wisdom. My Ma carried prasad as food to Juhi's ma-in-law,
and fed Juhi. Ma succeeded as her father's family was prerelated
to Roohi. On the pretext of my birthday, next day we rescued Juhi
and smuggled her our on a bouncy tractor to her father's village.


At twenty-five, after three years in the US, I visited our village.
Grandma and I visited a bedridden, cancer patient Roohi.
I saw she was a shriveled dried grape now. So was Juhi,
who after twenty-six years of strife, was nursing her vicious
nemesis. Roohi had to be reminded about how we were related. 
She said, "Be good Vivek, be as good as is my daughter-in-law."


Fanning away Ma-in-law's flies, sits an aged Juhi. I feel awed by the village.
How many times have I related this story: the image of a dying Roohi,
juxtaposed on with her former vicious avatars and the ever forgiving Juhi.






Notes: Prasad is sanctified food served at Temples and the villagers believe that it cannot be refused if offered.