PAKISTANI LITERATURE
Editor- in-Chief: Abdul Hameed
Spring 2014
ly
Vol.17
On
Issue 1
vie w
Consultant Editor: Mushir Anwar
Pr e
Editor: Muhammad Asim Butt
The Pakistan Academy of Letters
Copyright 2014, by the Pakistan Academy of Letters Circulation: Mir Nawaz Solangi
ly
Price in Pakistan Per issue Rs. 300.00 Annual Subscription (two issues): The publisher of this journal Rs. 600.00 gratefully acknowledges the assistance of writers and translators Price Abroad (By Air Mail) $20.00 who have generously allowed us to Single Issue Annual (Two issues) $ 40.00 publish their works.
On
Opinions expressed in this journal are of the authors and not necessarily of those of the editors of Pakistan Academy of letters. All correspondence to The Editor-inChief, Pakistan Literature, Pakistan academy Of Letters, Sector H-8/1, Islamabad, Pakistan.
We encourage all our writers and contributors throughout Pakistan to Printed and bound in Pakistan by: Ashraf Sons Printers, Islamabad. send us their contributions.
vie w
Pr e
Email: pakistaniliterature@gmail.com Phone: +92 051-9235729, 0519250582
Pakistani Literature is published biannually, in spring and winter, by Pakistan Academy of Letters, Sector H-8/1, Islamabad, Pakistan.
3
Contents 9
Acknowledgement
11
On
English Literature
ly
Foreword Abdul Hameed
Poetry
15 17
Raja Changez Sultan Given the Choice
18
Ather Tahir Father’s Farewell
19
Jam Jamali The Moneybags!
20
vie w
Ejaz Rahim Nelson Mendela and Muhammad Ali Jinnah Poem for Malala
Pr e
Zakia Khawaja Introduction by Mushir Anwar Poems:
Dancing Behind Closed Doors Liberation Starwords Vampire Winter Voyager Writing on Water
21 22 23 24 25 26 27
Fiction
Articles: Zulfikar Ghose Art and Spirituality
29
Pakistani Literature, 2014
4
34
Shakeel Ahmad One Window Operation
37
Abdul Hameed Aspects of Culture and Civilisation
43
ly
Muzaffar Mumtaz Poetry, Senses and Beyond
Amir Hafeez Malik Haider Multani’s Si-Harfees
Muhammad Asim Butt Corner
On
Short Story
55
61
Poetry
vie w
Urdu Literature
69
Afzaal Ahmad Syed I will be killed Translated by Mushir Anwar
70
Pr e
Sarwat Hussain In the Empire of Noon Translated by Zia-ul-Mustafa Turk
Khalid Iqbal Yasir As Without Feelings I Exist Translated by Riaz Ahmed
72
Muhammad Afsar Sajid The Tasmania of Love Translated by Hamid Yousafi
73
Sarwar Kamran The Greatest Attribute (Ism-e-Azam) Translated by Muhammad Shanazar
74
Pakistani Literature, 2014
5 Ahmed Hussain Mujahid Union of the Lost Stars In The Oasis of Astonishment Translated by Ahmed Farhad
76
Shaheen Abbas Love ‌..Under Observation Translated by Waseem Ahmad
77
Fiction
vie w
Mansha Yad The Thirteenth Pole Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh
78
On
Akhtar Raza Saleemi I want a virgin scene Translated by Mushir Anwar
ly
Syed Kashif Raza A Legendary Woman Translated by Mushir Anwar
80
81
88
Muhammad Ilyas Sacrifice Translated by Waseem Ahmad
92
Agha Gul Khan Mastana Translated by Farooq Sarwar
103
Khalid Fateh Muhammad Antidote Translated by Khalid Mehmood
107
Pr e
Intezar Hussain A Silence in the Streets Translated by Frances W Pritchet
Pakistani Literature, 2014
6
Punjabi/Siraiki/Potohari Literature Poetry Munir Niazi Poem Translated by Muhammad Asim Butt
113
Fiction
vie w
Saeed Akhtar Siyal Minority Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh
114
On
Shiraz Tahir Distribution Translated by Muhammad Shanazar
ly
Ashu Lal The Ruler Ordered Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh
115
116
117
Habib Mohana The Stains of Smallpox Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh
121
Pr e
Hafeez Khan The Old Woman’s Horse Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh
Malik Mehr Ali
Rift Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh
127
Sindhi Literature
Poetry Qazi Maqsood Gul A Maiden and the Moon Translated by Jam Jamali
133
Pakistani Literature, 2014
7 Fiction 135
Akhlaq Ansari The Mirror Translated by Mubarak Ali Lashari
139
Poetry
vie w
Ajmal Khatak Paradise Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh
On
Pushto Literature
ly
Ghulam Rabbani Agro Newspaper Translated by Humayun Kiani
145
Qalandar Momand To the World’s Conscience Translated by Inayatullah Khatak
147
Mehmood Ayaz I Am Standing In The Half Opened Door Translated by Ilyas Babar Awan
150
Pr e
Fiction/Articles
Dr. Raj Wali Shah Khatak Rohology Translated by Inayatullah Khatak
151
Tahir Afridi Mourning Translated by Inayatullah Khatak
163
Pakistani Literature, 2014
8
Balochi/Brahvi Literature Poetry Mir Gul Khan Naseer Where is Your Destination? Translated by Dr. Naimat Gichki
171
vie w
Ghani Parwaz The Graveyard of Life Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh
172
On
Fiction
ly
Afazal Murad Today I Will Go To The Mountains Translated by Farooq Sarwar
174
Translation In International Languages Dr. Allama Muhammad Iqbal The Mosque of Cordova ﻣﺴﺠﺪ ﻗﺮطﺒہ
Pr e
Translation into French by: Professeur André Guimbretière Translation into Arabic by: Abdul Hameed Madni Translation into Turkish by: Yusuf Salih Karaca
179 183 188
Pakistani Literature, 2014
9
Foreword
ly
Pakistan Academy of Letters was established in 1976 to gain certain aims and objectives. Its major objective was to promote and patronize literature of the different regional languages and make it available to the reading public across the country. The Academy has thus played a role in promoting national understanding among the different regions and provinces of the country.
vie w
On
A multi-lingual country needs such efforts to bridge the communication gap among its different people Adabiyaat, a regular publication of the Academy, presents Urdu translations of the works of writers and poets of Pashto, Balochi, Sindhi, Brahvi, Saraiki, Punjabi and Pothowari so that people living in different provinces may understand one another and achieve mental congruence towards building a national identity. Up till now some one hundred editions of Adabiyaat have offered the literary product of our regional languages to readers across Pakistan and preserved it for posterity.
Pr e
Now the era we are passing through is an era of information technology. Internet has changed the modern world into a global village of which we are also a part. But it is a matter of serious concern that the language barrier keeps this world largely ignorant about us. Our arts and our literature which reflect the true face of our society remains hidden from the world. The world does not have access to our creative product and the unique traditions it represents. Our culture of human companionship, our aversion to war and extremism, our love for peace do not register on the world sensibility as the creative genius of the people remains in obscurity for lack of communication in a medium the international audience understands. Pakistan Academy of Letters has decided to meet the challenge by translating the creative writings of the country into major international languages of the world i.e., Chinese, French, Arabic and Turkish besides English in which the present
Pakistani Literature, 2014
10 publication has been appearing. Pakistan Academy of Letters for the first time has formed a ‘Translation Bureau’ consisting of scholars and translators in these international languages. It is a great step and I feel honoured I am laying its foundation. ‘Pakistani Literature’ is already serving this purpose albeit in English. I would greatly welcome comments and suggestions for its improvement from scholars and the literary community.
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
ABDUL HAMEED Chairman, Pakistan Academy of Letters
Pakistani Literature, 2014
11
Acknowledgement
vie w
On
ly
Selecting a representative collection of writings from the languages of Pakistan is a daunting task. The space available in a limited volume cannot accommodate the full richness and variety of cultural ethos that contemporary regional literature offers. The chairman, Mr. Abdul Hameed, who has numerous other responsibilities, helped the compilers and guided the academy’s regional branches in the selection of writers and their work. The former director general, Mr. Zaheer Ud Din Malik also extended his full support in this effort. Finding good translators who can render from regional languages is no easy matter. The pool we created earlier for previous issues of Pakistani Literature is not available now because translation is not an organized profession here. The chairman has shown concern and laid the foundation for creating such a pool of translators. We were greatly helped in editing and revision of the final manuscript by our consultant editor, Mr. Mushir Anwar, who also recommended the inclusion of some fine verse and prose in the English writers section.
Pr e
The present selection of prose and poetry is reflective of the issues and themes our writers and poets are seized with and it is hoped our readers here and abroad will be able to see in this volume a picture of contemporary Pakistan. We eagerly look forward to useful feedback from our general readers and suggestions for improvement from scholars, intellectuals and the literati. Editor
Pakistani Literature, 2014
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
12
Pakistani Literature, 2014
ly On
Pr e
vie w
English Literature
14
Authors
On
ly
Ejaz Rahim Raja Changez Sultan Ather Tahir Jam Jamali Zakia Khawaja
Pr e
vie w
Zulfikar Ghose Muzaffar Mumtaz Shakeel Ahmad Abdul Hameed Amir Hafeez Malik Muhammad Asim Butt
Pakistani Literature, 2014
15
Ejaz Rahim
NELSON MANDELA AND MUHAMMAD ALI JINNAH
On
ly
Like beauty is indebted to its beholder Icons need admiring eyes And loving hearts To become iconic And to remain sublime.
Nelson Mandela and Muhammad Ali Jinnah In my sight and mind Are two of the greatest icons Of our time.
vie w
Mandela left today Jinnah, sixty five years ago Two figures tall in history Stoical, magnificent. Both were so different And yet so similar Both Afro-Asia’s best In character and integrity.
Pr e
Mandela soared to heroism When after years of resistance And decades in prison He embraced his oppressors For South Africa’s sake In the name of humanity.
Only those touched With the beauty of Jesus Christ Can rise to such heights. Jinnah too forgot All rancour and bitterness Of his lifelong struggle Pakistani Literature, 2014
For the basic rights Of a wronged people And proclaimed loudly That all communities In the new nation Be they Hindus or Sikhs Christians or Muslims Shall enjoy the same Sanctity and dignity.
On
Jinnah and Mandela Soared to heroism In the moment Of their greatest triumph Also the moment Of their greatest humility And deepest humanity.
ly
16
(6 December, 2013)
Pr e
vie w
Both Mandela and Jinnah Have now left For other stations Where none can reach Except the Eye of God— Two kindred spirits So different, yet so similar.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
17
Ejaz Rahim
POEM FOR MALALA
ly
We live in a strange epoch Surviving on orphaned light Emanating from murdered suns And injured moons.
On
The poem I wrote in your name I have since erased Replacing it with a wonderment How to compress In a few lines The courage of a lioness.
vie w
You need no poems of praise. Your tuberose fragrance Has already travelled Like light across the world And strengthened the vulnerable.
Pr e
Your suffering Is a grim reminder And a silent tribute Silent but eloquent For all our children Brazenly guillotined By hate-mongers In front of the powerful. (2011)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
18
Raja Changez Sultan
Given the Choice
ly
Given the choice of going to teach I'd rather strip and walk the beach And chase little crabs all day long Or write a poem or sing a song
vie w
A class ain't meant for a teacher Wanting to be a no good preacher When we know they're all around Stuffing us with awful sound
On
For a little mind is hard to handle Akin to a flame on a wick of candle Quivering so in the slightest breeze Or shooting up with ample ease
And teaching ain't the art for one Who loves to laze out in the sun Sipping gin and tonic, or a beer Without remorse or any fear
Pr e
Given the choice of going to teach I'd rather strip and walk the beach And chase little crabs all day long Or write a poem or sing a song
Pakistani Literature, 2014
19
Ather Tahir
Father’s Farewell
On
Maternal grandparents too frail to walk Are there sitting in the car And uncles and aunts and gaggling cousins From both sides crowd to see you off east.
ly
(For Ashhar)
Other families, even father’s uncle In his starched, wing-turban Gathered three decades ago In a black-and-white goodbye to see me off west.
Pr e
vie w
As I hug and centre you In God’s protection I am your grandfather Sending me off.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
20
Jam Jamali
The Moneybags!
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
Oh! Ye poor fellows in rags Never expect the moneybags Will have the thought To improve your lot Even in philanthropy’s guise Their vested interest lies Through this guiling game They win favor and fame They buy bureaucrats with a buck To The masses dexterously duck These blood sucking lice Seem civil and nice Their sympathies are guiles Like tears of crocodiles!
Pakistani Literature, 2014
21
Zakia Khawaja: An Introduction
ly
It is a pleasure to introduce the poetry of a very talented young poet, Zakia Rubab Khawaja, who lives and works in the United States. She has a Masters degree in English Literature from the University of Rochester.
vie w
On
Zakia’s poetry focuses on the rich culture of the subcontinent as well as regional and global socio-political issues. Her work has appeared in the award-winning literary journal, the Grey Sparrow Journal, and other literary publications such as the Alabama Literary Review, Pearl and Ellipsis...Literature and Art to name a few. Recently, her work was nominated for the prestigious Sundress Publication’s Best of the Net series. Zakia is currently working on a poetry manuscript. A selection of six of her poems is presented here.
Pr e
Mushir Anwar
Pakistani Literature, 2014
22
Zakia Khawaja
Dancing Behind Closed Doors It begins with shedding disguises:
Sweat between thighs and breasts patches up spines buried in the length of backs.
On
Passion unleashed in the arch of hips.
ly
Balled-up dupattas kicked to the edge of carpets.
soles, bold
vie w
Loosened plaits and melody-drunk
Pr e
until a man clears his throat on the other side of the wall.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
23
Zakia Khawaja
Liberation
fashioned flesh from stone,
vie w
carved my sinews, whittled spine and bone. Hardened from blows,
On
a sovereign mind loosened from molds – it was no slick birth from a giving womb: I
ly
Much has been bared. Much still remains: I am Polasek’s Man Carving His Own Destiny –
Pr e
I have chiseled free will and until delivered whole, will keep bringing the hammer down.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
24
Zakia Khawaja
Starwords
ly
Summer nights, I connect-the-dots on skies thick with stars. Leap
Pr e
vie w
the beginnings of a verse, the ending of a poem, the title of a book and my name.
On
light-to-light and with a finger-spire, etch
Pakistani Literature, 2014
25
Zakia Khawaja
On
Frost-fangs sink bone-deep in land. Thirsty, drink it lifeless.
ly
Vampire Winter
Flowers pale away, interred in caskets of clotted grass.
vie w
The corpses of trees, stand skeletal and sucked under leached skies.
Pr e
In all this, a cardinal taking flight.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
26
Zakia Khawaja
Voyager
ly
I skyrocket through the exosphere, pinballing off worlds, discovering
I collect stars from the scars in the universe, bend time and space working the dials of my craft, past ink-black holes
On
life and trying to communicate with it in the words of earth.
vie w
sucking at me, atom by atom, only because your heart
Pr e
beating under my cheek, anchors me home.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
27
Zakia Khawaja
Writing on Water
ly
I
She tries to keep the car from moving: Nose and palm flat against the window.
On
Fog tunnels through the street, thick as smoke from a cannon’s muzzle.
vie w
The soldier on the other side draws two dots above an orphan U within his circle of breath on the glass.
Pr e
She puts on his brave face as the portrait breaks – streaky eyes cutting through the smile.
II
At the kitchen table, a bride swirls curlicues through water rings from sweating bottles of Chardonnay. She writes his name in fluid strokes, watching the lines merge before dripping off the border. Raindrops rat-a-tat against the windows.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
28 III
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
Salutes of cannon mean nothing to the old woman clawing at the ice on her son’s grave.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
29
Zulfikar Ghose
Art and Spirituality
On
ly
I am writing this on my laptop at 32,000 feet above Amazonia sitting in a Boeing 767 flying from Rio de Janeiro to Texas. Three hours out of Rio land another seven to Dallas, most of the passengers are asleep. I expect to spend much of the time listening to Abida Parveen, the Sabri Brothers, Pathanay Khan and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan on my iPod.
vie w
Right at this moment the pods are filling my ears with Nusrat singing the line, Shah-e-mardanAli, in one of his songs that thrills me every time I hear it though I am not a believer. The truth is that I love Nusrat and other Qawali singers just as I love Bach’s cantatas and other sacred music not because the music is religious but because it is beautiful.
Pr e
Perhaps ‘beautiful’ is a vague, even an evasive word in this context; more exact, perhaps, to say that since all art (and, indeed, science) comes from the human quest for an ultimate knowledge of reality and each artistic expression (and scientific theory) is implicitly a physical gesture in a carefully structured form (created by works, paint, carving, sound or dance, or by mathematical symbols) to access that ultimate meaning, therefore, this preoccupation of the artist (and the scientist) is finally a spiritual quest. And when the attempt by each, the artist and the scientist, seems to accomplish its intended goal, the result possesses an aura of beauty proportional to the intensity of thought, which is inexpressible in any other form and therefore, has nearly the quality of an unquestionable revelation, released by the accomplished work. We become possessed by the work, in its presence we are privy to a special vision that initiates a deep spiritual awareness: we are overwhelmed by beauty, we see what is not visible to the naked eye but something so intense we can scarcely define it: we are looking at art, or at pure science. That which the mind perceives as an aesthetic brilliance is, like the transmission of a secret knowledge, rationally unknowable. One can
Pakistani Literature, 2014
30
ly
talk about transcendence, about the divine presence in the dimensions of time and space that create a sense of awe in the human imagination, but in the end all abstract words leave one clinging to some belief while looking at the great incomprehensible void composed of time and space. Language fails us, we become obliged to accept our knowledge of reality as an intuitive apprehension for which no combination of signs and symbols can offer a provable correlative.
vie w
On
Removing the pods from my ears for a minute, I hear engines of the Boeing roaring outside and imagine becoming separate from the plane and see my body hurtling through the stars into that great void. I have the image of myself as a piece of space debris from an abandoned satellite shooting off, on a wild orbit. Whoosh, there goes me! A big metallic chunk shooting off into some black hole. Strangely, a phrase from Dante (from the Purgatorio, no less!) echoes in my brain at that moment: ma dimmi: perche assiso quirrito se? _the question asked of Belacqua, tell me, why are you sitting here? Indeed, a terrifying question at 32,000 feet hurtling through dark space!
Pr e
But that bit of debris in space that me orbiting unconstrained by the gravitational pull of any entrenched belief. I’m being sucked into the free-fall zone where one is released from the self, one’s desperate attachment to which, coerced by the self’s insistence on a recognition of its uniqueness, makes a havoc of one’s life, it is a moment when, freed from the imprisoning self, one embraces an otherness, one becomes a diwana, ( as in that haunting refrain in Hakim Nassser’s ghazal sung so passionately by Abida Parveen, jabse tum ne mujhe diwana bana rakhahai,) which is to say, one enters a state of madness (hence the phrase, madly in love), like a Majnu who is made for Leila, and longs to be consumed by the other (hence, consummation). You will recall Hamlet in his famous soliloquy say, ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished’, where the wished for event is death, which is one of the forms taken by the consuming other__ and death in Elizabethan iconography can signify sexual consummation, as when Othello expresses his delight on seeing Desdemona: ‘if it were now to die, Twere now to be most happy’.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
31
On
ly
The diwana’s sensibility envisions the other in the fantastic guise of unimaginable blinding beauty that is seen as both the eternally wished for and the eternally unobtainable; and in that moment, when the mind is possessed by a maddening ecstatic vision lit up by that blinding beauty, the other is witnessed as manifestation of the divinity whose appearance so fills the mind with light that it remains invisible. Furthermore, to reach that ecstatic vision, the diwana engages in a strenuous exhaustion of physical bonds, which is to say, he goes through a form of death__ that devoutly to be wished consummation __which Is the peak of sensation experienced as orgasm before the body collapses, exhausted in that sensation in which the sacred and the profane become indistinguishable.
vie w
Quickly putting the pods back on, I am soothed by Nusrat’s voice, but hear not Words but that passage when only his unaccompanied voice rises in that chanting melodious expression of supreme ecstasy when he abandons words and presents the raag in all its purity. It is the same ecstasy that we hear in the Ode to joy section of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony or in the wildly pagan celebration which explodes in a Dionysian frenzy in the final movement of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. No one sacred tradition has an exclusive right to express that joy; it is a timeless universal impulse.
Pr e
This ecstasy is a profound interior experience within the human soul. Yes, I am aRationalist whose intellectual prejudices were instilled in him by the European Enlightenment can talk of the human soul. For me, it is the intense intellectual pleasure__The French word jouissance is perhaps more precise__ that does a rapid dance within one’s blood when touched by exceptional beauty which is the essential experience that can be said to be sensation within the soul. The sensation can be triggered by a variety of Stimuli__some you will call pagan and some religious__all of which have that exceptional beauty in common. All spiritual quests crave revelatory vision as their ultimate reward, that moment of the soul’s delight in the purity of form, and great art, releasing aesthetic ecstasy in one’s brain adumbrates that experience of jouissance. There is an obverse side to that beauty. It is the ugliness of inferior art that fills one with indifference and ennui, which sullies the human
Pakistani Literature, 2014
32
On
ly
spirit. Any expression that does not excite jouissance is merely a declaration of belief that can have no validity other than the political. It.is never more than a flag being waved by a football fan. When I was a schoolboy in London some sixty years ago, I had to endure the daily morning assembly where they read passages from the Bible, recited psalms, and sang hymns. ‘Onward Christian soldiers,’the whole school sang, lungs over-inflated with pious air ‘marching as to war’. It was unbelievable what the believers thought was their righteous mission. Marching as to war! As if it was perfectly fine to slaughter the rest of the world that was not Christian. Such flaunting of supremacist bombast, which of course is not an exclusive Christian trait, is typical of minds that cling to rudimentary dogma and don’t see that such high-sounding words like crusade and jihad are not noble missions to give you priority access to heaven but are merely synonyms for genocide.
Pr e
vie w
Is it wrong to sit, as I sometimes do, enjoying myself a glass of wine while listening to Nusrat, and hear him sing the line, kitna Naame Mohammed, meetha, meetha lagta hai’? In that moment, sipping my wine and hearing that line, I am in a state of profound spiritual purity that I believe, is more devotionally intense than, say, someone going through the movements of prayer in a mosque ......... He may have cleansed his outward body with the prescribed ablutions and be impeccably correct in the recitation of prayer, but believe me, my response to that supreme coming together of the human voice, melody, the musical form that takes an idea and transforms it into an incandescent thought converts me to a perfect diwana who, if he is intoxicated is in that state not because of the wine but because of the beauty all those elements have brought together and exploded within his body with an indescribable force. To me, St Paul’s cathedral in London, the Friday Mosque in Delhi, the temples in Khujaraho, all provide an intense spiritual experience. It’s nothing to do with religion, but with the human poetical obsession; with form that inspires the imagination to create beauty. When one admires a female nude painted by Velasquez or Ingres, one’s delight in the Picture has nothing to do with sexual fantasy; one’s pleasure is stimulated by the form created by the artist; otherwise, there would be no difference between looking at the
Pakistani Literature, 2014
33 ‘Rokeby Venus’ by Velasquez and the centerfold of playboy magazine.
On
ly
Uh-oh, turbulence! The seat-belt sign comes on conspicuously in the dimly lit cabin. Some of the sleeping bodies stir, a head shakes across the aisle, looks around as if Bewildered, and falls back against the seat. Ooops, it’s quite severe, bump, bump, bump, Whoa! It’s like being on a bucking horse in a rodeo, and that unbearable racket from the outside, one can hear the metal clattering as if pieces were falling off the fuselage. We must be over the Equator. Happens every time on these north-south flights. As if the two hemispheres tugged at you, each claiming possession in a pull-push contest that sent you on a wild rollercoaster ride when all you ever wanted was serenity. I press the pods in my ears. The Nusrat recording has ended. The divine voice of Abida Parveen has come on.
Pr e
vie w
Jabse’ tum ne’ mujhe diwana bana rakha hai. I turn high the volume.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
34
Muzaffar Mumtaz
Poetry, Senses and Beyond
ly
“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul”. (Oscar Wilde)
vie w
On
Poetry lives in another world. A world so ungraspable and yet a persistent memory of which remains seeded under the deepest layers of human fantasy. Sometimes, it comes elusively close and we feel its presence engulfing our souls in the abstract robes of passion: Passion; which in turn is nothing but the distilled produce of the senses. A sound, a sight, a fragrance, a touch, a taste, transports us to that unfathomable realm where we take just one step ahead from the last frontiers of perception and there we are….! Suddenly, the world of opposites and paradoxes seems as distant as our blue planet must have seemed to the astronaut who looked at it from the window of the spacecraft and could cover its whole expanse behind a fingertip. Hasti ke matt fareb mae aa jaiyo Asad (Get not trapped in the illusion of being;
Pr e
Aalam Tamam halqa e daam e khayal hae (Ghalib) Whole of universe is nothing but a loop in the chain of thought) Welcome to the virtual world! The actual abode of God. The womb of all creation. Principles and prejudices, morals and ethics, beliefs and ideologies, gravity and space, eternity and time – all which till now has constituted our environment and hence constituted for us a separate identity, begins to evaporate. If you can imagine yourself at the centre of this celestial hustle and bustle, you may experience the purity of inspiration before it turns into expression. Unintelligible sounds that
Pakistani Literature, 2014
35
ly
would later become hymns for the ancients. Myths, unwritten. David, yet unrevealed to Michelangelo. The Last Supper or Mona Lisa still waiting for the strokes of Leonardo da Vinci. Poetic visions of Hafiz, Rumi, Mir and Ghalib floating free, yet uncaught in the web of words. This fusion of paradoxes into oneness is the experience of the Divine. Universes mix and merge, planets born and die, new stars are lit while older ones are put to rest.
On
Le saans bhi aahista ke nazuk hae bohat kaam (Let even the breath be silent as fragile is the work; Aafaq ki iss kaargah e shishagari ka (Mir) of shaping the universe of mirrors)
Let’s now separate the poetic expression from other forms of revelation.
Pr e
vie w
A poet is not a prophet. And, therefore not a reformer. Ideological restrictions would either kill the poetry or press it down to a much lower standard. Reformation demands a regimental regulation of rules. Hence ideologies are more calculative. Basic distinction between mathematics and poetry is that digits tend to decrease the distance between expression and comprehension. That is to say, that mathematics primarily focuses on creating unanimously agreed upon solutions to its equations. Poetry, on the contrary, tends to create the emptiness between the ‘said’ and the ‘unsaid’ in such a way that the listener partakes in experiencing the visionary echo before it is clothed into words. Aagahi daam e shunidan jiss qadar chahe bichae (Knowledge may spread the nets of listening; Muda-a anqa hae apne aalam e taqreer ka (Ghalib) Absent is the purpose in all that I say) An effort to find utility in beauty would distort the beauty itself. As Oscar Wilde put it in his customary eloquent fashion:
Pakistani Literature, 2014
36 “We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.All art is quite useless”.
ly
Thankfully enough, an innate understanding of true beauty keeps beckoning to us, showing us the way back home. No matter how much we “lay waste our powers in getting and spending”(William Wordsworth) a subtle sensation at the core of our vey souls keeps reminding us of the forgotten yet imperishable Truth.
On
Wajh e begangi nahi maloom (Why we remain strangers I do not know
Tum jahan ke ho wan ke hum bhi haen (Mir) We come from the same place, me and you)
vie w
I recall reading a biography of President Reagan. One day while he was seriously suffering from Parkinson’s disease, he held a ‘toymodel’ of the White House tightly in his hands. His wife saw him and tried to pry his fingers away from it while asking, ‘Ronny, do you know what this is?’ He looked back at her with empty eyes and said, ‘I don’t know what it is, but I know it has something to do with me’. ‘IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH ME’!
Pr e
Beauty as a value, is so intricately woven in the fabric of Creation that it can never pass into oblivion. Trends and fashion are transitory. But after all the mists wither, and all the fogs clear up, and all the clouds disperse, what remains is the expanse of these ancient skies. Poetry, or at least good poetry, is that which makes us savour the eternity of Existence. The recognition of which remains embedded in us so deep that all entertainment, all evolution, and all modernity, has failed to deprive our palates of its taste; our hearing of its song; our eyes of its face; our memory of its fragrance; and our fingers of its texture. It keeps coming back!
.
(*) William Wordsworth
Pakistani Literature, 2014
37
Shakeel Ahmad
One Window Operation
PUBLIC NOTICE
ly
The following notice appeared in the national press recently.
On
It is notified for general information that the Ministry of Commerce in collaboration with the Export Promotion Bureau, PIA and other stakeholders has launched a one-window operation to facilitate export by air of Pakistan products. Existing and potential exporters are advised to avail of this opportunity in the supreme national interest.
vie w
Signed Section Officer One Window Operations
Pr e
I found the public notice of immense interest. This brief notice contained the strategic vision of our government to get us out of the debt trap. Exports could now be tripled if not doubled overnight. We could see large surpluses replacing perennial deficits in our foreign trade account. Government has done its part. If only our business community acted in supreme national interests, they could easily defeat the twin menace of globalization and the WTO. Members of the G7 Club would permanently park themselves in Islamabad imploring us to join their exclusive club. The notice provided me with an excellent opportunity to repair the somewhat strained relations that existed with my mother-in-law, who for some incomprehensible reasons has chosen to permanently reside in Scotland. Apart from the fact the she thought that I was wooly in the head and therefore, could not be trusted to take any sensible decision, she was convinced that I was a vagabond. She cited my
Pakistani Literature, 2014
38 infrequent trips abroad as proof of my vagrancy. I was also found lacking in respect of age and family relationships.
On
ly
She used to wonder aloud in my presence, how it was possible for anyone to be in Central London and ail to pay her a courtesy call when she was only a few minutes drive from the dubious hotel where I stayed. It required an act of supreme courage to point out that Scotland Yard located in Central London and Scotland where she permanently resided were a bit far removed. She was convinced that the two were one and the same thing and that I was too lethargic in the first place and lacked the good sense to ask for directions to her place. Her birthday was approaching. It was mango season in Pakistan. The one window operation presented an excellent opportunity to mend fences with her.
vie w
I went to the local fruit market and selected 20 kilos of what can be described as the best of the best mangoes. They were raw. I was assured that they would just be right for eating by the time they landed in Scotland. I had them packed in the prescribed export packing, each mango nestling in a specially designed receptacle. The sealing of the carton was carried out in a professional manner for a small charge. The trip to the fruit market was tiring but nevertheless was for a good cause.
Pr e
I lugged the carton to the one window counter at the national airline’s cargo office. The counter was not manned. I waited. After a while, a staff member appeared from one of the doors at the back of the counter and inquired if he could be of help. I stated that I wished to ship the carton of mangoes to Scotland. “Have you booked space in advance?” I was asked. “No. I was not aware that space had to be booked in advance,” I responded. “Ignorance of procedures is no excuse. We accept only those shipments for which advance booking has been made.”
Pakistani Literature, 2014
39 “May I request that you book the space now?” The staff member opened a drawer, pulled out what looked like a document, examined it at length and announced that the earliest space available would be three days hence. I booked the space and returned home with the carton.
vie w
On
ly
I returned to the one window counter on the appointed date and time. Once again the counter was deserted. I waited. The wait produced no results. I decided to use my vocal chords and queried “Any one home?” After repeated shouts, the door at the back of the counter opened and a staff member of the airline, different from the one who had served me earlier, arrived to inform that an important meeting had necessitated his absence from the counter. I pointed to the carton and requested its shipment in accordance with the space already booked. He inquired if the consignment has been inspected by customs. I replied in the negative. I added that I was not aware if mangoes required inspection by customs. “Ignorance of procedures is no excuse” came the familiar reply. “Please go to the fifth counter on your right for custom inspection.”
Pr e
I carried the carton to the fifth counter and repeated my request. The officer-in-charge requested me to open the carton to facilitate inspection. I pointed out that the carton was sealed and strapped. I needed scissors to cut the straps. Once they were cut, they could not be re-strapped. This would require a strapping machine, which I did not have. The inspecting officer remained unmoved. “Procedures cannot be ignored. If you are interested in exporting the contents of the carton, inspection has to be conducted”, said the inspecting officer with finality. I was obviously interested in exporting the contents of the carton and was not about to give up because of procedures. With considerable difficulty I was able to remove the straps and open the carton. The mangoes were inspected and three of the best looking were pocketed by the inspecting official. “These will be sent to our lab to check if they are really mangoes or they have been dressed up to look like mangoes,” I was informed. My bewildered looks were
Pakistani Literature, 2014
40 ignored. I was asked to come back in a couple of days time when the lab report would be available. In the meantime, I was advised to have the carton resealed in the presence of the inspecting official.
On
ly
I pointed out that I did not have the equipment required for restrapping. The inspecting officer was not impressed. “Rules and procedures have to be observed”, came the familiar reply. “Once goods are offered for inspection and a sample has been drawn, exporters are required to reseal the carton or container to prevent the goods from being tampered with” replied the inspecting official. “This is supposed to be a one window operation. If this is a requirement in every case, then the facility of re-strapping cartons should have been provided by the authorities”, I retorted in exasperation. “Your suggestion will be conveyed to the higher authorities.” With this meaningless remark the inspecting official got hold of the carton and dumped it on the other cartons. Having accomplished the task, he left.
Pr e
vie w
The search for someone who could re-strap the carton proved to be an exceedingly difficult assignment. I was directed to various joints that appeared to be fronts for other dubious activities. Finally, a fruit vendor offered to help. I brought him to the cargo office. The inspecting officer had gone for lunch. We had to wait. After an hour of interminable passage of time, he turned up. My carton had to be retrieved from under several other cartons. It was resealed to the satisfaction of the customs man. I was relieved that the ordeal was over. I could now take the sealed carton back and hand it over to the cargo man, pay the transportation cost, go home and relax. “Can I see the quarantine certificate” queried the customs man. This nearly floored me. “What quarantine certificate?” I asked with trepidation in my voice. “The one that is issued by the competent authority certifying that the fruit or plant is virus free” replied the inspecting officer. No. I do not have that certificate. I was not aware that this was required”. Ignorance of rules………” “I know” I cut short the man. “Just tell me the counter number and I will get the certificate.” “The competent authority is not located in these premises. You will have to contact the Quarantine Officer who works in the Agriculture
Pakistani Literature, 2014
41 Department for obtaining the requisite certificate,” I was advised. Taking note of what would have appeared to him as my homicidal looks, the customs man said he was not sure if the Quarantine Officer was still located there, but last time the Quarantine Officer had his office in Chattar Park. The logic of housing the Quarantine Officer in Chattar Park escaped me completely.
On
ly
The Minister for Agriculture would of course be completely unaware of someone known as the Quarantine officer. If he was compelled to acknowledge his existence and justify the location of the officer, the Minister will no doubt emphasize the fact that this done in the greater public interest and for the welfare of the common man.
vie w
I proceeded to Chattar Park. It lies somewhere between Islamabad and Murree. Once outside Islamabad, I had to stop to pay an exorbitant amount as toll tax for going only a few kilometers on the road to Murree. There were plenty of road signs announcing that you are approaching Chatter Park, and that it was your good fortune to be visiting the Park which was a gift to the people of Pakistan by the Government of Heavy Mandate.
Pr e
The people sitting in a street side café were helpful in guiding me to the office of the Agriculture Department. My luck held. The first gentleman I encountered turned out to be the competent authority i.e. the Quarantine Officer. He was exceedingly helpful in getting the carton opened for inspection of the mangoes. This done, he entered the inspection report in one of the registers prescribed for the purpose. He then gave me a form in triplicate to fill out. I asked what purpose the will serve. “This form is meant for the State Bank of Pakistan where you will have to deposit the inspection fee of Rs. 5.00 prescribed by the Government. The bank will retain one copy for its record and will return the other two copies duly stamped. One copy is meant for the depositor and the second copy for use of this office. “Is there a State Bank Office nearby where the amount of Rs. 5/- could be deposited, I inquired. “No. There is no office nearby. However, you can go to Murree or return to Islamabad.” Can this amount be paid in cash, I asked. “No. The prescribed fee must be deposited in the relevant head of account. Only the State Bank is authorized to receive such fee.”
Pakistani Literature, 2014
42
I moved to reclaim the carton. This was resisted by the Quarantine officer. “The goods have been inspected and have been quarantined. Under the Rules, the quarantined goods can be returned after the fee has been paid and the challan produced.� There was finality in the statement of the Quarantine Officer.
On
ly
I have not paid the inspection fee of Rs. 5/- in the State Bank of Pakistan and have not gone back to Chatter Park to reclaim the cartons of mangoes. Through another notice in the press, rising Pakistanis who are the proud owners of mobile phones, motor bikes, shiny new cars and tractors are informed that the one window operation has been a huge success and similar facilities are proposed to be created in other sectors as well as for the benefit of the common man.
Pr e
vie w
(From Glimpses of Bureaucracy at Work)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
43
Abdul Hameed
Aspects of Culture and Civilization
ly
CULTURE
On
Culture is an integrated system of learned behavior patterns which are characteristic of the members of a society and which are not a result of biological inheritance. It is therefore a process of cultivation or improvement, the enlightenment or refinement through education or training.
vie w
Culture grows from the soil. Culture is the one thing that we cannot deliberately aim at. It is the product of a variety of more or less harmonious activities each pursued for its own sake. The term culture has different associations according to whether we have in mind the development of an individual, of a group or class, or of a whole society. The culture of the individual is dependent upon the culture of a group and the culture of a group is dependent upon the culture of the whole society to which that group or class belongs. Therefore, it is the culture of the society that is fundamental.
Pr e
Culture may even be described simply as that which makes life worth living. And it is what justifies other peoples and other generations in saying, when they contemplate the remains and the influence of an extinct civilization that it was worth while for that civilization to have existed. T.S. Eliot has argued that no culture can appear or develop except in relation to a religion. Culture is a modern concept based on a term first used in classical antiquity by the Roman orator Cicero in his Tusculan Disputations where he wrote of a cultivation of the soul or “cultura animi”. The term “culture” appeared in 18th and 19th centuries to connote a process of cultivation or improvement, as in agriculture or horticulture. The term gradually developed to refer first to the betterment or refinement of the individual, especially through
Pakistani Literature, 2014
44
ly
education and then to the fulfillment of national aspirations or ideal. In the last century “culture” emerged as a central concept in anthropology, encompassing the range of human phenomena that cannot be attributed to genetic inheritance. The term came to mean two things; (1) the evolved human capacity to act imaginatively and creatively; (2) and the distinct ways that people living differently classified and represented their experiences and acted creatively. ASPECTS OF CULTURE
Language and dialect Religion Technology Cuisine Aesthetics – art, music, literature, fashion, and architecture Values, ideology Social conventions, including norms, taboos, and etiquette Gender roles Recreational activities such as festivals and holidays Commercial practices Social structure
vie w
On
It can be based to include as under:-
Pr e
Cultural identities and subcultures can be defined along any of these lines, or others; for example:
Gender identity – based cultures Profession; e.g. taxi driver Work place Time and place – e.g. Akbar’s era of Mughal Empire and Victorian era of British Empire An archaeological culture defined by similar artifacts Broad geography e.g. Middle East, South Asia, West. Narrow geography e.g. national dress of a nation state Ethnic minority
Pakistani Literature, 2014
45
Social class, caste or socioeconomic status – e.g. high culture, low culture.
On
HIGHER AND LOWER CULTURE
ly
Mutual communication is an essential activity which maintains the coherence of a cultural group. This explains why cultural boundaries can follow divisions in language and geography, why globalization has created larger cultural spheres. Education and tradition communicate culture through time. Cultural conflict can arise within a society or between different societies with different cultures.
Pr e
vie w
In the 19th century, humanists such as English poet and writer Mathew Arnold used the word “culture” to refer to an ideal of individual human refinement, of “the best that has been thought and said in the world”. This concept of culture is comparable to the German concept of “bildung”. Culture being a pursuit of our total perfection by means of getting to know, on all the matters which most concern us, the best which has been thought and said in the world. Other critics, following Rousseau argued in favour and against the distinction between high and low culture. Most of the critics although have accepted this distinction between higher and lower culture yet have seen the refinement and sophistication of high culture as corrupting and unnatural developments that obscure and distort peoples essential nature. These critics considered folk music, art and literature to honestly express a natural way of life, while classical music seemed superficial and decadent. In 1870 Edward Tylor applied these ideas of higher versus lower culture to propose a theory of the evolution of religion. According to this theory, religion evolves from more polytheistic forms to more monotheistic forms. Gerald Weiss reviewed various definitions of culture and proposed the most scientifically useful definition that culture be defined “as our generic term for all human nongenetic, or metabiological phenomena”.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
46 CULTURAL REGION
Pr e
(b)
Formal Culture Region – It is an area inhabited by people who have one or more cultural traits in common, such as language, religion or system of livelihood. It is an area that is relatively homogeneous with regard to one or more cultural traits. The geographer who identifies a formal culture region must locate cultural borders. Because cultures overlap and mix, such boundaries are rarely sharp even if only a single cultural trait is mapped. For this reason, we find cultural border zones rather than lines. Functional Culture Regions – A functional culture region need not be culturally very homogeneous. It is like an area that has been organized to function politically, socially or economically as one unit. Vernacular Culture Regions – also called popular regions. These regions are those perceived to exist by their inhabitants, as evidenced by the widespread acceptance and use of a special regional name. Some vernacular regions are based on physical environmental features. Vernacular regions, like most culture regions, generally lack sharp borders and the inhabitants of any given area may claim residence in more than one such region.
vie w
(a)
On
TYPES OF CULTURAL REGIONS
ly
A cultural region or cultural sphere refers to the aspects of culture associated with an ethno-linguistic group and the territory it inhabits. Specific cultures often do not limit their geographic coverage to the borders of a nation – state, or to smaller subdivisions of a state. Cultural spheres of influence may also overlap. Different boundaries may also be drawn depending on the particular aspect of interest, such as religion and folklore vs. dress and architecture vs. language.
(c)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
47 COUNTERCULTURE
ly
A counterculture is a subculture whose values and norms of behavior deviate from those of mainstream society, often in opposition to mainstream cultural mores. A countercultural movement expresses the ethos, aspirations and dreams of a specific population during a well-defined area. When oppositional forces reach critical mass, countercultures can trigger dramatic cultural changes.
vie w
On
Scholars differ in the characteristic and specificity they attribute to counterculture. Mainstream culture is, of course, also difficult to define and in some ways becomes identified and understood through contrast with counterculture. Counterculture might oppose mass culture or middle-class culture and values. Counterculture is sometimes conceptualized in terms of generational conflict and rejection of older or adult values. Counterculture may or may not be explicitly political. It typically involves criticism or rejection of currently powerful institutions with accompanying hope for a better life or a new society. It does not look favorably on party politics or authoritarianism. INTERDISCIPLINARY ORIENTATION
Pr e
Cross-cultural communication tries to bring together such relatively unrelated areas as cultural anthropology and established areas of communication. Its core is to establish and understand how people from different cultures communicate with each other. Its charge is to also produce some guidelines with which people from different cultures can better communicate with each other. Cross-cultural communication, as in many scholarly fields, is a combination of many other fields. These fields include anthropology, cultural studies, psychology and communication. The field has also moved both toward the treatment of interethnic relations and toward the study of communication strategies used by co-cultural populations, i.e. communication strategies used to deal with majority or mainstream populations. Pakistani Literature, 2014
48 SOCIOCULTURAL EVOLUTION
ly
Sociocultural evolution is an umbrella term for theories of cultural evolution and social evolution describing how cultures and societies have changed over time. The sociocultural evolution can be defined as “the process by which structural reorganization is affected through time, eventually producing a form or structure which is qualitatively different from the ancestral form”.
On
Anthropologists and sociologists often assume that human beings have natural social tendencies and that particular human social behaviours have non-genetic causes and dynamics. Societies exist in complex social environments and adopt themselves to these environments. It is thus inevitable that all societies change.
Pr e
vie w
Early sociocultural evolution theories – that of Auguste Comte, Herbert Spencer and Lewis Henry Morgan claimed that societies start out in a primitive state and gradually become more civilized over time. Even earlier than these theories, the 14th century world famous Islamic scholar Ibn-e-Khaldun concluded that societies are living organisms that due to universal causes, experience cyclic birth, growth, maturity, decline and inevitable death. Hegel argued that societies start out primitive, perhaps in a state of nature and could progress toward something resembling industrial Europe. Authors such as Adam Ferguson, John Millar and Adam Smith argued that societies all pass through a series of four stages: hunting and gathering, pastoralism and nomadism, agriculture and finally a stage of commerce and Industry. Theories of modernization combine theories of sociocultural evolution with practical experiences and empirical research, especially those from the era of decolonization. It states that;
Western countries are the most developed and the rest of the world is in the earlier stages of development and will eventually reach the level as the Western world. Development stages go from the traditional societies to developed ones.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
49
Third world has fallen behind and need to be directed to catch pace.
The theory of modernization advocates the concept of social engineering i.e. traditional societies be helped to successfully emulate the most successful societies and culture.
ly
FOLK CULTURE
vie w
On
Folk culture refers to a culture traditionally practised by a relatively small homogeneous rural group living in relative isolation from other groups. Historically, handed down through oral tradition, it demonstrates the “old ways” over novelty and relates to a sense of community. Folk Culture is quite often imbued with a sense of place. If elements of a folk culture are copied by, or moved to, a foreign locale, they will still carry strong connotations of their original place of creation.
Pr e
Lastly a very important aspect which is often overlooked. People are always ready to consider themselves persons of culture on the strength of only one proficiency, when they are not only lacking in others but blind to those they lack. An artist of any kind, even a very great artist, is not for this reason alone a man of culture. Artists are not only often insensitive to other arts than those which they practice, but sometimes have very bad manners or meager intellectual gifts. The person who contributes to culture, however important his contribution may be, is not always a cultured person. CIVILIZATION
The term civilization, primarily, has been used to refer to the material and instrumental side of human cultures that are complex in terms of technology, science and division of labour. In a classical context, people were called civilized to separate them from savages and primitive peoples while in todays context “civilized peoples” have been contrasted with indigenous peoples or tribal societies. There is a tendency to apply the term in a less strict way, to mean approximately the same thing as “culture” and
Pakistani Literature, 2014
50 therefore, the term can more broadly refer to any important and clearly defined human society.
On
ly
The word civilization comes from the Latin word Civilis, meaning civil and related to Latin Civis meaning citizen and civitas meaning city or city-state. In 1388 the word civil appeared in English meaning “of or related to citizens”. The history of the word in English appears to be connected with the parallel development in French which may be the original source. In 1775 the dictionary of Ast defined civilization as “the state of being civilized, the act of civilizing”.
vie w
In the late 1700s and early 1800s the French and in English “civilization” was referred to in the singular, never the plural, because it referred to the progress of humanity as a whole. This is still the case in French. More recently “civilizations” is sometimes used as a synonym for the broader term cultures. However the concepts of culture and civilization are not always interchangeable. For example, a small nomadic tribe may not have a civilization but it would surely have a culture.
Pr e
Civilization is not always seen as an improvement. Civilization though more rational and more successful concerning material progress, is sometimes seen as un-natural and leads to the “vices of social life” such as guile, hypocrisy, envy and avarice. Early socialist theorist Charles Fourier used the word civilization in a negative sense. His contempt for philosophy and civilization was so intense that he always used the term “philosopher” and “civilization” in a pejorative sense. For him civilization was a depraved order, a synonym for perfidy and constraint. Albert Schweitzer in his book the philosophy of civilization defined civilization as the sum total of all progress made by man in every sphere of action and from every point of view in so far as the progress helps towards the spiritual perfecting of individuals as the progress of all progress”.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
51 CHARACTERISTICS OF CIVILIZATION
On
ly
Civilizations have been distinguished by their means of subsistence, types of livelihood, settlement patterns, forms of government, social satisfaction, economic systems, literacy and other cultural traits. All civilizations have depended on agriculture for subsistence. Growing food on farms results in a surplus of food, particularly when people use intensive agricultural techniques such as irrigation and crop rotation. A surplus of food results in a division of labour and a more diverse range of human activity, a defining trait of civilizations.
vie w
Economically, civilizations display more complex patterns of ownership and exchange than less organized societies. Living in one place allows people to accumulate more personal possessions than nomadic people. Some people also acquire landed property or private ownership of land.
Pr e
Writing, perhaps developed by inhabitants of Sumer, is considered a hallmark of civilization and appears to accompany the rise of complex administrative bureaucracies. Traders and officials relied on writing to keep accurate records. Like money, writing was necessitated by the size of the population of a city and the complexity of its commerce among people who are not always necessary for civilization. The Inca civilization did not use writing at all, but it still functioned as a society. Aided by their division of labour and central government planning, civilizations developed several diverse cultural traits. These include religion, arts and countless new advances in science and technology. Civilization has been spread by colonization, invasion, religious conversion, the extension of official control and trade and by introducing agriculture and education to non-literate peoples. Some non-civilized people may willingly adapt to civilized behaviour. But civilization is also spread by the technical, material and social dominance that civilization engenders.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
52 GLOBALIZATION
vie w
On
ly
Many theorists argue that the entire world has already become integrated into a single “world system”, a process known as globalization. Different civilizations all over the world are economically, politically and even culturally interdependent in many ways. There is a debate over when this globalization began and what is the key indicator in determining the extent of a civilization. David Wilkinson proposed that economic and military-diplomatic integration of the Mesopotamian and Egyptian civilizations around 1500 BC resulted in the creation of what he called the “central civilization”. This central civilization later expanded to include the Middle East and Europe, and then through European colonization integrated Americas, Australia, China, Japan etc. in 19th century. According to Wilkinson, civilizations can be culturally heterogeneous like the central civilization or homogenous like Japanese civilization. The more conventional point of view is that networks of societies have expanded and shrunk since ancient times and that the current globalized economy and culture is a product of recent European colonialism. CLASH OF CIVILIZATIONS
Pr e
What is generally referred to as “clash of civilizations” might be characterized as a clash of cultural spheres within a single global civilization or more so a clash of values and way of life. Political scientist Samuel P. Huntington has argued that the defining characteristic of the 21st century will be a clash of civilizations. According to him, conflict between civilizations will supplant the conflicts between nation states and ideologies that characterized the 19th and 20th centuries. These views have been strongly challenged by others like Edward Said, Muhammed Asadi, Amartya Sen. Ronald Inglehart and Norris have argued that the true “clash of civilizations” between the Muslim world and the west is caused by the Muslim rejection of the west’s more liberal sexual values, rather than a difference in political ideology. Sen also questions if people should be divided along the lines of a supposed civilization defined by religion and culture only. He
Pakistani Literature, 2014
53 argues that this ignores the many other identities that make up people and leads to focus on differences. FALL OF CIVILIZATIONS – CAUSES
ly
There have been many explanations put forward for the fall of civilizations. Some focus on historical causes and some others on general theory.
On
Ibn-e-Khalidun influenced theories of the analysis, growth and decline of the Islamic civilization. He suggested repeated invasions from nomads and limited development led to social collapse.
vie w
Edward Gibbon in his famous work “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” suggested that the fall of Istanbul to Turks led to collapse of the empire. He also suggested that the decline of Rome was the natural and inevitable effect of immoderate greatness. Prosperity ripened the principle of decay. The cause of destruction multiplied with the extent of conquest and as soon as time or accident had removed the artificial support, the stupendous fabric yielded to its own weight. Toynbee in his “A study of History” suggested that the cause of the fall of civilization occurred when a cultural elite became a parasitic elite, leading to the rise of internal and external proletariats.
Pr e
Joseph Tainter in “The Collapse of Complex Societies” suggested that there were diminishing returns to complexity, due to which as states achieved a maximum permissible complexity, they would decline when further increases actually produced a negative return. Jared Diamond maintained that environmental damage such as deforestation and soil erosion, climate change, dependence upon long-distance trade for much needed resources; increasing levels of internal and external violence such as war or invasion and social responses to internal and environmental problems cause a civilization to fall. The basic logic of Peter Turchin’s “fiscal-demographic” model can be outlined to state that during the initial phase of a sociodemographic cycle we observe relatively high levels of per capita Pakistani Literature, 2014
54
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
production and consumption, which leads not only to relatively high population growth rates but also to relatively high rates of surplus production. As a result, during this phase the population can afford to pay taxes without feeling pinch of it so the taxes are easily collectable and the state revenues grow. During intermediate phase, the increase in population leads to decrease in per capita production; taxes are not easy to collect, state revenues stop growing whereas the state expenditures go high. During the final phase, the overpopulation leads to decrease in per capita production, state revenues shrink but state needs more and more resources to cater to the needs of growing population. Eventually this leads to uncontrollable price-hike, depleting resources, failed economy, state breakdown and finally civilization collapse.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
55
Amir Hafeez Malik
Haider Multani’s Si-Harfees ‘Ali Haidera! Thanks to your poetry
ly
Chuk Chowntra is grand like Deli and Agra’
On
This famous verse of Saraiki always refers to and reminds of the great Saraiki poet of the 18th Century, Ali Haider Multani.
vie w
Ali Haider Multani (1690-1785) a Sufipoet, was born in Kazia, district Multan, in the year 1101 AH (1690). He passed, says the tradition, the greater part of his life in the village of his birth, where he died in 1199 AH or 1785 A.D., at the age of ninety-five. His shrine is in Qazi Ghalib, near Aroti, Tehsil Kamalia, district Toba Tak Singh.
Pr e
It is an admitted fact that Saraiki (Multani) language is the sweetest and the most soft-spoken among the languages of Pakistan in particular and those of the world in general. Saraiki language and literature have earned a universal name and fame. The revolution in information technology has helped every language and literature to become known in the world. Saraiki language and literature are making their mark on the world literary scene. Saraiki is a member of the Lahnda branch of Indo-Aryan languages and is spoken by about 14 million people mainly in the central Pakistan provinces of Sindh and Punjab, and also in India, mainly in the state of Punjab, and in parts of Afghanistan. Saraiki is also known as Siraiki, Seraiki, Multani, and Lahndi. (Omniglot the Online Encyclopedia of Writing Systems and Languages) Dr. Tahir Taunsvi in his book ‘Multan Main Urdu Shairi’ divides Multani poetry into five periods. According to his division, Ali Haider Multani belongs to the second period which dates from 1700 to 1845 and was dominated by Sufism. The poets of this era made Sufism the subject of their poetry (Taunsvi 1972, p11). Talking about Ali Haider Multani, Hameed-ullah Hashmi in his book ‘Punjabi Zuban-o-Adab’
Pakistani Literature, 2014
56 says, “Qazi Ali Haider belongs to the age of Bullah Shah and Waris Shah. It was an age of transition and political unrest. The Mughals were losing control. In this age, Ali Haider’s Sufi poetry provides peace and comfort to the hearts.” (Hashmi 1988, p172).
vie w
On
ly
Any talk or reference about Saraiki poetry especially the genre of ‘SiHarfi’ remains and will continue to remain incomplete without the inclusion of Ali Haider Multani. He is undoubtedly a renowned legend of Saraiki poetry. He is one of the few blessed and gifted poets who have granted grace and place to Saraiki poetry. His selection of the genre of ‘Si-Harfi’ shows that Ali Haider Multani had command over imagination and expression that he turned into his poetic verses. Dr. Nasarullah Khan Nasir in his ‘Saraiki Shairi Da Irtaqa’ writes,“Most of Ali Haider Multani’s poetry consists of Si-Harfis and even Ali Haider Multani himself enjoyed his Si-Harfis.”(Khan 2001, p565).
Pr e
According to Kafi Jampuri, “The poetry of Ali Haider Multani maintains its fragrance and freshness even after a long span of almost two hundred years”. (Jampuri 1969, p244) In brief, Saraiki language and literature will always be indebted to the creative work of a figure like Ali Haider Multani who gave them both stature and grace.. The translator has made a humble effort to translate some selected Saraiki ‘Si-Harfis’ of Ali Haider Multani into English. Dr. Abdul Jabbar Junejo believes “Ali Haider Multani is a legendry Saraiki poet.” (Junejo 2001, p29) The translator has made every possible effort to achieve the poetic standards of translation, though it is a Herculean task. The translator has strived hard to remain as close to the original poetic thoughts, themes and expressions of the poet as possible. It is hoped that the readers and the scholars, with poetic taste, will acknowledge the complexities of translation process and enjoy the pleasure that is the real product of great literature of all languages of the globe. I may sum up in the words of Ahmad Nadim Qasmi quoted by Kafi Jampuri in his book ‘Saraiki Shairi’: “In [the] poerty of Ali Haider Multani along with philosophy and tassawuff, a unique wave is found which in Urdu poetry was relished by Mir, Ghalib and Iqbal.”(Jampuri 1969 p245) As long as Saraiki literature is written,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
57 read and appreciated, the unique poetry of Ali Haider Multani will undoubtedly continue to be read and appreciated. Si-Harfees of Ali Haider Multani (1)
ly
AHAD had M inserted in it, and it became AHMAD When M was added to the grace of A, it became MUHAMMAD
On
He is visible in every thing, and yet is known as boundless
No ifs and buts work there, and He always likes the silence. (2)
vie w
People are weary of advice, and I’ll never withdraw my love Even if I had to leave my parents, and my home, I shall, for my love My destiny is the land of my love, in a well I will drown the preachers Ali Haider, once I fall in love, I’ll never falsify my words of love
Pr e
(3)
The world studies worldly knowledge, but our subject is only LOVE Those who study the book of love, they disregard all else but LOVE Those who enslave themselves to love, they all become impatient O’ Haider, Mullah is only prayer-conscious; a lover desires the sight of LOVE (4)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
58 Seeking knowledge is so excellent, but the discipline of love is so diverse The sun and the moon have light immense, but the glimpse of love is so diverse
ly
The Shab-e-Qadr has its significance, yet the shab-e-Wasl is so diverse A trial is a trial O’ Haider, yet the test of love is so diverse
On
(5)
O Qazi! Why of religion you inquire? My beloved is so perfect Love leads the prayer of love and the music is the Quranic verse
vie w
All bow in prayer, but a Sajda for the Merciful is so diverse O’ Haider, Heer was made for Ranjha, but the poor world has no precept (6)
You are too hard to find, and so difficult is to blanket you
Pr e
‘T is hard to have everything, so difficult is to avoid you So hard it is to exhibit, and so difficult it is to hide you O’ Haider, the only difficulty is getting satisfied with you. (7)
We have no sorrows, no cares, if Shah Mohi-ud-Din is ours We’ll enjoy Shah Abdul Qadir Jilani’s blessings, if he is ours Every nook and corner is ours, if only that idol is ours
Pakistani Literature, 2014
59 No fear the dark grave will have, if that shiny moon is ours Ali Haider, why worry if Shah Moeen-ud-Din is ours? (8) My lesson is unprepared and yet I am tired
ly
I imagine looking into your eyes, when at the alphabet (oo) I look
On
Come my love! Come embrace me! I close down my book
Ali Haider, how can I hide you, when all the mates are around?
(9)
vie w
My eyes become cloudy and the infinite tears flow The cursed eyes are used to tears and have forgotten how to laugh Why your face turns red and your heart hesitates? Ali Haider, ask the eyes why they avoid involving love now?
Pr e
(10)
Sometimes, dry sticks don’t catch fire but the wet with His blessings burn Some of those in sleep enjoy His blessings, while some on weddingbeds cry Even the beautiful have an ugly fate and the malodorous do fragrance earn Ali Haider, the Merciful ALLAH blesses all, no man’s hopes He denies!
Pakistani Literature, 2014
60 References: Multan Main Urdu Shairi, Dr. Tahir Taunsvi Alhamrah Academy, Lahore. 1972 Punjabi Zuban-o-Adab, Hammed Ullah Shah Hashmi, Anjuman Taraqi Urdu Pakistan, Karachi. 1988
ly
Saraiki Shairai, Kafi Jampuri, Bazm-e-Saqafat, Multan. 1969 Saraiki Shairi Da Irtaqa, Dr. Nasarullah Khan Nasir, Saraiki Adbi Board, Multan. 2007
On
Saraiki Shairi Ek Mutalaya, Dr. Abdul Jabbar Junejo, Bazm-e-Saqafat, Multan. 2001 Omniglot the Online Encyclopedia of Writing Systems and Languages (Internet)
Pr e
vie w
Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia (internet resource)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
61
Muhammad Asim Butt
Corner
On
ly
It appeared as if the evening drew in before time that day and started knocking at the doors of Mohallah Mohlian. Sun had exhausted after a long drive and the wind was exuding an unfathomable perplexity, moving angrily at one moment or blowing zigzaggingly at the other. Sometimes meandering continually it would suddenly stop, or would rewind and waft the clothes hanging on the cords fastened tight on the roofs, sputter them in the air and then throw them striking at the balcony. If Nature had a heart, on that day it was gloomy and dejected.
vie w
The confusion and exasperation depicted by the evening was altogether different in Foreman Habib’s house. The wind, meteoric, would sneak inside from the crevices in doors and windows and tremble even the tightly hooked frame of ‘Four Quls’ on the wall. Such was the milieu, when a terrifying, piercing cry echoed in such a cacophony that seemed to be not of a female or human even.
Pr e
“Don’t touch me, don’t come near, keep away. I will kill, I will burn all of you, all of you. You abusers, bastards, exploiters. Beware, you abuse the innocents, ruin their lives, destroy everything, you destroyers. I will destroy you, smash you all, if anyone comes near me, I will kill all of you, all of you.” The heavy breathing of the lass sounded as if many people were respiring loudly simultaneously. The flagrant sound frightened the listeners. No resident of the street dared come out to see what was going on.. In fact no one was unaware of the truth. It was, what had been the tradition, what was expected. The age-old adage came true that a spook, residing in the corner under the stairs going up to the roof, would make females, especially virgins frenzied by obsessing them. It had also been said that there used to be a Shamshan Ghat where this house was constructed. Due to a family feud, a bride was murdered along with her bridegroom on their nuptial night. The body of the bride was never found. Her
Pakistani Literature, 2014
62 furious and revengeful spook had been revelling here, affecting young, especially unmarried girls.
ly
Many years back, when a similar mishap occurred there, causing one more girl to be frenzied by the same spook, the grieved family moved to some other place. The house was condemned and locked. People even avoided passing near the house, and a number of stories were spread of poor girls and the spook, in the area. Even much less rent did not lure people to rent and live in that haunted abode.
On
Then came Foreman Habib, a motor mechanic at a local workshop. These myths were not more significant than the old wives tales’. ‘Rubbish.’ He simply rejected these urban legends, and along with his wife and two daughters, moved there, one fine morning, carrying his luggage on two big donkey carts.
vie w
A good looking refined young man, Suhail was fond of novel reading, a characteristic he shared with the elder daughter of Foreman Habib, Najma. In the vicinity Master General Store was a popular shop in the area dedicating a small space to a public library, a common tradition those days especially in the old city areas, provided them both with an opportunity to meet and know one another.
Pr e
The owner of the shop, Master Sahib, himself had a good taste for books and was always vigorous in encouraging opportunities to flourish especially in the young lot an inclination towards book reading. A large variety of digests, Imran series, social and romantic novels, were there in the library to cater the diversity of tastes of readers of the area. Five rupees per day per book was the rate to borrow books from the library. She would send any street-playing boy to the library for borrowing the books, or would wait for the company of her mother or a friend Naseem from the next street Koocha Chapay Garan to visit the library. Novel reading, house chores and hours of leisure were the ingredients of her routine of life, which changed very secretly one’s very common day, a day when usually such special events are not expected.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
63 She reached the library that day, alone, unusually, and asked Master Sahib for Shamsa Kunwal’s new novel “Aasman”. Master Sahib was about to check his register, when Suhail who happened to be there, told, looking at the girl attentively, that the novel was with him. ‘A simple and pretty face’, he thought, regarding her as a newcomer in the area.
On
ly
“Tomorrow, definitely Sir.” “Is it ok, Najma baita, Suhail will return it tomorrow?” Master Sahib peered from behind the thick glasses of his spectacles. In a moment almost instantaneously Najma turned her face and threw an eye on him. But seeing him, looking straight into her face, she turned back instantly. Just nodded, looking at Master Sahib.
vie w
The reading of another novel by the same author, Darya Kinarey proved to be extremely unusual experience for Najma that day, as the name of the hero was also Suhail. Not only that but all the male characters in the novel had the same name. All the male names that she heard that day were the same, Suhail. She kept herself deadly busy in reading the novel, and continued reading, even after finishing it once, going through it again and again until the time to return it next day, came close. The moment she reached the shop, nothing was left in her mind, except the name of Suhail.
Pr e
Master Sahib handed over the novel Aasmaan to her, saying ‘A fine boy Suhail is. Isn’t he? Early in the morning he came here and returned the book.’’ In fact that day Suhail remained there for many hours till noon when sharp sunlight and increasing heat defeated his intentions to stay longer. Roaming around up and down the bazaar, waiting for her to appear, he himself was not sure, why he was waiting for her? She could not show up herself. In the morning she waited for her father to go to workshop but he left late, unusually. Then her mother made her wait till afternoon before she left to visit her friend in the next street. By the time she reached, the shadows were getting taller, and Suhail had gone.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
64
ly
She would particularly enjoy reading novels based on stories about girls, with big fortunes, though hailing from the same humble background as was hers, but a click of chance, a turn of fate, turns them special from ordinary girls. A luxurious living, successes of all sorts, smart and rich boyfriends/husbands, an ideal life, and most of all an effortless acquisition of all of these pleasures, are the ingredients of these stories. The same bet of life she was wishing to win, though not effortlessly.
vie w
On
Very soon she started bearing messages from Suhail on the last blank pages of the novels, she borrowed; firstly indirectly for her, and then directly. Usually these pages are covered with comments of the readers, short and many a time casual. Among them he would write “Novel’s heroin Shabnam’s eyes dipped in dew, is the heart of the novel. They remind me of someone.” Or “Saima is as beautiful and fragile as a rose, a rose I have seen somewhere else too.” A heroine of a novel was her namesake. Sohail commented, “Najma has everything in her life, except a true lover. If I get her, I will keep her in the depth of my heart.” Then the first written chit clipped in the novel Bazgasht by Irum Sayyed reached her with the message “Najma, I know, you will read these lines. If I had written the novel, I would have attributed it to you. The heroine of the novel shares all beauties with you.” Najma closed her eyes, took a long breath and smiled.
Pr e
Not very long thereafter she herself began to respond to him in writing. It became a routine matter, they would come to the library simultaneously, and exchange books, before getting them registered by Mastar Sahib, who himself would like to give them chances to interact. The affair progressed until Foreman Habib came forward as a villain to uproot the sapling of love, the matter had been exacerbated from simple small chits in the books to direct dialogues, smiles and light touches. Her mother found the chit; she immediately let her husband know about it with the fear lest something bad should happen later, and she might be blamed for keeping him in the dark about the girl’s conduct.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
65 As a result she was not only stopped by her father from going to the library, but also anywhere else alone. “I will kill her, the bastard if she tries to take a step outside the house” he shouted.
ly
The chit seized by her father, bore a message by the boy that her mother would visit the girl’s house to meet her parents and propose their marriage. His mother came and met her parents but in vain. Najma’s father considering it his insult simply refused her to marry his daughter in any family out of his clan.
On
“What if you are rich? Is there not a single match for my daughter in the community? What will the people say when they come to know that a Syed girl has been married to Maliks’, just for the reason that there is no suitable match for her in the family?”
vie w
Then, after a short while of the event, it happened that she was found shrieking and screaming in her room by her mother, saying frantically “Yes, yes, I love him, I love him very much and I love him the most, more than anything else, and cannot live without him. Even can’t think of living without him, and will never allow anyone to deny my right to meet him, to get what I love to get, to get what I deserve, what is good for me.”
Pr e
The same evening her father, upon knowing about her brashness, slapped her on the face with so much force that she staggered a step back and fell onto the ground in a state of half consciousness. No one came near her, to help her get up. She had fainted and then remained there for a long time. Foreman Habib hurriedly found a suitable boy for her daughter, Sayyed by caste, from his own factory, a mechanic too. In the next week the family of the boy visited hers and they settled everything amicably. On the seventh of the month their engagement was planned, while the wedding ceremony, which would be a very simple one, would not be later than a week after the engagement. The boy’s family was neither in any hurry nor had any objection to the hurriedness of the arrangement. The boy did not have education beyond the primary, yet
Pakistani Literature, 2014
66 for her father, the only thing worth consideration was the humble personality, other than his being a Sayyed. Then in a simple ceremony the girl was engaged and then both families became busy in preparations for the wedding.
On
ly
Everything was going on perfectly, except Najma, and the only person aware of her condition was her mother. It was she who every morning began to notice occurrence of changes in her behaviour. It all started after the ceremony of engagement. Yes, the next day after the ceremony, she stopped talking to her mother, sister and also her father.
vie w
Two years earlier after her matriculation when the Foreman had stopped her from getting further education, she had spent a year in frustration. Then the activities relating to library and reading saved her from sinking into that mental agony. The mother took her condition as something which would fade away with the passage of time, and so did not bother about it.
Pr e
Then one day, just a day before the ceremony of Nikah, the girl locked herself in her room and did not open it even on the arrival and calling of her father too. Habib Foreman had to pull down the door by force. He found her sitting in a corner of the room on the ground, with folded legs against her chest, hair hanging over her face, and looking into the void with tear-soaked eyes, but most of all the scene of her room was alarming. There was not a single inch in the room where the name of Suhail was not written, everywhere on the walls and on the floor of the room, the name ‘Suhail’ was inscribed with pencils, lip sticks, nail polish, and even with her blood.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
ly On
Pr e
vie w
Urdu Literature
On
Authors Sarwar Hussain Afzaal Ahmad Syed Khalid Iqbal Yasir Muhammad Afsar Sajid Sarwar Kamran Ahmed Hussain Mujahid Shaheen Abbas Syed Kashif Raza Akhtar Raza Saleemi
ly
68
Translators
vie w
Mansha Yad Intezar Hussain Muhammad Ilyas Agha Gul Khalid Fateh Muhammad
Pr e
Zia-ul-Mustafa Turk Mushir Anwar Riaz Ahmed Hamid Yousafi Muhammad Shanazar Ahmed Farhad Waseem Ahmad Hamza Hasan Sheikh Frances W Pritchet Farooq Sarwar Khalid Mehmood
Pakistani Literature, 2014
69
Sarwat Hussain
In the Empire of Noon
In the reign of noon
On
Coming out of sleep I taste her lips I place flowers on the mirror
ly
In the empire of noon A dove says something. Life opens its wings
Pr e
vie w
(Translated by Zia-ul-Mustafa Turk)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
70
Afzaal Ahmad Syed
Alas, much time has been wasted In shaping those hands which will strangle me one day
On
Beneath the balcony of Jean Genet, The singers and the kebab makers tell me I will be stood here and shot one day My grave shall be left unidentified
ly
I will be killed
vie w
On the first floor of this building There’s Dante’s Inferno and further on, God’s But I have a river with me, Which doesn’t know how to climb stairs I was sent to sleep in a pigsty Though the money For which the host would have given me His wife’s bed to sleep I had in my pocket
Pr e
Alas ! My halcyon days were wasted on my nights Alas I caught John Donne’s falling star Alas ! Much time was wasted in regrets Time, in which a house could’ve been built of bricks, A collection of poems could’ve been published A child begotten of a woman Alas ! My child Aborted in a woman’s womb,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
71 Whereas it was my turn to be killed Whereas Sooner or later I shall be killed I shall be killed The way characters are killed In Tadusz Rozewicz’s poems
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
(Translated by Mushir Anwar)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
72
Khalid Iqbal Yasir
As Without Feelings I Exist
On
ly
I am that man of no conscience Who is neither moved By the coolness of your union Nor the fire separation Calamities occurred without touching the heart The slab pressing the heart for long unmoved As if bereft of passion All passion
Pr e
vie w
Like the lines on my palm, I remember the twists and turns of my city’s streets Their mystery in which you remained lost The intimacy you enjoyed But that too I disregard As if For me No particular city, or ambience Now matters.
(Translated by Riaz Ahmed)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
73
Muhammad Afsar Sajid
On
Today the flushing flashing flare of light The dazzling emission of her luminous eyes Spreads wide and wide as an ocean And I, in the midst of this Pacific Sprawl like a solitary island Tied to the Tasso of Love
ly
The Tasmania of Love
vie w
Time and again I brood Could a fleeting moment of light Be stilled in to eternity? Could this sweet Tasmania of Love Be the whole world to me?
Pr e
(Translated by Hamid Yousafi)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
74
Sarwar Kamran
On
O! People scattered over the Earth Depressed and sad Come near In the circle of my voice For the dew of my tone Hands of my words And consolation of my sentences Are only for your troubled hearts.
ly
The Greatest Attribute (Ism-e-Azam)
vie w
Those days when I was the echoing wind I, compounded of hues, colours, body and sound, passed through lands of love, hatred, and faiths went from city to city, town to town banging my head against the dark walls of hypocrisy this was the expanse between the arms of Being traversing which I melted down From body to Word
Pr e
O! People, Depressed and sad I am a Word, a Protection and Peace There where ends all worldly support There I am the silken hand on your shoulder That which is yours and is yet beyond you I am that eternal moment’s knower O! People, Depressed and sad, Though you may inhabit the skies You will remain in pain And bring up pearls from the ocean’s depth Pakistani Literature, 2014
75
On
How hateful Living to justify justifications Makes one shed tears of blood And bring back memories better forgotten So If ever bitten by the pain of loneliness Recite these verses of mine For lonely hearts like yours alone This Ism-e-Azam is the solace
ly
You will remain in pain And having defeated your rivals in battle You will yet remain your enemy
Pr e
vie w
(Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
76
Ahmed Hussain Mujahid
vie w
On
Look hard! The bright star on the edge of the Milky Way, The star there that you see Is not there Only its past, The curved light that has reached us just now, Is the light from a star that was there in the sky Thousands of years ago, But is not there anymore.
ly
Union of the Lost Stars In The Oasis of Astonishment
Pr e
Look a little hard at me! The spot where you see me now, There’s nothing there It’s only my past (givers of light do not die even when dead) And you, where are you ? Can it be, like me, you too. (Translated by Ahmed Farhad)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
77
Shaheen Abbas
Love ‌..Under Observation
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
The page has not yet been turned The children of Baghdad hold me By my right hand And the story is progressing. The silence of the ages is flowing In the waters of Arabia And the water, it is getting cut And here the aged of Kabul, Driving the rulers with their sticks Are finding their way into my words And my song The end of the world is near Page, O living page! The core of war and its munitions, The moment that stands between two offensives And I with permission to Proceed towards these lines Write me as Baghdad, regard me as Kabul And keep on doing so O people of the earth
(Translated by Waseem Ahmad)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
78
Syed Kashif Raza
On
On the day she was killed It had been twenty two years I had been thinking about her Thinking about her This can’t be said of women Who give us satisfaction, or who disappoint us
ly
A legendary Woman
Pr e
vie w
Her brothers were killed Her mother’s memory snatched Father hanged After all this Any woman could make herself a place in legends But she made her own story And this story made her its captive There were processions of lovers And twenty two gun salutes But for love She couldn’t find a man Taller than herself Her country was twice hijacked And twice she had the Stockholm Syndrome From the legend She would step into the kitchen And people would see her Dip her bread in soup Engrossed in domestic chores She could well be a simple woman
Pakistani Literature, 2014
79 Had she not been involved in her family
Her whole life Was a journey towards that crossroad Where she was to be killed.
ly
The target She had practised for ten years Became her own head
Pr e
vie w
On
(Translated by Mushir Anwar)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
80
Akhtar Raza Saleemi
I want a virgin scene
vie w
On
ly
I stand in the valley of sweet dreams I am surrounded by a galaxy of sights That bear the signs Of the eyes of those Who have gone To the other side of the seen From where no one has ever returned There they have gone Imprinting the story of their being on these sights I have also come to inscribe mine on a scene But where shall I write All sights here are covered in dust The dust of the eyes of the people gone by I want a virgin scene To affix my signatures upon A scene no other eye has seen And thus Become a part of the eternal
Pr e
(Translated by Mushir Anwar)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
81
Mansha Yad
The Thirteenth Pole
ly
The guard whistled and waved the green flag. When a newly married couple came in and sat down in front of him he felt as if he was not seated comfortably but was lying on the burning railway track ………..
On
The girl was also puzzled to see him as they had taken the rail car of Multan instead of Rawalpindi. Her husband cleaned the seat for her with his handkerchief and said lovingly, “Sit Anji.” “Anji, Anji, Anji….” The stones hit him from all sides.
vie w
His whole body felt blood stained as an engine of a fast rail car had run over him and his limbs had been scattered in the air. He was looking out the window but his third eye was watching from the pit of his ear. He could see she was feeling nervous in his presence. His face had turned pale and his mouth had lost all taste. He looked around for an empty seat but there was none. It would have been hard to cover such a long journey standing. He kept on sitting in his seat; then he unfolded the newspaper which he had already read word by word. He shifted his position in aneffort to hide himself behind the newspaper.
Pr e
The heavy wheels of the train moved. She was looking out the window. She turned her eyes and began to talk to her husband and he…. He was reading the newspaper apparently but a powerful engine was taking the turn on the tracks in his depth. Turning his eyes from the newspaper, he looked out the window. There was a railway track near and far. Empty and extra compartments of the train were standing there silently wistfully watching the moving train. Seeing the railway tracks, he thought what if he were a railway engine. He was puzzled and thought that he would certainly choose the wrong railway track and crash against some other train. The idea of the crash pleased him and he wished he were a powerful railway engine; he would enjoy riding the wrong track, make a huge noise,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
82 roar and fly away taking everything with him and at last crash against another engine and turn into pieces. There was some difference between dying under the wheels of a railway engine and crashing against another engine and turning into pieces. The rail car was now crossing the Ravi.
On
ly
He watched the fellow passengers and then glanced towards the girl anxiously but she did not notice. She was whispering something to her husband. The Ravi passed away like a beautiful moment, but his heart remained anxious for a long time.
vie w
Still he hadn’t taken a cool breath and the series of the tombs surrounded by date trees seemed like a dream. The tombs of Jehangir and Noor Jahan were nearby but the railway tracks stood between them. He got down from the moving train without waiting for it to stop and began to cover the long distance of five years on foot with long strides.
Pr e
Five years ago, one evening he received a letter in Murree that he should come to Lahore at once. He did not change his dress and departed for Lahore immediately greatly perturbed. Next morning, he disembarked from the Khyber mail and reached the girls hostel without washing his face, breakfast or change of dress where she was waiting for him near the gate. She was as fresh as a blooming blossom. She was shining in her new dress. He was upset why she had called him by mail. What was the matter? May God have mercy! He had prayed all through the journey. But when he came to know that it was a holiday and she wanted to go for an outing, his tiredness all vanished and he felt very happy. The journey from Murree to Lahore was shortened into a dot. All the dust of the way turned into golden flecks and the tiresome journey of the bus and the train changed into a ride on the swing. He was pleased with his dusty hair and untidy dress as this made him look like a character in the movies. And she was really focusing him in the camera of her eyes. When he would get back to Murree, she would dump the negatives of these pictures in her lonely room and would hide all the negatives in the cupboard of her memories so that he would never be able to find those no matter how he tried.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
83 He was surprised that why all of a sudden she had became so kind to him. She always hid those feelings from him till that day? Perhaps, she had been testing him until now. Perhaps she would talk about that thorn which was hurting her in the inner core but outwardly she was all smiles. Any unknown reason turned her happiness in sadness but she never expressed anything. If she was asked, she would laugh artificially.
On
ly
He went to the washroom after leaving the tea table in the hotel. He washed his face and combed his hair. Then he took breakfast with her; she seemed very happy.
vie w
‘I was sure that you will certainly come.’ ‘I had guessed that you will come by the Khyber mail.’ ‘I knew it well that you will take the breakfast with me.’ ‘I knew it well that you will come straight to me after riding down from the bus.’ ‘I knew it well , I knew… I was sure.’ ‘I knew it well, I knew it well, I knew it well.’ The girl began to talk. “You do not know Anji, how I passed this long time abroad.” Her husband said. “I know, I know.” She could not reply.
Pr e
The rail car was speeding up.straight ahead. It could not turn, it could not look back. His wished in his heart he could bite his hands to check if he was not dead.. He groped for his hand to bite it but both of his hands were already cut off; then he felt that he had no legs either. He looked for his body in confusion but the seat he had for himself was empty now. In that moment, a flower blossomed near him. He smelled a familiar scent and he was satisfied to know that he could smell even though he had no body. Then he heard the jingling of bangles, it meant that he could hear. Yes, he could smell, hear, think, weep and sing. He began to sing. He kept on singing; the trees, the villages, the paths, the pools and the railway stations kept on passing. He had memorized lots of Heer Waris Shah verses. They came to his lips in succession.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
84
vie w
On
ly
His song became louder; there was a melody and pain in his voice but no one in the whole compartment paid any attention to his song. Perhaps the people had put their fingers in their ears. Both of them continued their whispering. They did not get disturbed by his song. He became quiet, disheartened by people’s inattention . The discussion was in progress about Russia and USA, about Middle East and Vietnam and somewhere about socialism. Some were discussing their honeymoon and some was talking about the beautiful scenes of Murree. He felt pity for the singing waiter of the train. No one was listening to him. His wanted to make the waiter sit with him and hear him recite the couplets of Heer Waris Shah. In the meanwhile, the noisy discussion about Murree, Swat and honeymoon grew even louder than the discussion about the Middle East, Vietnam, USA, and socialism drowning the waiter’s voice in its din. He diverted his attention to the noise of the wheels to block out the noise of the discussion and began to count the telephone poles running in reverse outside. He had counted only twelve poles but missed one and he couldn’t say whether it was the thirteenth or the fourteenth….while still in this confusion he missed two more poles. Now, which would be the next, the sixteenth or the seventeenth? If the fourteenth was in fact the thirteenth, then this one would be the fifteenth, otherwise it would be the sixteenth. But the fifteenth was actually the fourteenth, then where was the fourteenth? It was actually the thirteenth…. in this way….???
Pr e
In this way the twentieth was actually the fifteenth, no it would be the nineteenth and the sixteenth was counted totally wrongly. That was the fifteenth. Actually the poles were not more than fifteen in a mile. After every fifteenth pole, a new mile started with a new first pole..So he could count all the poles and then divide them by fifteen. He remembered that he had counted many things in his childhood, now he did not remember the number of stars but perhaps there were seventeen poles in a mile. He multiplied the seventeen poles with 175 miles. By multiplying ten miles, many things would be included. The trees, the crops, the villagers on foot, the grazing cattle in the fields, the herds of sheep and goats returning to the villages and the buses, the trucks, the cars, the bullock carts and the shisham trees on the highway parallel to the railway track, with all these how would
Pakistani Literature, 2014
85
ly
one count the sheep and the trucks, the trees and the poles and multiply…. and how would one divide that multiple for every fifteen miles or every mile for every fifteen goats? But he was counting the poles; he had counted the twelve poles accurately. He was confused on the thirteenth one. He remembered the pole which he had missed, the unfortunate thirteenth pole. After twelve years, the fortunes of even the chronic sick are changed but the days of these unfortunate poles never change. He did not know, he again began to sing. Then he remembered all the idioms about the word thirteen.
On
“Anji! Chenab has come,” her husband said, “and tea, chicken slice and shami kebab….” “Oho, it’s rotten. I can’t eat.” “Dear, these are fish kebabs. Today there is no beef.” “They smell so bad, perhaps the fish was rotten.”
vie w
He felt a pain in his thigh; he wished he could take off all the bandages from his wounded thigh and show it saying: “Today, I have not found any fish because of the storm and I have fried these kebabs by cutting the flesh from my thigh. You find them smelly and call them rotten.” But he could not utter a word. He lighted a cigarette. She nibbled the chicken slice and sipped the tea. Her husband said to her, “Yes Anji! I like the violin very much. One of my friend plays it very well, we will have him play for us sometime.”
Pr e
Sitting in the railcar, he pulled out all the poles. Then he fixed them back again after arranging them so that all the loose wires were tightened. Then he began to play the violin, putting his hand out of the window. His fingers were injured playing the violin. All the wires of the telephone poles from Gujrat to Jhelam became red but no one appreciated him. The train stopped at Jhelum Railway Station, and her husband got down to do something. He wished he could lead her to the other side and show her all the wires which had turned red. Then they might collect the verses of Heer Waris Shah which were scattered along the railway track and they might hug the uncountable, sad and lonely poles and shed tears enough to grow around the poles. Then he wished he could make some sad and painful speech as the villains in the movies make but he could not utter a word. She was looking towards the door anxiously through which her husband had
Pakistani Literature, 2014
86 got down on the platform. Then it occurred to him he did not know that girl. When her husband came she started a quarrel with him, “You took so much time.” “Oho Anji, you are tense like a baby.”
vie w
On
ly
The evening was dark now. He was watching her reflection in the windowpanes, He could see trees, sad poles and dry mountains in the background.. Her reflection in the spreading darkness was becoming clearer but she was feeling afraid of the dark as there were no humans around her but the sinister witches who were making noise. The time was running in the background of her face like a black demon. He became afraid of himself. He did not want to see this picture in the the windowpane but he could not sit there and not see the reflection. He left his seat and stood in the door. They both had their backs towards him and he could not watch her face. But he was sure her feet were hennaed. She was now feeling easier as he had left his seat. His meaninglessness filled him with nausea. He wanted to jump out of the rail car and shock the people. But just then a blast of cold wind entered the half opened door and hugged him. It said,; “There is deep dark outside.”
Pr e
He wanted to close the door; but then the cold wind began to knock at the door. He reopened the door. The wind again entered the compartment and hugged him tightly. It felt nice to shelter to the cold wind in his burning body from the fear of darkness. He kindled a cigarette with the fire of his body. The wind blew the cigarette ashe into his eyes but the feel of the cold wind on his body was soothing. . The rail car was running through the desolate mountains. There was darkness all around. Sometimes, the light of a lamp became visible on the mountainside. The train whistled past the demon of darkness piercing it. There wasn’t much noise in the compartment now, the passengers were mostly dozing. But some were still busy conversing with their companions in a tired manner. All of a sudden, the train stopped with a jerk and the people fell upon one another. “What happened?” “There was no signal.” “Was anyone run over by the train?”
Pakistani Literature, 2014
87 She shuddered when she heard about the accident. Her face became pale and she uttered a shriek.. “O God! He has committed suicide.” “Who has committed suicide and what happened to you, Anji?”
ly
She was trembling; she pointed towards the door and sobbed. Her husband turned back and saw the man standing in the door, smoking. He was talking to the gusts of the wind and laughing.
Pr e
vie w
On
(Translated By Hamza Hasan Sheikh)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
88
Intezar Hussain
A Silence in the Streets
vie w
On
ly
Today he found Mall Road peaceful, and he was melancholy. What a terrifying scene it had offered yesterday! Cars with their windows smashed, and a half-burned double-decker that lay all day in the middle of the road, had proclaimed the devastation that had happened here. After the brick-hurling, slogan-shouting procession, the nervous pedestrians, the closing shops with their rapidly falling shutters, there had been only the occasional timid bus or scooter-cab, picking its way through scattered bricks and glass. Now there was peace, and the road was clean from one end to the other. No scattered bricks, no fragments of glass. The flow of traffic moved evenly. Cars traveling at their ease, a second after the first, a third after the second. None of their windows seemed to be broken. He was amazed: yesterday it seemed that all the cars in the city had had their windows broken, but now all the cars in the city were in fine condition. And the doubledecker that as late as yesterday evening had been lying half-burned in the middle of the road -- where had it gone? Yes, the overturned car near the petrol pump was still lying there on its back. But now the pedestrians' eyes showed no anxiety or astonishment, as though the car had been overturned in some other age and by now, with the passage of time, had lost its power to surprise.
Pr e
Passing by the Metro Wines shop, he looked carefully at the broken glass both inside and outside. The shattered panes were testifying to all that had happened here yesterday. Today nothing had happened, but still something had come over Mall Road. However strange yesterday's tumult had seemed, today's silence seemed even stranger. It also seemed strange that on the College verandahs all the potted plants that yesterday had been overturned were now nicely arranged. Order and organization had returned to the College. The classes were being held in the proper way. Outside, in the grounds, groups of students were walking around. Overnight, how peaceful the students had become. As late as yesterday, what a state they were in! At every little thing their faces would redden, the veins of their necks would stand out, they would put their throats to the fullest use. Insults, slogans. And the slogans were extraordinarily powerful, for in a Pakistani Literature, 2014
89 single moment such a large procession would spring forth that the college compound was too narrow for it and it spilled over outside. And now? Now it was so peaceful that no one even raised his voice. People were talking, but in whispers. "Yar! My brother came by the night flight." "Really?" "He left after the action started?"
vie w
On
ly
"It started just at that moment. He said it was difficult to get from the Intercontinental to the airport. Nothing but tanks on the streets. He says that as they were going toward the plane there was a roar as though a cannon had been fired, and then there were constant gunshots, as if a war had begun. And when the plane took off and he looked out, far into the distance there was nothing but clouds of smoke." "Really?" "But what will happen?" "Whatever may happen, the damned Bengalis have had the wind taken out of their sails!" "Bastards!" someone muttered to himself. "This will straighten them out!"
Pr e
Joy, disgust, hatred, rage -- every emotion was expressed in whispers. He began to feel suffocated. He wanted to escape from this stifling atmosphere. 'The Mulla goes only as far as the mosque.’ He went of course to the Shiraz, but there too the atmosphere was stifling. No noise, no confusion, no bursts of laughter, no loud voices. Only the expressions on people's faces showed that some serious matter was being discussed. "Yar, yesterday there was so much turmoil here -- and today -- " "Yes! And today," Irfan muttered to himself, and began drinking his tea. "Yar, yesterday I was really afraid. It seemed that toda-" He himself didn't know what he wanted to say. "So it was for the best," Irfan said ironically. "In one respect, it was for the best." "We say this every time, but later we find out that it wasn't for the best." "Yar, I don't understand any of this." "I don't understand any of it either, but it seems to me that Pakistani Literature, 2014
90
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
something's happened." "What has happened? "It isn't clear. But what's the good of clarity? What I feel obscurely is everything." What was it that Irfan felt obscurely? What was the fear creeping through him? Zakir didn't understand any of it. Then he changed the subject. "Yar, where are Salamat and Ajmal today?" "Today they're in their holes. They come out of their holes when it's the right weather for coming out of holes. Today the weather has changed." "Look, that crackpot has come," Irfan said, seeing the door opening. "What crackpot?" "Yar, that white-haired man," he whispered, as the white-haired man entered and came straight toward them. "May I sit down? I'll only take a few minutes." "Of course, of course." As he spoke he glanced at Irfan, whose expression showed that he didn't care for this interruption. "What's your opinion, was it for the best, or not?" "What's your opinion? It was very much for the best!" Irfan said bitterly. "I don't know whether it was for the best or not, I only know that if Pakistan can be saved this way -- " "Which way, this way?" Irfan grew angry. The white-haired man regarded Irfan, then said calmly, "You're looking at my hair?" "I'm looking at your hair, it's all white. Do you want to base some appeal on it?" "No." "Then?" "I want to tell you how my hair became white." "What difference will it make if you tell us?" "A big difference." He paused, then said, "When I set out from my home, my hair was all black. And I wasn't any age at all, I was only twenty or twenty-one. When I reached Pakistan and washed myself and looked in the mirror, my hair had turned entirely white. That was my first day in Pakistan. I left my home with black hair and my family, when I reached Pakistan my hair was white and I was
Pakistani Literature, 2014
91 alone." He fell silent and went away, without waiting to see the effect of his words, as though he had said what he had to say. Now he sat down calmly in his corner, and gave Abdul an order for tea. **********************
vie w
On
ly
He glanced out the window, where after so many nights the rallyground was now empty and silent. Well, maybe it was for the best. A procession one day, a procession the next day. With a sigh of satisfaction he leaned back against the cushion. Tonight he'd be able to sleep in peace. He tried one position, then a second, then a third. Sleep was miles away from his eyes tonight. Controlling his desire to toss and turn, he lay silently with his eyes closed for a long time, as though any moment he might go off to sleep. But his mind went on talking, telling stories from different times and places, some new ones and some ages old. Today I somehow managed to finish the Mughal period. Teaching history is a bore. And studying history? The boys ask absurd questions. And the mind? A boy stood up: "Sir?" "Yes, what is it?" "Sir! Among the Mughals, were all the brothers step-brothers?" "Sit down. Out of this whole history, is that the only question you've found to ask?"
Pr e
I scolded him and made him sit down. A meaningless question. It's meaningless to distinguish full brothers from step-brothers. Cain and Abel weren't step-brothers. In history, and before history. Myths, tales, fables, stories of brothers. Those who while their father was alive -- those who after their father's death -- it's time to go to sleep. After all, in the morning I have to go to the College. Again the same wretched history. How boring it is teaching history to boys. And studying history? Other people's history can be read comfortably, the way a novel can be read comfortably. But my own history? I'm on the run from my own history, and catching my breath in the present. Escapist. But the merciless present pushes us back again toward our history. The mind keeps talking. Are you looking at my hair? I'm looking, it's all white. Irfan answered that poor man's straightforward question in such a bitter tone. I want to tell you how it became white - when I reached Pakistan my hair was white and I was alone. His first day in Pakistan. The white-haired man swam before Zakir's eyes. And my own first day. My first day in Pakistan – (Translated by Frances W Pritchet) Pakistani Literature, 2014
92
Muhammad Ilyas
Sacrifice
vie w
On
ly
My father used to beat me without any reason. He used to say, “Feed your children with a silver spoon, but watch them with a lion’s eye”. He followed only half of the proverb i.e., the stern eye and no nice food. If I was sleeping, he would wake me up with a push. In case, I was awake, he would tell me to sleep by slapping on my neck. He used to send me out of the house for play but if he found me playing outside he became angry. He called me a book worm if he found me studying. He would blame me of shirking my work, and he used to say that he really wanted to make me a revenue officer the way I used to study. He used to ridiculeme by calling me AFSAR E MAAL (revenue officer). Finding me free, he would turn red with anger and start scolding me that I was spending money on books and fee nolens volens. Whenever he found me laughing, he beat me for grinning. His objection to my serious look was that I wore a sulky mouth. Seeing my sullen face, he would say, “Eh! Has your mother died? Why are you crying?” I could only wish hearing him say “Eh, your father has died?”, so I could say “AMEEN” in the inner-most heart.
Pr e
With constant weeping, I presented a sad countenance. I used to be addressed as “ mr. sad face” in the school by the teachers and my class fellows. If my face looked as I have been crying much, my father would with a stick in his hand, “Stop! Let me make you weep properly”. In case of an artificial smile on my face, for his sake only, he would say, “Eh, why? You look like a monkey?” In short, there was no way to escape my father’s excuse for some or the other punishment, he needed no mistake or error to chastise me.. As a father, he took it to be his right to beat me without any reason i.e., he could never think of giving up his privilege of beating me without any fault on my part. Once, on the very second day of Ramadan ul Mubarak, my father had a quarrel with the Molvi (religious teacher) of our Masjid. My father accused the Molvi of making the prayer call in haste while he was still eating. The Molvi Sahib claimed to be a servant of God. He said he was not a servant of any human. So, according to the Molvi Sahib, the Azan was on time. I liked Molvi Sahib very much; However he could not stay
Pakistani Literature, 2014
93 in the village for more than six months. I, too, got busy in loading his luggage at his time of departure. My father was furious. He started beating me saying repeatedly, “O, son of an ass! Was the Molvi your uncle?”
On
ly
The father managed to hire a new Molvi. Everybody said that the Molvi observed the veil in his house. I was really fond of seeing the “veil”. I tried to peep into his house. The Molvi was always hanging curtains made of reeds on his walls and windows. Once the Molvi summoned some boys to help in the house, for he wanted to get his house white washed. I was very excited and wanted to get entrance into his house to observe the ‘veil”. in practice. I looked at everything, with great concentration, in every corner of the room, but I could not see the “veil”. Only the young girls were over there in the house. On returning home, I complained to my mother that there was no “veil” in the Molvi’s house and that the people were just lying. She started laughing; the father too, laughed at my protest. Calling me “son of an ass”, he slapped me. My father could express his happiness even with a whip.
Pr e
vie w
When I was a child, he used to beat my mother too. However, in his words, my mother had started fighting back because of the influence of some demon. She would pick whatever was handy and threw it at whatever she was aiming at. She would start foaming at the mouth. Though my father was quarrelsome and garrulous by nature yet he became frightened. I liked my mother’s spirit very much. Though I had never seen her, but she had become my fast friend indeed. She never harmed me. Rather, she would show up whenever my father treated me harshly. I wished for some sort of demon for myself who could make me selfsufficient in self-defence without relying upon my mother’s ghost all the time. Since my father was the village bully, no ordinary demon could stand up to him. I always prayed for a strong, ferocious, and cunning demon to be with me to force my father to think twice before striking me. My uncle too avoided my father. My father often wished for my uncle’s early death so that he could take his place the ‘lambardar’. On the other hand, I always prayed for my uncle’s long life to save this high office from my father. Sometimes my mother’s willingness to marry my father angered me as there were many good people in the village, and in the village of my maternal grandfather. They all called me their nephew, and the elders
Pakistani Literature, 2014
94 regarded me as the grandson of the village. Most of them loved me a lot. I wished to be the son of some such person. My father had no reason to be hostile to Mr Majeed, our village teacher. He called him a “kasbi”. I thought anybody could be a “kasbi” and still be a nice man.
On
ly
I wished my mother to be a girl again and marry Master Sahib, that is Mr Majeed; he would have been a loving father to me. But for a mother I would have no other woman but my mother.. My father had several offspring from his first wife. Why he married again is beyond me. Though my maternal grandfather was a good person, but I hated him whenever my father beat me.
vie w
Generally speaking I liked my mother but some of her habits irritated me. For one thing, she did not keep her demon present all the time. It was the only influential being in our house. Perhaps, it got its duty changed every night, and went away for rest in the under-world with the other spirits. My father used to make me sleep early in the evening when I was very small. He would turn into a monster even before I was deep in sleep. I would myself be a devil in rage, but how could a little devil fight a monster. My father would either be in the fields or at the chopal or, in my step mother’s garden in the evening. As it became dark he moved to our side. He thundered if he found the lantern burning for my homework, “Go to sleep ! You son of an ass…you did nothing during the day, remembering your study now. Now! Mr. Studious!”
Pr e
Her second defect was her hatred for my school uniform. Our school was built with the assistance of a friendly country. It had the symbol of “Dast Punja” at certain places. The uniform consisted of shirt and trousers which irritated my mother. She would remain disturbed as long as I was wearing this uniform or till I changed to my normal dhoti. In fact, she believed that wearing pants could be harmful in many ways. Besides, pants blocked the passage of air to the body resulting in complex diseases. I used to wear a long traditional shirt (kurta) until I entered the school. I was not required to cover the lower body part of my body except on some special days or events. She wanted my body exposed to open air. Another fallacy my mother’s heart was rooted in concerned my toilet habits. She thought that not going to the toilet to pass urine could result in irreparable damage. It was her habit to ask me every now and then if I
Pakistani Literature, 2014
95 had urinated or not. I felt specially embarrassed when she asked this question in front of my school fellows though she had such a sweet look in her eyes. To tease me my school friends advised me to urinate all the time.
On
ly
My mother was not yet contented with this. She strictly told me to wrap myself in my dhoti before going to bed.. She fanned me even as I slept. Sometimes when she felt I was sweating she bared my legs to fan them without thinking I was growing up. Seeing this my father would say angrily, “Shame on you! You grown up she ass!.” adding: “By the way, you have given birth to an ass”. “I could give birth to an ass only. Isn’t it?” my mother replied abruptly.
vie w
One day my mother served me a hot bread smeared with butter and brown sugar when I refused to eat pumpkin curry. Though father never objected and we could eat whatever we liked, yet he got angry seeing me eat bread and butter. He shouted: “Did you give birth to a boy or a bellyworm?” Mother responded by asking, “Have I brought him from my parents’ home? Is he a bastard?” As my father took off his shoe and struck it threateningly on the floor,, my mother, at once summoned her demon. She rolled her eyes up revealing the sclera, and stiffened and twisted her fingers, She yelled, “ Produce a better son for you……Did your first wife gave you any?” Father preferred to avoid the demon but he was determined to teach me a lesson. I will have to pumpkin curry. Grabbing me by the neck, he said, “Eat the pumpkin and let me see if it kills you?”
Pr e
The more I struggled to wriggled out of his grip the more my father tightened it. How could I eat in this way? He brought the plate of curry near my mouth and pressed it on my mouth, nose and chin. He sreamed: “Eat it before I break your neck”. As I struggled to free myself I managed to overturn the bowl whose contents smeared not only the front of my clothes but also that of my father’s. The buttered bread also fell down. The moment my father picked his shoe to hit me, I ran outside. I hadn’t any misconception of being forgiven by my father unless I ate the pumpkin curry or got spanked for not doing so. Usually, he got frightfully enraged if he failed to administer the punishment. In fact that day he even chased me bare footed for some distance. Unconsciously, I turned towards the village of my maternal grandparents as I left our village. I was walking briskly to cover the distance of two and half miles
Pakistani Literature, 2014
96 to the village. I was bare-footed. I had on a shirt and a short dhoti. It was getting darker, and I was afraid of being bit by a scorpion or a snake. But I could not turn back as a wounded cobra was after me.
On
ly
I knew deserted places were populated by evil spirits, badawas,, demons and ghosts who caught people.. My mother had also told me that there were fairies who fell in love with handsome boys who should not go outside dressed up nicely and wearing perfume. She thought I was a fairly handsome boy. I wished I were wearing good clothes and had some perfume on me so that some young and beautiful fairy fell in love with me and took me to her fairyland to marry me. I imagined I would then return to my village and build a palace for my mother. I wanted to see her as the queen of that palace served by a retinue of maids and servants; where she had heaps of gold, silver and diamonds under her feet. I imagined my father calling me and I turning a deaf ear to his calls.
Pr e
vie w
Lost in that reverie I looked at myself. I smelled of sweat, dirt and mustard oil; and the fresh aroma of pumpkin curry. Only the smell of desi ghee was missing which my mother made me eat cleverly as a panacea for all diseases and which she massaged on my body to make me strong. I was extremely discouraged to know that in my condition no fairy would have liked to fall in love with me. In fact, my mother deliberately kept me dirty for the fear of some fairy falling in love with me and taking me away from her. However, I wished for some kind demon would love only me and never anyone else. I suddenly had the urge to urinate, but could find no place where I could be sure it was not the dwelling of some demon. It was believed that demons did not tolerate such an act and punished the culprit by wringing his neck. I was walking, my mind full of stories I had heard about bad spirits, demons and witches disguised as beautiful women trapping wayfarers at night. One must keep walking and never look behind or stop if called In case of hearing the witch’s steps close to one’s back the traveler must immediately take of his clothes to prevent the demon from harming him. The traveller was advised to confront the witch in his naked state. This would frighten her and she would disappear crying. Thus even witches cannot stand the sight of a naked man. Far-off and nearby bushes appeared in different shapes. As a precautionary measure, I only took off my shirt and increased my walking speed. I tried to sing a folk song could not. My voice was like a broken drum or a flute. My throat became dry and despite the hard
Pakistani Literature, 2014
97
On
ly
struggle to sing, I could not make any sound. I continued the journey silently. At that very moment, I remembered that the badawa could overpower a solitary traveler. The badawas generally appeared in the shape of a small lamb and attracted attention by bleating. The unfortunate traveller feels that it’s a lost lamb and picks it up. But as he moves on the lamb’s coat of wool starts growing as well its size and weight.up. Ultimately the lamb turns into a large, ugly, old and dirty sheep, almost of the traveller’s height with its front legs around the traveller’s legs and the hind legs dragging on the ground.. It is then that it occurs to the traveler that his soul has been captured by a non-human creature. The badawa takes the traveller to its dwelling where a group of badawas is singing and dancing while sweets are being prepared in big cauldrons.
Pr e
vie w
My body started to shiver thinking of all this. I was hungry, tired and frightened which together gave me the energy to walk fast. Faster and faster I walked. Though hungry I had no mind to go to the dwelling of the badawas where sweets were being made. Analysing my past and present, I decided I had no fairy or kind demon in my fate. I was unfortunate enough to be captured only by a disgusting witch. Thinking of the witch I thought I should take off my dhoti, but a fear came into my mind that if something went wrong with a clever witch what would I do?. A moment later I consoled myself that it was a small matter and I was a class nine student. I had been having bad and dirty dreams for some time. I used abusive words and swore like a man.. Often my dhoti got folded in sleep and slid under my body exposing my nakedness. My father, if he woke up earlier, would slap me on the part of my body that made me more embarrassed than hurtful. My mother, on the other hand, would wrap me up affectionately saying “O! Be sensible, may your mother die”. Father would laugh hearing that. “May your mother die allowing your father to marry again.” My mother would reply indifferently, “Over my broken shoe! Go and marry ten others.” The moon had risen behind me, and moonlight covered the land. I was not looking behind to avoid being chased by some witch. However, I could see a whitish object right in the centre of my path with a slight indistinct sound like bleating. Initially, I thought it was my fancy, but soon I felt chained to heavy stones. Mustering up my courage, I stepped ahead, but the indistinct sound became louder as the object was heading towards me. “Had it been a badawa, it would have chased me instead of appearing from the front”, I thought. I should turn around and run.. Then the sound became louder and louder as the object came closer.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
98
ly
There was no way of looking back, so I kept running. Suddenly, the idea came into my mind that the creature could be a witch instead of a badawa. To avoid any mishap, I took off my dhoti and held it in my hands. I wanted to get rid of it but the fear of my father’s punishment did not allow me to do so despite my frightful situation. I folded the dhoti into a ball and started running at full speed with all the strength I had. I was facing the moon, and the road was completely visible. I, once again, heard the bleating sound at my back, “Main, en, en ,nn nn”. I knew that the badawa or the witch had come very close to me, but it was impossible for me to run anymore.
Pr e
vie w
On
I did not know when my shirt, which I had wrapped around my head, had dropped off. But despite the loss I kept on running. Meanwhile, I heard the “main mein” again very close to me as if it had touched my ankles. There before me was my house with its courtyard. The door was open. I gathered the remaining energy and increased my speed to the maximum and entering my house directly jumped on to the bedstead.. A moment later, the badawa too jumped over me and became relaxed after singing its low symphony of “mein mein”. Thereupon the person who was already on the bed sprang up to save his life as the badawa and I jumped on him. The man shouted, “Oh! You have killed me.” Next moment, he was upon me “Is it you? You ass? Who did you bring with you? …very nice…see your worthless son’s earning.” My mother ran towards me crying “Oh, the apple of my eye has returned”. Then she picked the dhoti from the floor, dusted it, wrapped it around me and said, “Be sensible, my life!” I was still afraid of the badawa, but he was lying peacefully by my side on the bedstead. He was not fully white, rather a bit kur bur. The chained buffalo, the bull, the cow and the calf, the old sheep and the lamb gazed at the new guest while making a short pause in chewing the cud. The donkey brayed and the mare neighed. The badawa answered very softly, greeting the animals. I was fully in my senses and I narrated the whole story to my father who derided. “Have you given birth to a chowdhri or the son of a khatari”, he said to my mother. Then turning to me he said:, “O! son of a donkey! Stray sheep, out of fear, follow people at night for company.” My father was extremely happy for finding a worthy ram. So he showed no interest in beating me or forcing me to eat the pumpkin curry. Surprisingly, he ordered my mother to bake some eggs for me. I hated my old aged sheep. She was constantly suffering from catarrh and had a runny nose. The efforts of the strongest ram had produced no fruit
Pakistani Literature, 2014
99 whatsoever. In case she got pregnant the offspring was like a weak piece of cord even after six months. She had, thus, vowed to have only one offspring.
vie w
On
ly
My father, used to call me a revenue officer as a joke, but my mother wanted to see me as a revenue officer or a tehsildar. Sitting by the hearth, she used to look at me with great love and affection when I was sitting under the margosa tree to learn my lesson. She thought that too much reading had emptied my mind. Leaving her house work and taking taking the silver bowl, she sat behind the sheep. The sheep opened its legs when she rubbed her udders. Then it pissed and defecated. My mother milked one quarter of milk and mixed it with half quarter of the sheep’s hair. She forced me to drink this precious drink. The milking had already churned a quantity of butter in the bowl. It was very difficult to drink the mixture of milk, butter and lamb wool. However, I drank it in gulps by pressing my nostrils with my fingers, but I could never finish it despite my best efforts. My mother used to massage my hair roots with her fingers after pouring oil on my head. In no time, my hair became hard and curled. I felt as if they were pasted with glue. Surely, my head and brain had been freshened by the hair tonic my mother had prescribed me and, as she believed, dandruff had been removed completely, but it was almost impossible for me to face the flies swarming around my head.
Pr e
Badawa had become a source of entertainment for me. He was a Kohistani ram of a higher breed. He was so attached to me as if we were made for each other. Father had given strict instruction not to reveal the secret of it was found.. He said that “a thing found by chance is a priceless divine gift.” My uncle was a lambardar and a wealthy person, while my father was merely a village influential. My uncle, sacrificed an animal every year. My cousins, very proudly, paraded their goat or lamb in the streets to taunt me. The Kohistani ram had grown up in five months. His twisted horns were neatly curved resembling a young man from Sandal Bar with his hair braided in the middle and two black curls on both sides of the forehead. Such a stylish ram was rarely seen. Like me, everyone called him Badawa.. He was so clever he would come running in an instant upon hearing his name being called.. He behaved oddly like a villager in town. He was very mischievous. With his belly full he ecame very aggressive. I
Pakistani Literature, 2014
100 managed to provide him plant food that suited him. In addition to that he ate up even food cooked at home. He accompanied me everywhere. He was tied to me if I went to the fields, to the graveyard, or any deserted kiln to study.
On
ly
On the occasion of the fair of Baba Daswandi, he tasted a variety of foods including pakoras, samosas and sweets. He loved barley drink. Surprisingly, my father started caressing him more than I did. My father provided him all the energy foods that he brought for his mare, bull or buffalo. It was dangerous to feed Badawa from one’s palm. When there was no more food left on the palm, first he would lick and titillate with his lips and warm breaths but if you withdrew your hand he would snort, shake his head up and down and get ready to charge at you. If his demand was not met, he would back away to charge at you with a long start.
vie w
My father was often his target and when ever he was hit by him the village folk were amused and made fun of him. Once my father’s mare ran wildly and brushed against a tree. My father fell down and was badly injured. The villagers were again very happy and made fun of him when they came to inquire after him. Another time his favorite buffalo had him in trouble giving the villagers the occasion to ridicule him. On such occasions I really felt for the poor man.
Pr e
Many a times I had my father hit by the ram purposely through proper planning. While he was engrossed in his work, I, standing at the back, would beckon the ram to charge at him. After giving the signal I would get busy in something like tightening the strings of the coir charpoy or combing lice from the buffalo’s hide. In the meantime my father would have already been hit and would not know how it all happened. He would swore and retaliate causing the animal ti attack him again and again. In any case he attributed Badawa’s aggressiveness to his pedigree. I had my cousins and some other boys attacked by the ram many times and it was a comfort to me to feel now at least I had another friend in the village beside my mother. Badawa had become a stallion now after indulging himself like a spoiled newly rich person. He was romantic by nature. He had made such sheep pregnant as had almost lost their ability to produce any offspring. How stupid I was to wait for the day of Eid-ul-Azha! It could be dealt with accordingly though. However, the auspicious day of Eid finally
Pakistani Literature, 2014
101
On
ly
arrived and I finally forbade everyone from slaughtering Badawa. My father, on the other hand, took the knife in his hand and announced he was going to perform the religious obligation of sacrificing me. l I firmly believed in that my father was not among those who would not keep his words, and I also believed that the act of slaughtering could not be completed by sacrificing some other animal in place of the intended, that is me. I knew it very well that nothing could come between the blade of the father’s knife and my throat. I was a young man with matriculation and I, authoritatively, made it clear to everybody that Badawa was religiously unfit to be offered as a sacrifice as it was a stolen thing. . My father was so angry and gave me a beating that knocked out all knowledge from my head. Father’s complex problem was solved easily. Molvi Sahib gave a verdict that the owner of the ram could never be found easily, so the price of the animal could be fixed (according to the time when it was found), and given to the Masjid. My father at once thrust fifty rupees on the Molvi’s palm.
Pr e
vie w
I cried all day long on the day of Eid. My mother whose face was wet with tears pacified me. The activity started in the courtyard when father and my step brothers returned after saying the Eid prayers. How could I see the sight! After some time, I heard a violent baying noise from under the margosa tree which meant the windpipe had been cut. It made me visualize the scene without witnessing. I was about to faint. When my senses returned, I heard the consistent sound produced by a chopper on the chopping block. I could not believe the cruel people had actually cut the ram into pieces.. Nobody bothered that he was not only a ram but also my beloved one. I wished I had taken him earlier to the village of my maternal grandparents and saved myself from seeing such a bad day, and the worst tragedy of my life would not have affected my heart and soul. My empty belly was on fire when I saw hot bread in a bread tray sent by my elder (step) mother along with the roasted kidneys, lungs, liver and heart in a big plate clay pot.. I lost my mind and felt a storm rising in me/The steam rising from the pot again brought the scene to my mind: the moonlight, the deserted path, a soft ball of wool and the innocent indistinct bleating; the treaty of alliance, my helplessness and disloyalty. I could not bear the vision. I hated the cruel murderers. Had I been so powerful, I would have torn their abdomen to take out the bones of Badawa. They, however, were very cruel people, and I was totally unable
Pakistani Literature, 2014
102 to fight them. I did not want to stay anymore at the place of his execution. My mother took me along with her and we went to the house of my maternal grandfather.
On
ly
Two extremely beautiful and identical lambs! I was astonished. What a miracle! There was a smile of fascination on my father’s face with wet eyes! I had never imagined it. The separation of just two months had brought about this miracle. He took my cheeks into his palms, and hugged me and said, “Let’s go home. Forgive me. See how has my sheep kept alive the memory of your Badawa as we now have two rams instead of one. Do you see any difference?” My whole being began to feel a strange happiness. I once again looked at the face and eyes of my father. I had found my father, the same father whom I had been longing for all the time.What a sweet reward the sacrifice of Badawa had brought me!
Pr e
vie w
(Translated by Waseem Ahmad)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
103
Agha Gul
Khan Mastana
On
ly
How miserable and aweful is the life of a government servant; especially a low ranker; nobody denies it, everybody feels sympathy for such a fellow. It is like being a condemned criminal; both face the noose, one of death and the other of transfer. So being a small level employee, it was my fate to face transfers every now and then. In those days there were no mobile phones as we have today. I was serving as a telephone operator in the Telephone department.
Pr e
vie w
Chaman is the border town of our country with Afghanistan. Compared to posting to any other place, transfer to Chaman was considered to be lucky in our department as it was the city of dreams. Firstly, the people of the town were very rich and generous, their business activities were spread all over the world, they always availed themselves of our services, and operators favoured them and received their expensive presents and money tips in routine. Secondly, as Afghanistan does not have any seaport of its own and Chaman is a transit city, rich quality products of Japan were available there and their illegal trade in the shape of smuggling was common.> Very easily one could find these items at luxury markets in Queta. Whenever we came to Quetta on leave, we also brought a few of the Japanese products and then sold them in our neighbourhood at handsome prices. A chain of checking posts of customs authoritie from Chaman to Quetta was there to stop the smuggling, but their officials did not check us due to our official position. Rather, we had become friends. When I was leaving Quetta my colleagues cautioned me that a very special personality would often be visiting our telephone exchange. Accordingly we always, provided him our best services, and instantly used to connect his calls with other countries. His name was Khan Mastana and he was virtually the king of the area.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
104 “Khan Mastana, what kind of a man he would be! He might be an old or a young one.” I remained confused during my journey to Chaman. I did not obtain the necessary information about him. “Ok, I will see him,” I thought. However the second question that arose in my mind was why did they call him Mastana, as it meant crazy. So Khan Mastana remained a mystery to me.
vie w
On
ly
The day he entered our exchange, I recognized him immediately owing to his royal style. He was a tall middle aged man and had impressive personality. I also appreciated his striking eyes under his special tribal turban. An expensive turquoise rosary he held in his fingers. He really intrigued me as his real name was still not known to me. My colleague did call him Khan Mastana as that might have been his nickname or his crazy ways had made him popular.. In my confusion I called him Khan Sahib only. I received him warmly and ordered tea for him. He made himself comfortable in the exchange as if it were his home or that it was routine for him to be there. He gave me a list of numbers of different countries to connected with. During this period the other operators remained busy in their routine work and talked and laughed freely. When he was about to go, he embraced me and put some currency notes in my pocket.
Pr e
Then I came to know that he visited our employees quarters regularly and played cards with us. Strangely he was a poor player, but very enthusiastic in the game and always lost a big amount. Those days the political situation in Afghanistan was very bad..The government was not on good terms with us because Pakistan was the shelter of Afghan refugees and in reaction shelling was very common from the Afghan side. Almost every night we planned our escape from Chama because our lives were in danger and our services were risky, but when day broke the situation became normal;, we changed our intentions thinking that we were poor folk, powerless, if we resigned, who would take care of our old parents and little children. Besides the dangers and the hardships, the dry and hot weather of Chaman was also unbearable for us. My situation was like that of a juniper tree that shelters its family under its shade in bad weather and tolerates every calamity. Normally my three colleagues played cards at night, I played well and they appreciated my performance. Khan Mastana used to visit us
Pakistani Literature, 2014
105 often. He was very talkative, yet his manners were interesting. One night he told me that when all the markets of the town closed down in the evenings, he felt bored so he visited different government quarters to play cards with them as there was no other source of entertainment.
On
ly
Why playing he would often become aggressive and challenge us and he would always lose. In one sense he was the best friend of strangers like us. He cheered us with his jokes and heroic adventures. He was the chief of his tribe. One day our sweeper invited him to his marriage and we were surprised as it was considered bad in his tribal life to mix with menials like sweepers. But he accepted the invitation with a smiling face and requested us all to participate in the marriage together. What a great man he was! He gave a big amount of money to the sweeper for the ceremony which astonished the poor guy and he wept with joy.
vie w
“Why are you humiliating me my dear? If my father had been alive, he would have participated in your ceremony. It does not matter if you are a sweeper. You are not a low man; low people are those who are thieves, criminals, corrupt and enemies of humanity. I will take part in your ceremony as your elder brother,� Khan Mustana said. Next day Khan Mastana was leading the marriage procession; he was armed with a Kalashnikov. When he fired in joy like a tribal man, I knew that he was an expert in the use of arms.
Pr e
In fact he was not a conceited person;, his approach to life was realistic and he hated self-praise. When somebody praised him unimtetionally,, he became irritated. Those days I visited my home once in a month. I used to purchase Japanese products on low rates and then sold them at high rates in neighbourhood. I also booked orders for more goods. During this period my personal terms with Khan increased. He was a man of good nature, he was a millionaire, but his life was very simple. Being the tribal head he always took part in tribal customs. He was very successful in such good activities. The shelling from the other side had increased those days because of political turmoil, but on account of my poverty and disturbed financial position I continued my job. Compromise is another name of life; like other employees I also compromised like a buffalo. As they say in the proverb, if a crow sits on her horns all day, she would have
Pakistani Literature, 2014
106 to tolerate that she can do little else the situation of the government servant was no different.
On
ly
One day I received the bad news that my father was not well and ten thousand rupees were needed for his medical treatment. It shocked me because the amount was very huge in those days and it was out of my reach. I contacted my fellow operators, but they also did not have that huge amount. One of them suggested that he would consult Khan Mastana. When he consulted him, Khan paid the amount instantly, but also gave a message that he would come to play cards with us that night.
vie w
Khan came in the evening and he challenged us saying, “You always beat me, tonight I will win your coat, muffler and dress too in the game.” When the game started, I observed a change; amazingly Khan Mastana showed his hidden talent. Oh my God, he was not a poor player He emerged the winner of every game; he had true sense of the game. My friends withdrew from the game, but I had put the entire amount of ten thousand in the game. I was needy and had lost all my senses. There was a smile over Khan’s face and he proved the winner on each turn. We were playing flash. He was the winner and I was the loser and I was very tense.
Pr e
Then I put my last remaining money on the stake, it was the final hand. I was trembling, my body was full of sweat and my throat was dry. Khan was careless. Then he smiled, “If you can take the risky, so can I to win the game.” When the final round started, I divided the cards carefully; amazingly the red colour of his face became black. He repeatedly observed his cards and then suddenly, he announced that he intended to stop the game; he could not play more because his cards were poor and weak. It was the time of contentment and pleasure for me because I won the big amount; I thought it was a huge amount. My colleagues were happy too on my good luck. Then all of a sudden Khan left the place saying he was in a hurry and had some urgent business to do. After his departure when one of my colleagues saw his cards, he cried in disbelief as all the powerful winning cards were there on his side, he could have won the game without any difficulty. (Translated by Farooq Sarwar)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
107
Khalid Fateh Muhammad
Antidote
On
ly
The pathway had no end. The treeless pathway was leading and the traveller was advancing through the howling, roaring, whistling and sighing dust storm. The dust storm was raising heaps of dust; the dusty whirlwinds were ascending and descending back into the dusty pathway, making the dust storm denser. A cloud of dust was encircling the traveller like an imprisoning wall. He was advancing but he was unable to see beyond this circumscribing wall, he was just trudging along the pathway. There was no dust storm when he left. There was pin drop silence in the town as the men, women, children and the elderly moved about their routine jobs. They were all very calm.
Pr e
vie w
They seemed to be speaking through their eyes which sounded the words which were communicated by the vibrations they made. The town seemed to be lost in a reverie. It was known for less talk and more laughter. Babies at birth laughed instead of crying and then gradually their laughter changed into cries. The traveller took the silence of the people as a sign of anticipation of some big accident. He dreaded accidents and would quietly leave the town when some accident looked imminent. He was just a child when his mother died. He hadn’t expected the death of his mother because his paternal grandmother was still alive. His mother died in an accident. She was working on a farm with other women when a snake bit her. She died instantly even before she could cry in pain. Snakes were never seen around. In this town, snakes only existed in idioms and anecdotes. Nobody had ever seen a snake there. The appearance of the snake was an accident. People often said that snakes and mendicants had no home. The snake was there by accident. The town was immersed in deep silence and the people seemed as if they were dumb. He continued walking on the pathway. He was so lost in the rhythm of his footsteps that he lost all track of time and distance. He had been listening to the trumpets of elephants and the roaring of lions but he kept walking, enchanted by the beat of his footsteps. Then, he heard
Pakistani Literature, 2014
108
On
ly
the burst of laughter followed by sighs and sobs. It broke the rhythm of his footsteps; the dust storm had surrounded him. Wherever he looked, his eyes met a high wall there. He felt safe in its enclosure. Now the deep silence and quiet had ended. He looked for a cloud but only saw the wall. Wherever he could see he saw nothing but the wall surrounding him. Although he was safe in its enclosure, he felt suffocation in it. He took a deep breath and patted the dust off his chest which rose in small clouds. He touched his arm; it was also covered with dust. It seemed as if he was made of dust instead of flesh and bones. It terrified him. Was it an accident? He recalled his mother and her death by snake bite. He felt as if snakes were creeping around him. All sounds were merged in the dust storm. Only a sound like hissing of snakes was audible. He looked down and started walking again. He felt as if he was walking on a wall instead of a pathway. His fear dissolved while walking on this wall. His confidence revived again. He dusted off his dress. He began to feel as if his existence was transforming into dust.
Pr e
vie w
The traveller stopped suddenly. He could not believe that a thin fabric of light was visible through a dense cloud. He could not decide whether it was post sunset or pre-dawn. He looked around but there were no snakes. He moved ahead with confidence. He could not hear the hissing of the snakes. The air was dancing around and changing its sounds. He was moving ahead wrapped in a soft light. He saw several houses at a distance. He did not expect any town there. He thought that one dayeither he would drop dead walking or snakes would bite him. His curiosity was aroused and he decided to enter the first house. As he approached the house, fear and uncertainty gripped him. He stopped for a while at the front door and then entered it without knocking. An arched stump of a tree was standing in a narrow courtyard. Its trunk had lost its flexibility. A man and a woman were lying in an old cot near the stump. Their bodies seemed lifeless. Seeing the cot, the feelings of fatigue overwhelmed the traveller. He felt as if he had been tramping all his life, and that that cot would be his final solace. He decided to sleep on it. He picked up the skeleton of the man and dropped it on the ground. The man cast a weird look towards the traveller. The traveller thought the man wanted to speak to him.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
109
vie w
On
ly
Perhaps he could not speak owing to weakness. Then, he looked at the woman. She was healthy. He figured that the man did not turn into a skeleton because of starvation, he had some ailment. He lay down on the cot, the woman’s body pressed against his. There was heat in her body. His body was fomented by her heat. His fatigue started melting away. He felt as if the woman had been lying beside him for a long time and he had never travelled at all. He decided to touch her. The earlier apprehension of being made of dust came back momentarily. Then it occurred to him that if the woman’s body could warm him up; obviously he was made of flesh and bone. He touched her hesitatingly, a wave flowed through her body. She seemed to be standing at the edge of a crater of many pent up feelings. She was like gunpowder whose wick had been shown a flame. He felt as if he was attacked. The woman suddenly turned and got on top of him. The traveller’s hands were free, the woman was charging and the traveller was defending. It was a strange war without any rules. They were not in an arena. It was neither a plain nor a hilly terrain. Nor was it a desert or a dense forest. They were on a small cot. One moment he was beneath her, the next moment he was on top of her; now on the right side and now on the left. There was a fire in her breath and sweet pleasure in her voice. She was laughing, crying, pleading and calling someone in ecstasy.
Pr e
The traveller had become her hostage. He was a body without shadow. He did not like to stay there, but had no energy to run away. He really wanted to escape but the cot fettered him. Every hostage pays ransom for his release: and he was paying his ransom. The woman was an expert in collecting her booty. The woman had the apprehension that a man on the ground might not make a noise. Then it occurred to her that who would listen to him in the roaring wind. She was emboldened again. She was sweating profusely. She was panting and trembling and trembling and panting. Then the traveller also became aggressive. Then, exhausted he lay supine. He felt snakes were creeping all over his body. The memories of accidents flashed back. The woman guessed his predicament and covered him. They kept lying on the cot. The dust storm continued roaring and raising dust around them. The stump stood silent beside them. The heavy dust began to settle down like exhausted birds from flight. Gradually, the noise also ended.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
110
ly
The silence was overwhelming like the traveller’s town. The traveller regarded this all as an accident. There was light then and the message of light was spreading all around. When the traveller woke up, he looked at the skeleton on the ground. Its eyes were gleaming; the traveller turned the woman on her side and got up. He looked towards the sky; the shine emitting from the skeleton’s eyes was floating. Just then, he anticipated another accident. He looked back at the skeleton, it was moving. He sensed the snakes were again crawling all around him.
Pr e
vie w
On
(Translated by Khalid Mehmood)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
ly On
Pr e
vie w
Punjabi/ Siraiki/Potohari Literature
112
Pr e
vie w
Translators Muhammad Asim Butt Hamza Hasan Sheikh Muhammad Shanazar
On
Hafeez Khan Habib Mohana Malik Mehr Ali
ly
Authors Munir Niazi Ashu Lal Shiraz Tahir Saeed Akhtar Siyal
Pakistani Literature, 2014
113
Munir Niazi
Poem
ly
Penalty of going ahead of one’s time One is left alone.
Pr e
vie w
On
(Translated from Punjabi by Muhammad Asim Butt)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
114
Ashu Lal
The Ruler Ordered
On
ly
The dancing and singing In Sawan, the rainy season In Jayth and Wisakh The season of harvesting Were all banned For the magistrate had promulgated The orders of the ruler
vie w
“You are allowed To collect flowers from the shrines But not weave chaplets, Read Shah Hussain But not sing in fairs. “No one is allowed To meet others in the streets To exchange smiles But one may laugh at one’s home.
Pr e
“Neither knock At anyone’s door Nor can it be opened in response The sweet basil can remain in the yard But not any more in the market. “No one should be sociable Keep one’s pains to oneself What the heart wishes, eat and wear But don’t step outside
(Translated from Siraiki by Hamza Hassan Sheikh)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
115
Shiraz Tahir
On
Its my heart’s desire To run away From the shroud of darkness Far away from the native land Where sparrows, crows and other birds Drink water drop by drop.
ly
Distribution
Pr e
vie w
(Translated from Potohari by Muhammad Shanazar)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
116
Saeed Akhtar Siyal
Minority
ly
Though people appreciate us Yet we keep to ourselves.
Though they call us pagan Yet we keep to ourselves.
On
Though people condemn us Yet we keep to ourselves.
Though they accept us as God’s creation Yet we keep to ourselves.
vie w
Though we join hands with them Yet we keep to ourselves.
Though we are lonely in the world Yet we keep to ourselves.
Pr e
(Translated from Siraiki by Hamza Hasan Sheikh)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
117
Hafeez Khan
The Old Woman’s Horse
On
ly
I am unable to remember who used to tell this story about ‘The Old Woman’s Horse.’ Certainly, you might also have heard this story. No, you have not?…then certainly you might have seen the horse of the old woman that one found in the grass, a green coloured grasshopper, with long legs, thin body and a wide face, having big eyes. It jumps from place to place, sometimes here and sometimes there. The story teller said that perhaps it is the only living thing on earth that does not know how its mother fed him. “How can it be possible that a living thing may eat and does not know?” I asked myself.
vie w
The story teller said, “There are three nerve systems in it, one in the head, second in the body and the third one in the tail.” Seeing him in a frolicsome mood, its mother first of all feeds its head, then its body. When this innocent thing comes to know about it, only its tail is left behind. So in this way both feed their hunger. But then why this innocent thing is known as the horse of the old woman?” I began to think but I could not know because my wife dominated my senses.
Pr e
What had happened? My surprise was apparent from my voice like oil dripping from hot Pakoras. Perhaps this oil had broiled my wife’s ears. She shouted angrily, “ What had happened? Have you any sense? Do you know anything? Have you ever felt how miserable my life is? We have no house maid.. I am tired of working all day long. Your children do not allow me to take rest for a single moment. Now I have given them bath, clad them in new clothes, creamed their faces but see they will become dirty again as soon as they go out.. You cannot even pull their ears. At least someone must have some control in the house.” “Mohterma! Say something new. I have been hearing all this for the last eleven years and now these words have no effect on me.” But as usual I could not complete my sentence..
Pakistani Literature, 2014
118 “Yes Sir! If I was so old why did you marry me. I was a piece of the moon, a flower. Why didn’t you note down my age then. What’s wrong with me? Only seven years I am older than you.” My wife said this with so much passion that she started to cough. This coughing was not new for me.
On
ly
“Oh! You misunderstand me Naheed, I did not mean that. I used the word Mohterma just by chance. The words often slip from my mouth. Otherwise seven years….it is not a big matter. Look, I have become old too. My skin is hanging from my bones day by day.” I tried to pour water on the flames to calm her but the flames were too high..
vie w
“Ya….I am not so simple. I understand everything. Its all your hypocrisy. I...I…when I came to this house, do you remember how beautiful I was? But your family sucked all my blood. I was like an apple. My cheeks were like two roses in bloom. I had dreamt of a luxurious life after marriage. I would have maids waiting on me while I just sat on the bed ordering them around. But what actually happened? All I get is just a piece of the bread; all my desires lie crushed in my heart. Now I am tired of this life.” Then she started crying, her most dangerous weapon.
Pr e
“Oh! Now this matter will hanging around my neck.” I muttered to myself. “What? What did you say? I am hanging around your neck. Yes, now I have become a burden around your neck. That slut Farzana is all over your senses. Now she will destroy my home. She has been divorced, now she has an evil eye on my life.” This sudden turn of my wife’s attack frightened me. “Listen, whatever you want to say, say to me but do not blame someone’s sister.” I made a weak attempt to settle the matter. “Ya, Ya, if it’s wrong, then what’s right…. This shows your feelings for that slut” My wife stopped weeping. “My love, I am saying do not blame anyone. You remove this misunderstanding from your heart. I have no relationship with anyone.” I tried to control the situation. “You may hide it from me as much as you like. But your words betray you. You are again and again calling me old just to make me
Pakistani Literature, 2014
119 realize that now I am of no interest to you. All this chatting and meetings, preparation of her divorce papers! The day before yesterday, you withdrew five thousand rupees from your G.P. Fund. What does it mean? I know you have made up your mind to marry that wretched woman….”
ly
My wife again began to cry. Her anger was not going to subside. It meant more trouble. I put a candy in my mouth and rolled it in my saliva.
On
“My love…it’s just your doubt. I held her arms and made her sit on the bed. But she drew herself back to the lower side of the bed. She wiped her eyes and started sobbing.
vie w
“Love… I swear.” I said touching my head solemnly.. She removed her arm from her weeping eyes. The red eyes and flowing nose made me remember the Naheed of eleven years ago when she used to meet me stealthily. She was so beautiful…so fresh and attractive…. “Really…there is nothing….?.” She asked, her eyes all beseeching. I felt hurt. Raising my voice as if from the depth of some dungeon, I said: “Really…there is nothing between me and her. I hate that mean….” I caressed her head to assure her.
Pr e
“Then why have you drawn five thousand rupees from the G.P. Fund…” She wiped her eyes and came closer. “I have to get my new book of short stories published” I said put my head on her shoulder. “Tell all this top someone else” she said feigning disbelief….” She opened the middle button of my shirt and ran her fingers through the hair of my chest. “The book is just an excuse. In reality the money is for your wedding expenses.” She said closing her eyes and rubbing her nose against my shoulder.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
120 “You do not believe in me.” I stood up. She looked at me with surprise. Perhaps she thought I was offended and wanted me to sit down again with her. I went to the cupboard, opened it and took out the five thousands rupees.
ly
“Here it is. Keep it. I won’t publish my book. You may buy the television you wanted.” I said putting the money in her hand. Then unwillingly I lay down on the bed near her. She seemed confused having the money in her hands.
On
“Now, do you believe me that I have no plan to marry Farzana.” Naheed again looked at the money and then at me. Her eyes gleamed bright. She came closer and without saying a word put her head on my chest. I felt my being melting as ice melts under a fan. The ice melted. After sometime I felt…as if my whole body had melted and only my tail remained. I had saved that money so fondly for my book. But… who can fight against fate?
vie w
Naheed was again busy in her work. I jerked my head and felt at ease. I tried to recall what I was thinking. “Ya, I remember…. I was thinking why people call the grasshopper ‘The Horse Of Old Woman.’
Pr e
(Translated from Siraiki by Hamza Hasan Sheikh)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
121
Habib Mohana
The Stains of Smallpox
vie w
On
ly
These were the last days of the Hindi month Cheetir because the festival of Kallu Qalandar in Shah Alam had just ended. The thorny plants of Daman were peeping from the veil of the red flowers. The wreath of flowers lay covered in the cool green leaves like clouds. The red flowers hanging from the trees were hugging each other. But only the flowers looked happy while all around there was famine due to drought. The villagers of Mauji Wal had migrated to village Malkan outside Darraban for food as well as fuel.. The people of other villages too had set up a small habitation of huts in the jungle. These people from the north of Panjan Shah were gathered there for food. Among the huts of Maujiwal, one of the huts belonged to Shaban who had two young brothers and a mother. All day long they worked with their sickles and returned to their huts in the evening.. The men would rest; the children play their games and the women become busy in cooking. There was much hustlebustle after sunset when the men and women returned to the huts from the fields having spent a laborious day there cutting the crop..
Pr e
To the left of Shaban, the tall figure of Mithu was cutting wheat. Shaban put her sickle on her head, went towards the water-flask to take water. Mithu was watching her. When he saw that Shaban was putting back the bowl, he said, “Let me have a few drops of water.” Mithu did not have any thirst; he only wanted to talk to Shaban. She gave the bowl of water to Mithu and became busy in harvesting the grains. The pond was at some distance from the huts. All men, women and children used to go there to take water. Mithu was there, waiting for Shaban. He saw her coming carrying two pitchers and a water-flask. Shaban first of all filled the flask and put it on the bank and then started to fill the pitchers. All this while they kept looking at each other smilingly. Mithu filled his pitchers and when he passed by t Shaban’s flask he picked it up. Seeing this Shaban cried: “It’s mine.”
Pakistani Literature, 2014
122 “Yes, it’s yours, who said it isn’t.” “Then why are you taking it away?” “I will carry it to your hut. Yesterday you gave me water to drink.. It’s my duty to help you?” Shaban carried her pitchers, while Mithu carried her flask to her hut.
On
ly
Next day, when farmers were busy harvesting wheat, Mithu and Shaban were exchanging glances. They both tried to come near each other but in the meanwhile the day’s work ended. The wheat-cutters lined up to receive wages from the manager. Shaban attached her sickle to the sack over the donkey. When she was receiving her wages, Mithu took off his ring and attached it to the point of the sickle blade. Shaban saw the ring on the sickle and looked at Mithu and smiled.
vie w
Next day again Mithu was looking for a chance to speak to Shaban when she would go to fetch water. When he saw her going towards the pond, he followed her. He did not bring any bowl deliberately so that he could ask Shaban for her bowl. Mithu kept on staring at her while she filled water in her pitchers. When Shaban finished, Mithu asked her for the bowl. After pouring water in the bowl she slipped her silver ring in the bowl and rowed it towards him like a boat. Mithu put the ring on his finget and drank up the water. Shaban splashed water on her face playfully.
Pr e
At night, some of the men went off to sleep after dinner while the bachelors became busy in gossiping. The little girls sat down on the ground and started to tap a beat on their bowls. The women started sing to the beat. In the vast ground, the yellow bundles of wheat looked like the dunes of Rohi in the monnlight. Shaban and Mithu were talking secretly behind one of the dunes. The crickets were chirping and a cuckoo was cooing.. Seeing a porcupine, all the girls ran after it. A young girl accompanying them said, “O! Beat the bowl and then see how beautifully it dances.” Shaban twitched Mithu’s cheeks and ran away. They amused themselveswith the porcupine for a long time by beating the bowl until it hid itself in one of the wheat stacks
Pakistani Literature, 2014
123 The house of Mithu was on Gandi Aseeb. He used to sell combs, mirrors and kohl in the surrounding villages on his bicycle. The harvesting season was over; the people gathered their corn and went to their homes. Mithu used to come to Maujiwal also to sell his merchandise but his real aim was to meet Shaban. The women of Maujiwal gathered around him on one call like chickens gather on the clucking of hens. Shaban also bought a vial of kohl and a hair-band.
vie w
On
ly
Mithu put the box of his goods on the carrier of his bicycle and stood under the deep shade of the trees. In the branches, there were nests of sparrows; he began to enjoy himself with their music. In the meanwhile, Shaban came with bread and a bowl of Lassi in a colourful tray. While Mithu ate the bread, Shaban kept standing aside. Some children were also waiting to buy some articles from Mithu. Shaban took the utensils from him and said, “Tonight stay here.” “I want to but….” “This is my uncle’s mansion.He is very hospitable,” saying this she disappeared like a sparrow.. Both the brothers of Shaban were guards at the court. Her uncle came back home after she had served meal to Mithu.
Pr e
It was midnight, all one could hear was the howling of the jackals. Shaban tiptoed to Mithu in the mansion. Both of them became idols before each other. No one could judge who was the idol and who was the worshipper. Mithu spoke at last, “I will bring a bodice for you the next time.” Shaban felt abashed. Mithu put his hand in his pocket and said, “It is lipstick, I have brought it for you. It will make your lips redder. Now take it and show me your red lips.” “ I will go now before mother wakes up.” “So soon…. Then why have you come?” “Anybody can come.” “No one will come, now put on this lipstick and show me your lips.” “Is it for Eid or some other happy occasion?.” “What? Is this moment less than Eid?” In the glimmering moonlight, when Shaban said goodbye to Mithu after wearing the lip-stick, her glittering lips seemed no less than any lamp burning in the temple. Mithu made many friends in Maujiwal just for the sake of meeting Shaban. their secret meetings continued until Mithu went to Karachi.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
124
ly
As time passed, smallpox epidemic broke out in Maujiwal. Shaban and her elder brother got infected. The disease took her brother into the grave but Shaban survived after a long struggle. She moaned with pain, the sores on her knees felt like nails and when they burst and dried up they left behind ugly pock marks.. Her mother used to apply butter on those spots daily. Her thighs looked as if someone had plucked out feathers from the body of a pigeon. In those painful nights, neither was she able to sleep on the bed nor to move here and there. So she had to remain awake all night.
vie w
On
After a year, Mithu got back from Karachi with a lot of merchandise for sale. The memory of Shaban took him again to Maujiwal. He made loud calls in the streets. The women gathered there like hungry sparrows. Mithu looked here and there but he could not see Shaban. Shaban heard him call but her pocked appearance did not allow her to come out. Mithu got tired of making his vending calls.. He was going towards the mansion for rest when he saw Shaban with a load of dung-cakes on her head. Seeing Mithu, she changed her way so that Mithu would not be able to see her.. He sat in the mansion in the hope Shaban would come to see him. The whole night passed but Shaban did not come.
Pr e
The next day, Shaban along with the other girls was going to fetch water. On hearing her voice, Mithu hid behind a wall to see her. He could not believe his eyes when he saw her pocked face. The marks looked like spots on a bronze plate glistening in the sunlight. His feet froze where he stood and his voice choked in his throat. After spending a month at home, Mithu went back to Karachi and he worked there for three years. On his return he married the daughter of his uncle. He bought a house and set up a shop. Five years passed. All the friends of Shaban decorating their hands with henna and foreheads with bindias, got married and sitting in the sedans of camels went away to other villages, but Shaban remained single on account of the pock marks. At last the time came when she too was married and departed to another village. After nearly a month, the crop of wheat of Darraban became gold. Shaban’s husband went to harvest wheat and Shaban accompanied him. Still the henna on her hands had not faded;
Pakistani Literature, 2014
125 she took the sickle and took off all marriage rings and became busy in gathering wheat.
ly
Though the smallpox had snatched away her beauty her fair complexion and youth still bloomed. . Therefore, seeing her red anchal and ornaments everyone wanted to quench his thirst. The small eyes of Haji Faraz from behind his thick glasses fell on her beauty. He revealed his secret to his manager. The manager replied, “Do not worry master; this girl would be with you tonight?”
vie w
On
The manager talked to the father-in-law of Shaban discreetly telling him that a maid-servant was needed at the house of Haji Sahib for domestic work. If Shaban could be hired for the purpose he would give them four sacks of yellow wheat per month. It was a good opportunity because if she worked for the whole harvesting season, she would not be able to earn two sacks. But the father-in-law of Shaban refused the offer.. When the manager started bothering them daily, the Shaban’s husband said to his father, “Father! Let us move back home. Leave it! Otherwise Haji Sahib will degrade us.” “The cutting season does not come daily. What will we do at home? There most of the birds have also died because of the drought. Here we can collect the food of eight to ten months. What grows on our land except herbs?” The father replied. So both the son and the father shut their eyes to the lecherous desires of Haji Faraz and his manager.
Pr e
The next year, when Shaban went there for the harvest season with her husband, Mithu was also there. He saw Shaban and her husband but he made no effort to contact her. In the following two years, there was prosperity in Maujiwal and no person went to other villages for harvesting wheat. During this period, one of Shaban’s twins died and her father- in-law also passed away. Next year, Maujiwal was again affected by drought and people had to go out to work for money and grains. Shaban and her husband were among them. This time Shaban did the cutting work while her husband carried loads of wheat on camel back to marketing points. It was very embarrassing for Shaban to find that Mithu had become the manager and was responsibe for handing out the wages to the
Pakistani Literature, 2014
126 harvesters. Shaban was not willing to face Mithu but she had no choice. Mithu saw her but that day he did not see her face. His eyes only surveyed her body. She saw the lust in his eyes and decided to keep away from him. The wages Mithu paid her were more than her work. She took the money and returned to her hut.
On
ly
On the third day, Mithu kept Shaban waiting till all other harvesters had been paid. Finding his oppoetunity he said to her, “Shaban! If you fulfil my heart’s desire, I will give you four sacks of yellow wheat.” Shaban was shocked by his audacity. She stared at him. His face had transformed into the face of Haji Faraz. She was unable to recognize whether he was Mithu or Haji Faraz. On her way to her hut she felt as if she was surrounded by men like Haji Faraz and Mithu and they were all after her body.
Pr e
vie w
(Translated from Siraiki by Hamza Hasan Sheikh)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
127
Malik Mehr Ali
Rift
ly
The breeze will keep on blowing; the clouds will keep on dispersing.
On
They also wanted to leave the hut and live in a big house but they had no family and to build a mansion with bricks was not their custom. That is why they had chosen to live on the bank of the river because the river did not tolerate any wall on its banks.
vie w
They became the dwellers of the hut and chose to pass the days of their life in the heat of Harr, the mugginess of Sawan and the dry cold of Poh. What was life like for the hut dwellers on the river bank only they knew.
Pr e
The passengers who had to cross the river had the support of these huts on routine days but in the months of Sawan when the river swelled they rowed the boat across to the other bank only depending on the help of these huts. If anyone got trapped in some trouble and needed some place to pass the last hours of the night, these huts were available to him as refuge. The passengers on the river used to hesitate to stay with the dwellers of the mansions. The hut dwellers never differentiated between strangers and their own people when their help was needed. Perhaps this was what the river had taught them. Being the dwellers of the river bank, they were able to recognize the passengers crossing the river. But today in the afternoon, for the first time, they saw those tired faces who had stayed under the thin shade of their huts for rest. Appreciating their hospitality, one stranger said to the men of the hut:, “It seems from your conversation that you have passed your most of your life on the bank of the river. When all other people were building mansions for themselves were you not doing the same. Haven’t you built a mansion?�
Pakistani Literature, 2014
128
ly
One old hutman laughed and said,“If we too had built mansions, who would have offered water to the thirsty coming across the river. We have lived a happy life here and hope the same for the rest of the days. Among the people who live in the mansions, property disputes are common. How many fights can you fight in this small life. Due to fear of these quarrels we have raised our huts on the sand. There never happened any quarrel on the division of property among the dwellers of the sand.”
On
The man among the newcomers spoke: “The quarrels on the division of property are common everywhere but it doesn’t mean that a person being afraid of them should dwell on the bank of the river and become a hutman.”
Pr e
vie w
The hutman took a long puff at his hubble-bubble and giving its pipe in the hand of the other he said, “To make mansions, to divide them into houses has been going on for a long time but here how the people having mansions behave with each other was never never seen or heard before. After many years of flowing, when the river of the red waters changed its course and began to flow on the other side, herbs grew on some of the land while some land remained clear. All the share-holders gathered. They no unity among them which they had while the river was flowing. All of them claimed to be owners of the clear piece of land. The land full of reeds remained without any inheritor. Then no one knew what happened but all of them became owners of the pieces of land they were able to grab. They built the mansions on them to stamp their ownership and became strangers to each other.” The hutman became quiet for a while and then again said, “In this greed, they didn’t feel any shame in demolishing the mosque, the old tombs and graves to get the stones and bricks to build the walls of their mansions. When they fell short of bricks and stones, they entombed live persons in walls of their mansions. They had enough water to make the muddy foundation because the water-pool left by the river of red waters was on their threshold. This misfortune became the base of the walls, then many of them saved their lives and never turned back. Those who remained stuck there, they were trapped in such a bad situation that they lost even their identity. Today those
Pakistani Literature, 2014
129 unfortunates people are not remembered by anyone who sacrificed themselves to make others the owners of these mansions.”
On
ly
The hutman sighed and became quiet for a while and then said, “It would be fine that the walls would be built but they would be supportive to take each other’s trouble over but it never happened. In spite of the other residents of the other areas, they adapted totally different and unique ways of behaviour. After following the wrong and unique paths of life, they put the hurdles in the way of one another, stopped water, destroyed the canals, ruined the crops and stole the animals. The kidnapping of the persons was also started by them. Watching this situation, the people from all around visited them to ask them what the problem was. Hearing this they became angry but no one among them replied.
vie w
Another person among the newcomers said, “If it’s the reality that before building the mansions, they did not have any rift, how did they become the enemies of each other?”
Pr e
The hutman thought for a while and then said, “The people from the surrounding areas tried their best to get any clue but someone tells one thing and others have their own opinion. According to our observation, the snake of mistrust has infected them while getting out of the clay when they were making the base of the mansion. Therefore dwelling there from generations, the sharers of grief tolerated the sunshine and winter of life together, after drinking water of the same land for years; they were restless to shed the blood of one another. “The wise men used to say that the snake of mistrust caused the death of all the relations. Once it bites someone, his coming generations also die with it’s poison. Therefore these affected people of the mansions also built the walls not only in their bodies but also in their souls. “This mad involvement in shedding each other’s blood crossed the limits in quarrelling over small issues without any reason. They not only grabbed the medicine of their patients but also threw the morsels of their hungry in the well. If any beggar knocked at their doors, they would ask for the money of the given charity. All the small and tall
Pakistani Literature, 2014
130 grown trees were sold by them in the beginning years. It is said that among them, those trees were also sold, under the shade of which the people bitten by the snake of mistrust used to get some rest.”
On
ly
The hutman became quiet for a while and then spoke in a sorrowful way, “I have heard that nowadays they are busy in selling their trust and dreams after selling each and everything, they are buying the batons, new knives and axes to kill one another. The prayers of blacksmiths have been accepted as their iron was being sold at the price of gold. There is no well-wisher of the hungry and the sick. Some died burning in the fire and others died after falling in the well. No one listens to anyone. Whoever listened to these hungry and the sick also become mad. Being afraid of madness, no one even looks at the helpless poor.”
vie w
The hutman touched the lobes of his ears, became quiet for a while and then again said, “Now all the young and the old of the home have left their work, just find an excuse to wrangle among themselves. The people from the surrounding villages visit there to make them understand. Perhaps they have the sympathy for both but they are terrified, if this fire crossed the walls of the mansions, it would touch their huts. It is heard that the thirsty for blood are anxious for fighting.”
Pr e
Another from the new comers said, “It’s not so, it is because utensils when together make noise. Lot of things happen when you are living together.” The hutman interrupted and spoke in a loud voice, “Don’t call the place of the mad people’s home. There is nothing to dwell there now because the dwellers of one place don’t become the enemy of each other. They don’t fight over shadows, the sunshine or the blowing breeze.” The hutman became quiet after saying so then he spoke thoughtfully, “That is their whim. The breeze will keep on blowing; the clouds will keep on dispersing…”
(Translated from Punjabi by Hamza Hasan Sheikh)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
On
ly
131
Pr e
vie w
Sindhi Literature
Pakistani Literature, 2014
132
On
Pr e
vie w
Translators Jam Jamali Humayun Kiani Mubarak Ali lashari
ly
Authors Qazi Maqsood Gul Ghulam Rabani Agro Akhlaq Ansari
Pakistani Literature, 2014
133
Qazi Maqsood Gul
A Maiden and the Moon
vie w
On
ly
O mother! The moon that looks bright, and rules from the sky’s height, it sometimes comes as a crescent, sometimes becomes a big ball, sometimes seems a hollow horn, sometimes a bread to yearn, on 14th it sheds full light, that beautifies many a sight, and a blot on its breast that shines, sad sorrows of it deplorably divines. O my mindful mother! Tell me its touching tale, that makes it weep and wail.
Pr e
O dear daughter! The moon that you behold, shining and smiling daily, keeps a complete cosmos really, it cherishes charm and affection, for the earth and it’s inhabitants, the earth bears a barrage of bombardments, where innocent men daily die in cents, the aggressors and oppressors of all classes, make massacre of the miserable masses, and dye the agonized earth red, with the boundless blood so shed. The melancholic moon beholds the barbarities, it neither screams nor weeps and wails, but only flutters and shocks feels. The marooned moon maintains somber sadness, for the earth and its lovely living beings, and the sum of sorrows form a blot in its face, as it weeps for humanity in doleful distress.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
134
On hearing moon’s lamentable lore, the grieved girl’s eyes torrential tears bore, she hugged her mother and smiled no more.
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
(Translated from Sindhi by Jam Jamali)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
135
Ghulam Rabbani Agro
Newspaper
On
ly
In those days, I was working as a sub editor in the night shift of a daily newspaper. It was 6 or 7 in the evening and I was as usual busy subbing and compiling news.. Suddenly, the voice of Aslaam-oAlaikun struck my ears. Without turning to look at the visitor,I responded Wa-alaikum Salaam and got busy in my work again. I took him for someone wanting some news item published. But when the man remained and said nothing, I looked up to have a glance at the person who stood there in silence.
vie w
The man who stood there was an elderly person wearing a simple waist-coat, a round loose shalwar of cotton, old type of rural shoes and a turban. On his shoulder he carried some thing wrapped in an ajrak. “What can I do for you Chacha Saien!” I asked. "I want to see the editor," he requested me joining his hands in the meek way of village people.
Pr e
“Please, go in, the boss is inside” I said. The editor intended to go out but he again sat down in the chair after seeing him.. Taking his shoes off, the villager entered the office barefooted. “Saien Aslaam-o-Alaikum!” he said. “Wa-alaikum Salaam! How are you Baba?” the editor responded. “My name is Jumman; I am from Khanpur village. Your newspaper published a report that I had caused some trouble to a landlord Mr. Sodhuo Khan, and that I was not letting him take his turn at watering the fields. Well sir, I have come here to explain the matter and to say that I am a poor farmer and I cultivate my one -and-half acre of land, while the landlord is the uncrowned king of the village. How can I
Pakistani Literature, 2014
136 disturb him? O! Sir, I am not at fault, the landlord’s field is adjacent to the water course and my land is next to his. The water first irrigates his land and then reaches my field.. Being on the slope, we are also making our both ends meet with the grace of Almighty.” The old man began to explain.
On
ly
“Sir, in fact, the landlord forced me to sell my one- and-half acre land to him but I refused his offer because it was the only means of my livelihood, so he became annoyed and got such a report published. Since then the local police has also been harassing me and threatening me to send me to jail. “The village Patwari says that a suit will be filed against me. So wherever I go to seek help, I am told to follow the procedure which means serving them with sweets,” the old man explained.
vie w
“Venerable Sir, how can I please everybody? How much money should I spend? I am a poor man. The land can hardly meet my daily needs. Sir, I live in a small village and have never visited the city before. Circumstances brought me to your office to inform you about the real situation.. I have also arranged some money to get the truth published. Sir, it will be your kindness if you publish the real story in your newspaper contradicting the earlier report as false. It will be a great favour for me,” saying this he placed his turban at the editor’s feet. The editor picked up the turban and handed it over to the old man asking, "Where had you been before?”
Pr e
“Sir, I did not know about the newspaper report but the village Patwari told me that I have been accused of stealing water from the landlord’s land and creating trouble. That's why I have come here, otherwise, I never came to this great city. I got the address of your newspaper office with great difficulty being a stranger to the city’s localities.” He drew five bills of Rs.100 each and handed them over to the editor by saying, “This is your fee, Sir.” “Well, do not worry, all would be OK,” the editor said putting the currency notes in his pocket and stealing a glance towards me through the window. Witnessing this drama I could only bow my head down and absorb myself in subbing another report.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
137
“You may go now Baba, God will help you.” the editor consoled him.. The old man requested the editor, “I will stay in your office as I do not have any acquaintance or relative in this city.” The editor smiled and said, “This is a newspaper office, it is not a hotel and it does not have any place to pass the night.”
ly
Pointing towards the footpath, the old man said, “I will spend the night over there and cover myself with my Ajrak.”
On
“May I have the assurance that you will publish my story, and I will not have to appeal again in this regard.” “No Baba no! Be assured.”
vie w
The editor stood up and came out of the room saying “I’m coming back after having my meal.” After finishing my work I also left to take my meal. On return, I saw a Land Cruiser, parked in front of the main gate of the press office. I saw three men, seated in front of the editor. They had gold buttons on their shirt fronts and they wore Rado wrist watches and gold rings on their fingers. White muslin turbans covered their heads and double ghora bosky their big bellies. Two guards with pistols and belts of bullets sat behind them. theu were being served with bottles of Pepsi and the editor was inquiring after their health in a cheerful manner.
Pr e
“Yes! Jumman of your village just visited our office,” the editor said smilingly, “he is a very stupid fellow.. He was talking rubbish that police and the village Patwari have made his life miserable and he requested me to save him from this terrible situation.” “What did you tell him then?” One of them asked.. “I told him to remain calm and do nothing stupid. What else could I say?” the editor responded. “We are grateful to you,” they said relieved by the assurance.. “If the story is contradicted,” they said. The editor smiled, “No, no sir! That is not possible." “When I went to have dinner outside, I saw him pleading to the people, in the centre of the street, “I am a stranger and I have come to the city for the first time; is there any mosque? I want to offer
Pakistani Literature, 2014
138 prayers." Maybe he was worried where he would spend the night and have food. Any how, I came away.. But people, particularly the rich were not bothered by his story. They laughed at him and left.
ly
“Well, Sir, Allah Hafiz,” the three men sitting in the office of the editor said getting up. “Allah Hafiz”, the editor replied adding “but please do not forget to send the rice.”. “Why not! Why not! As soon as we reach back, we shall send you a sack of rice,” they assured the editor. “Any other service for us?” they asked.
(Translated from Sindhi by Humayun Kiani)
Pr e
vie w
On
“No, no, thanks?” the editor replied. He shook hands with them again and bade them goodbye. No sooner did the feudal lords left the office, the editor called the peon to put a cannister of ghee in his car. Then the editor came to my desk and said, “You missed to add a sentence last night about the newspaper. Today you will not forget to mention it.” “Which sentence,” I asked surprised. "The paper for the helpless people of Sindh." He said stressing the words. “Yes Sir,” I answered thoughtfully as the editor stepped out of the room.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
139
Akhlaq Ansari
The Mirror
ly
When people offered their laughter for sale …. cities shrank hearts. Lipsticks were to be manufactured from blood animosities and...hatred would replace affections.
On
Thus…..he quit reading the newspaper, listening to the radio and watching television. He wrote in his mind in bold words: “close the institutions of hypocrisy and ignorance!” He is sitting in the chair as if he was in a prison, his head lowered under the hands of the hairdresser working on his hair, and the ashwhite curls are falling on the pure white cloth.
vie w
He looks at his brother in the mirror, who is busy reading a newspaper and quite at ease in the air-conditioned saloon. His brother had admonished him in the morning, “what has happened to you? Where have your friends gone and your laughter? The whole family is worried about you!” He had remained quiet.
Pr e
The barber is trying all his skills on his hair, but he is drowned deep in the desert of his inner world. How many light bulbs may have turned on in a minute, how many operations might have been performed, how many people may have made their way to death, and how many come back from the cruel claws of death. Questions filled his mind. How many were born and killed; how many bombs were dropped; how many laughs heard, and how many voices reverberated. There can be a big bang, if all voices rose together for a while. “Please dye his hair too.” His brother says to the barber. He looks at his brother in the mirror. He is above forty, up-todate, smart and a successful man… Waking up fresh after a sound sleep every morning, light exercise, breakfast, scanning newspaper headlines, driving to the office, a short
Pakistani Literature, 2014
140 midday nap and evening walk. Marks of a regular life. He fantasizes and thinks of not only tea that would give him warm welcome in the morning but also sleep, which though induced by sleeping pills, carry him away to the dreamland, where there are huge modem apartments, and the old buildings with aged trees spreading their arms over the walls.
On
ly
The hairdresser is dying his hair, and he finds that his brother is observing him with a smile on his face. His brother has often tried to remind him of his charming manners and witty, crisp conversation on the dining table. He realizes his silence has made his parents ill, but asks himself, “Where are the long talks and good listeners! Except office clerks and school teachers, even their conversation is a mourning, and repentence and insolence.”
vie w
He thinks, “the darkest of the night would have kissed his hair? But night has no stair to climb down from. He remembers a small dog he saw years back in the middle of the staircase, neither able to climb up nor come down. Then he saw the same dog now grown up emerging from a lift, but it had gone rabid. The hairdresser’s voice strikes his ear. “Sir, the style will suit your plump round face.” He is quiet, coming out of the saloon his brother says, “How dashing you look! …..really looking my younger brother just now.”
Pr e
He is quiet again. “I know you like vegetable soup the most,” his brother takes him to a restaurant. His brother passes the bowl of soup to him, which he starts sipping. “How do you like the soup?” “Nice” “No?”
“What else would you like to have?”
“Nothing” “Orange juice?”
Pakistani Literature, 2014
141 His brother orders orange juice for him, and he finishes it without a straw.
ly
Walking on the noisy road his brother takes him to a readymade garments shop. The great variety of colourful suits hanging on hangers fails to appeal to him. His brother selecting a blue suit says, “This is made for you, and this maroon necktie will be perfect with it..” He enters into the trial room, puts the dress on and comes out in front of the mirror. Everything is OK except the necktie hanging like a dog’s tail.
Pr e
vie w
On
(Translated from Sindhi Mubarak Ali Lasheri)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
142
Pakistani Literature, 2014
Pr e
vie w
ly
On
Pashto Literature
144
Authors Ajmal Khatak Qalandar Momand Mehmood Ayaz
On
Pr e
vie w
Translators Hamza Hasan Sheikh Inayatullah Khatak Ilyas Babar Awan
ly
Dr. Raj Wali Shah Khatak Tahir Afridi
Pakistani Literature, 2014
145
Ajmal Khatak
Pr e
vie w
On
I asked a mullah “Molvi Gee! What is paradise?” He waved his hand on his belly and replied, “Fruit and the canals of milk” A student was accompanying him I repeated the same question to him He replied after closing his book “The white Sirens and their figures...” Next I saw a Sheikh Sahib Rotating the beads of a chaplet Hearing my question, he replied “Sirens, maids and their coquetries…” A Khan Sahib came in front of me, I enquired about his opinion Adjusting his turban, he replied; “The palaces and the mansions” There was a tired labourer there I asked him He answered, wiping his sweat “A bellyful of food and sweet dreams” I saw a mad man He looked like a philosopher I repeated the same question to him He replied The dreams are for happy people I bowed my head My heart was anxious too I felt like singing He was saying,
ly
Paradise
Pakistani Literature, 2014
146 “O God! I want my own home To be my paradise If I hadn’t this insanity in me I would have been proud Of going to paradise.
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
(Translated by Hamza Hasan Sheikh)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
147
Qalandar Momand
To the World’s Conscience
On
ly
I am the eternal enemy of darkness and dusk, Like the sun rays, I have dissected the chest of night, I have absorbed flames while my heart burnt, But stabbed the veil of night with the dagger of pangs. I have been a cloud of spring for the world’s garden, My tears enriched buds to bloom, My sweat brought comforts to humans, And my blood aroused feelings.
vie w
Whenever and wherever humanity was threatened, I was present in the trenches of human dignity, Wherever the flag of independence hoisted, I was under that with the army, If you could see.
Pr e
Every arrow that targeted human dignity, I stopped with my chest, cooled its heat, The avaricious who made heaps of skulls around, I caught them by the throat and cut off their heads. I taught the Greek cannibals good manners, Alexander learnt the lesson from my Swat Today the human dignity that the West enjoys, Has been borrowed from the light of the East. When from the North, the killers of human civilization, Pierced the whole world in the search of human blood, Sucked the blood of non-Arabs, captured half of Europe, When they attacked me, I pierced them at every step.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
148
When the rulers ceased to give orders of righteousness, When they went astray from the principles of justice, It was I who rose up to support righteousness, It was I who fought for the honour of the Prophet’s clan.
On
ly
I held in my hand the beacon of human liberty, I repulsed the attacks of the imperial armies, My bravery burnt the hut of every devil’s disciple, I treated the ghosts, made them recognize my mettle.
vie w
When the invaders came to plunder from the South, When the newly planted garden was wrapped in negritude, I let them know of my bravery in the battle of Panipat, Though they were monsters, yet stumbled and shattered. When the blue-eyed and red-faced imperialists, Trapped me with blue smoke and red flames of oppression, My angry men made their blood very cheap, And they sacrificed their youth for the love of freedom.
Pr e
When chaos prevailed in all corners of the world, When every region was set on fire by tyranny, When doubts hovered over the future of humanity, I came out to counter the devilish agents. I was one of those, in Burma, who did not slip, I did not lose my heart in the deserts of Africa, Or the islands and tall mountains, I never retreated in the face of horrible monsters. I, for the revival of the oppressed humanity, Got bathed everywhere in my own blood, Oceans saluted my unflinching determination, Pakistani Literature, 2014
149 Tell me where I stumbled in face of hardships I, with all of my strength stood for the oppressed, Ask Algeria, see what Kashmir is saying Today, my plight is woeful but you live in comfort, O! The people of the world what says your conscience.
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
(Translated from Pushto by Inayatullah Khatak)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
150
Mehmood Ayaz
vie w
On
I have continuously been throwing away The dust of doubts, From my body, As if I were praying for myself, As if I am begging for my being’s survival When I see the first leaves, I close my eyes, I feel as if I am standing, In the vague circle of Ultimate Reality, I am standing in the half opened door, Of the paradise of my faith.
ly
I Am Standing In The Half Opened Door
Pr e
(Translated by Ilyas Babar Awan)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
151
Dr. Raj Wali Shah Khatak
Rohology (The Study of Pashto and Pashtuns)
ly
Introduction:
vie w
On
Rohology deals with the knowledge and understanding of Pashto, Pashtuns and Pakhtunkhwa. This term is based on the root word “Roh”which is the old name of Pakhtunkhwa. Roh is a geographical unit representing an area situated between the Amu River and the Indus, the two big rivers of Central and South Asia. This land is mostly plain consisting of high mountains also. Politically, Afghanistan and Pakistan are separated by two western provinces (Sarhad, Baluchistan and FATA). This whole region has its own special geological, geographical, anthropological, archaeological, historical, linguistic, social, cultural, and religious setting with its own peculiar flora and fauna, its seasons, environment and exclusive specialities. This soil has been a cradle of ancient civilizations. Due to these unique characteristics this area of Pakhtunkhwa has been the focus of attention for religious scholars, intellectuals and researchers. Still a complete study and research is needed in all the aforementioned fields.
Pr e
Whenever this region was mentioned in history, it was remembered with its old Sanskrit name “Rohtiagiri,” (Habibi, p.53) which has in recent times come to be known with its short form “Roh”. The term ‘Rohology’ has been devised on the pattern of well known regional studies like Egyptology, Indialogy, and Sindhology, under which all aspects of these countries or regions are studied. Therefore the study and research on Roh is correctly termed as “Rohology.” Therefore Rohology will henceforth refer to the study of Pakhtunkhwa. Geographical Location: The land where the Pashtuns have been living for ages is called Pakhtunkhwa. Its other names like Afghania,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
152
On
ly
Afghanistan, Roh, Rohistan and Yaghistan have also been used. Although, at present, this land is divided into four parts: Afghanistan, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa), the Pashtun-populated area of Baluchistan and FATA, the federally administered tribal areas. Although this land comprises contiguous areas, its division into four parts is due to the oppression of history. In fact, there are families which are dispersed in this political order. Half of some tribes are living in Afghanistan, while others are settled in Pakistan. Although this division is not that old, it came into being as the result of an emergency agreement between the British and Amir Abdur Rehman in 1893 (Adamec, p.339) resulting in the drawing of the Durand Line across the Pashtun motherland dividing it into lower and upper parts. The upper Pakhtunkhwa became part of Afghanistan while the lower acceded to Pakistan. When Pakistan came into being in 1947 (Burki, p. xxii), lower Pakhtunkhwa, known as the North West Frontier Province, became a part of Pakistan.. In this manner, the land of Pashtuns came to be shared by two countries.
Pr e
vie w
Geographically, the land of Pakhtunkhwa is located between the Amu River and the Indus from 60 to 73 degrees longitude and 28 to 36 degrees latitude on the face of the globe (Inam, p.1).. Topopgraphically, on its north-eastern side is situated the Karakoram mountain range; in the north, there lies the Hindu Kush; in the far west and south, there is a desert. The high peaks on the Himalaya Range are in its east. It is defined by natural borders with the historic Amu River flowing in its north, the Indus in the east, and the Helmand River and Hari Rod in the south. Historically it has been called as Pakhtunkhwa or Afghania. These are its old historic names; however, its most famous name is Pakhtunkhwa (Caroe, p. xviii). Here, the Pakhtuns, Pashtuns or Afghans have been living since the ancient times. Whatever their tribal divisions the people are known as the Pashtun. At present, their population is more than 50 million. As the Pahstuns are divided into different tribes, their land has also got different colours of seasons and temperature. Its plain and levelled areas and valleys cater for scorching heat during summers. The hilly areas and mountains have also got their sowing seasons, as the great Khushal Khan Khattak said about Swat: Having cold water, fountains, and also snow
Pakistani Literature, 2014
153 Swat has neither got heat nor dust nor sand
ly
Its deserts and sandy areas have got intense weathers too. Especially, there are certain areas in the south which go through extremely hot weather during summers. This hot weather has quite often been mentioned in the Pashto folk literature and folklore. Similarly, the mentioning of cold weather, in the folk literature, during winters also points towards the extremely cold weather. The spring here is most romantic and most suitable for .celebrating the gifts of life.
On
The entire population of the Afghans is lying between Iran, India and the Indus. Their eastern boundary is Kashmir and their western frontier is the Helmand River, which flows near Herat. The distance between these two provinces is around that of two and a half months. Their northern border is Kashkar (Chitral) and the southern frontier is the area of Bhakkar in Barohi Balochistan. The whole land that comes under this surrounding is called Roh.
vie w
When the inhabitants of Roh built their own new abodes in India, it was called Rohailkhand. Sir Olaf Caroe writes in his book titled “The Pathan� about its geological and geographical structure in these words:
Pr e
Geographically, the Pathan country is hard to describe, even with a map. It is best seen as a long narrow fortification running [parallel] in two belts, first a moat and then a rampart, along the line of the Indus which here runs almost north and south, with a slight trend towards the west. Towards the south the rampart stands back much further from the river. Behind the rampart begins the great Iranian plateau, which except through the Suleiman Mountains, has no drainage to the sea. The first belt is made of plains and valleys along the river; the second, standing over the valleys, is great transept of the Suleiman Mountains running southward from its apex in the mighty ranges of the Hindu Kush where they culminate on Tirich Mir. At many points this transept thrusts forward fingers towards the Indus, fingers which even cross the river more than once. Nestling between the fingers are the valleys of which the most beautiful and fertile, as well as largest, is the plain of Peshawar. Further south are other plain-lands, Kohat,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
154 Bannu-Marwat and the Derajat, sometimes known as the Daman, north of Peshawar is no more plains, but a tangle of alpine mountain and valley rising to the snows of the Hindu Kush.
vie w
On
ly
The Suleiman Chain runs roughly north-east and south-west but has many divagations. The most important of these is in the highest part, the Sufed Koh, where it rises in the Sikaram peak north of the Kurram to over 15,000 feet and, running due east and west, forms part of the Durand Line. This escarpment of the Suleiman system is the geographical eastern front of the Iranian world, turned towards India. Across it there has been much ebb and flow, but in the result the Iranian scene, and Iranian man, have spilled beyond this eastern limit and prevail as far as the Indus and beyond – some would say up to Lahore. But to him who approaches from Lahore the unmistakable change of atmosphere is felt, as I have said, at Margalla, forty miles before the crossing of the Indus and close to the site of the ancient Taxila. Here he will smell the scents of the homeland as a voyager putting out from France knows he is in England when he cites the cliffs of Dover. This is the Pakhtunkhwa, the land of the Pathans (Caroe, p. xvii).
Pr e
This is the land of the Rohailas, the Afghans and the Pashtuns, who have been living here since the ancient history. Besides the Pashtuns, other smaller tribes and ethnic groups have also been living on this land for a long time. They came here in different phases of history and inhabited the land beside Pashtuns. Most of them are workers, who were associated with various professions and jobs related to the Pashtun culture. Some of them are from the older generations of the past. Most of them are living in the northern province of Pakhtunkhwa. These workers and professionals lived as the peasants of the Pashtuns. There were no cultural bans on them; this is the reason why the money and assets of the Pashtuns transferred to their hands with the passage of time. Most of these people left their jobs later on and laid the foundation of new families and clans. As long as the Pashtuns were sensitive to the high and low caste issues, they did not arrange marriages and bonds with them so easily. However, the situation changed slowly with the passage of time. The Roh land is the land of the Pashtuns. The Pashtuns deem their land as sacred. Geographically, the Pashtuns’ land is situated at a very
Pakistani Literature, 2014
155
Nobody leaves his land willingly One is either very poor or dejected in love
ly
important junction of the world. According to Sir Olaf Caroe, although this land has been created for the Pashtuns but the inhabitants of this land are not made for this land. “But the land was made for the men in it, not men for the land.� (Caroe, p.xiii) As the Pashtuns, quite often, leave their land and settle in other places, this characteristic and property of the Pashtuns has been mentioned in the folk Pashto literature:
On
He says that this land is like a protective wall on the map of Asia. There are certain passes in this protective wall through which invaders came from Central Asia and started war on the Indian land. History shows that every invader conquered India and Sindh with the support of the army of the courageous and brave youth of Pakhtunkhwa, and thus established their regimes there (Tahir, p.7).
vie w
The Pashtun nation is an old nation of the world. It consists of around four or five thousand small and large tribes and sub-tribes. These tribes settled here even before the arrival of Alexander the Great in 326 B.C. Herodotus also mentions the tribes in his geographical description.
Pr e
It is said that the Pashtuns have got the biggest tribal structure. All these tribes, on the basis of their mutual relationship based on Pashto and Pakhtunwali, are known as a single culture and thus a single Pakhtun nation. Names of some famous Pashtun tribes are as follows: Afridi (Adam Khel, Ika Khel, Kamrai, Qambar Khel, Kooki Khel, Malak Din Khel, Sapah, Zakha Khel), Babar, Babarh, Bajauri, Yatar Kalanrhi, Bangash, Bannusi, Betani, Behramzai, Sokani, Dawoodzai, Dawar, Dilarak, Gadoon, Jadoon, Gandapur, Gawodar, Gharbeen, Ghelzi, Dotani, Suleman KhelGagyani, Dzazi, Khalil, Khaisur, Khattak (Akorha, Barak, Bhangi Khel, Saghri, Tori, Yousafzai (Khattak), Khostwal, Kandi, Lohani (Mian Khel, Dawlat Khel, Tetar), Mehsud, Mkabal, Mangal, Marwat, Meshwani, Mohmand (Lower and Upper), Mohammadzai, Malagori, Niazi, Awrakzai (Ismailzai, Lashkarzai, Masuzai, Dawlatzai Mohmmad Khel, Stori Khel, Ali Khel, Mulla Khel, Mashti, Shekhan), Safi, Samranizi, Shalman
Pakistani Literature, 2014
156 (Mohamand), Shinwari, Sherani, Swati (Pakliwal, Alaye, Tekri, Deshi, Nandhar, Thakot), Tarin, Tori, Ormarh, Astrani, Atman Khel (Ambar, Laman), Atmanzai (on both sides of of Abasin), Wazir (Atmanzai, Ahmadzai).
On
ly
Yousafzai (Mandan, Bayezi, Akozi), Yousafzai (Khado Khel, Bunerwal, Mada Khel, Amazai, Hassanzai, Akazi, Chugharzai), Chamlawal, Zemkhat, Achakzai, Vrhes, Ghezi, Kakar, Kansi, Loni, Mandokhel, Pani (Ali Khel, Musa Khel, Lawana, Aswat), Sherani, Ashtrani, Zmari, and many other families (Hand book for the Indian Army: PATHANS, p.50).
vie w
The Pashtuns are very serious about identity, and the honour of the Pashtuns. This is not an issue of caste because they take great care of their nation, tribe and clan. Members of every tribe deem it their honour to maintain their tribal identity. This may be because the Pashtuns believe in equality. They have a naturally democratic disposition and psychology. This feeling of equality has found an expression in their folklore too, as this proverb shows: “If your donkey is lesser in stature compared to its breed, its ears should be cut off.� (Rohi Proverbs, p. 239) They neither look down upon others, nor do they tolerate to be looked down upon by others. This is the reason why they manifest their tribal identity. Sir Olaf Caroe writes:
Pr e
There is no matter more earnestly debated wherever Pathans assemble, in the village Hujra of the city sarai, in classroom or university, at meals or between companions on the road, than that of the origins of this people, and the relationship of the various tribes, one to another? Discussions are good-tempered but earnestly conducted (Caroe, p.3). Many researches have been carried out regarding the origin of the Pashtuns and different kinds of theories have come forth. The oldest theory is that of the Israel theory which has been in vogue for quite some time. The proponents of this theory have their own historical proofs. One of the theories is that of the Aryan generation, on the basis of which the Pashtuns are considered as one of the Aryan nations. One other theory is that of the original Pashtunism, according to which Pashtuns are a distinct generation. Among all these theories, the classical one is their generational link with Israel. This theory was
Pakistani Literature, 2014
157 common until the twentieth century. This theory originated from Khan Jahan Lodhi and Nimatullah Harawi to the great Khushal Khan Khattak. In this regard, Khushal Khan Khattak says, “Their beauty is sufficiently proved by the saying That they are the descendants of Jacob’s generation.”
vie w
On
ly
Even in the 21st century, there are many proponents and believers of this theory. This tradition started prevailing with the publication of Nimatullah Harawi’s book titled “Mukhzin Afghani” who researched the origin of the Pashtuns in 1612 AD. One of the impetuses behind this research by Harawi seems to be his reaction to the historic dishonesty of historians in the court of the Mughals. These historians, like Mohammad Qasim Farishta and others, had distorted facts regarding the origin of the Pashtuns. The Mughals had got the Indian Sultanate through the support of the Pashtuns, so the people in India thought that the Pashtuns really had the ability to rule. This was the reason why the historians, based inside the Mughal court, in a bid to dishonour the Pashtuns, created doubts about the origins of the Pashtuns. Khan Jahan Lodhi and Nimatullah Harawi did the research and proved that Pashtuns, in fact, belonged to the families of the prophets of Bani Israel.
Pr e
According to this theory, the Pashtuns are the offspring of Afghana, who was the son of Germia. Germia was the son of Sawol who was the commander-in-chief of Suleman, may peace be upon him, and the constructor of the Soloman Temple in 1005 BC. Their forefathers were expelled by Nebuchadnezzar II from Palestine during 600 BC. They, then, settled in Medya and Iran. They started migrating slowly from those places towards the mountains of Ghor, which was situated in the east of Herat and the present day Hazara region of Afghanistan. Here, they were called by the people in the neighboring areas as Bani Afghan or Bani Israel. In 622 AD, when Muhammad, glory and peace be upon him and his followers, was awarded the prophet-hood, and when Islam started spreading very fast in different countries, the invitation of embracing Islam also reached the Pashtuns, in a manner that the Prophet sent Khalid Bin Waleed, may God be pleased with him, to the Pashtuns to embrace Islam. The Afghans welcomed the new religion and
Pakistani Literature, 2014
158 embraced Islam collectively. Their chief, who was named Qais and who was from the 37th generation of Sawol, tied the knot with Khalid Bin Walid’s daughter after embracing Islam. The prophet gave him the title of Botan. The word Botan stands for that strong piece of wood, in a boat, which turns a boat and drives it forward.
On
ly
After embracing Islam, he was named Abdur Rasheed. According to another tradition, it is also held that he was named Fathan, which later on changed into Patan or Pathan. Fathan has been derived from Fatah which means victory. In this manner, Paktiyan or Afghan became famous with a new name and as a new nation. (Hand Book, p.3)
vie w
One other view also holds that at the time, when Alexander the Great was attacking India in 327 BC, then, according to Greek historian Herodotus, the Pashtun nation was present in this region, which they used to call the Paktiyan nation. This rival nation consisted of Apriti, Stagidi, Dadiki, and Gandahari tribes. The present Pashtun nation has been present here since that time. Their real origin ranges from the ancient Aryan nation. Apriti or Apridi lived in Sufaid Koh. Stagidi or Khattaks were based in the base of the Suleman Mountains. Dadiki or Dadi lived in the present day Sistan and in the area between the Suleman Mountains and Kandahar. The Gandaharis were living in the plains or valley of Peshawar on the northern bank of the River Kabul. (Hand Book, p.1)
Pr e
Another view regarding the origin of the Pashtuns is that of the 20th century historians and researchers, according to whom the Pashtuns are one of the Aryan nations, who were living in the Balkh Bakhtar area of Central Asia, some 5,000 years ago. When their population increased, a group migrated westward, another group left for Paras in Iran, one other group travelled along the Indus and reached India, and one other tribe remained settled at its place there. The tribe that stayed at its own place consisted of the same old Aryan Pashtuns. Their language, Pashto, was known as Arek in the beginning. With the coming into being of the Pashtun nation, their language started to be known as Pashto and it is known with the same name even today. Pashto is an old Aryan language and it belongs to the Indo-Iranian branch of the Indo-European languages. (Habibi, p.49)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
159
vie w
On
ly
Pashto contains all the characteristics and traits of the Pashtuns’ national identity, the principles and rules of their collective demeanour, their cultural structure, and the Pashtun character. This language has recorded the complete picture of the meaning of the Pashtuns’ romance, wisdom, and identity in the form of words, idioms, expressions, songs, and folkloric genres, especially proverbs and short poems. This is the reason why the base of the identity of this nation is the Pashto language. The words Pashtun and Pakhtunwali have been derived from Pashto. Since the inception of the Pashtun nation, the Pashto language has turned out to be the guarantor of its existence. Pashto is a very ancient language. Regarding the oldness of Pashto language, Professor Habibi’s view is that “Pashto is a continuous and ancient language between the Iranian and Indian branches of the Aryan languages. We, through many interpretive and historical arguments, declare it as one of the Iranian, not Indian, languages. However, if we consider a branch of Bakhtaran languages as one of the Indian and Iranian languages and dialects, Pashto can be taken as belonging to this group.
Pr e
Pashto has been in this region since 2500 BC when the Aryans were busy travelling to the east and west of Afghanistan. The reason behind this is that this region, even later on too, remained the route for travelling, trade and conquests between the Indian subcontinent, Iran and Turkistan. Both the famous Silk Route and the Noko highway of India pass through this region. So, the Pashtuns had contacts with the people living in their east, north and west. The Aryan nations had come here from the farthest part of other side of the Amu River. They called their former place as Aryaweja; rather this word is still alive with the Pashtuns (Habibi, p.49) Several other arguments and historical evidences by Habibi prove that Pashto is a very old Aryan language and the Pashtun nation has a 5,000 years old history. This nation, which is established on the basis of a language, has been living in their abode forever, and this present country is their own territorial residence. On the contrary, based on political rivalries, such impression is given as if the Pashtuns have come from somewhere else and as if they do not have an ancient history. These rivalries come to the manifest as a result of a prejudice on the part of the neighbouring rivals. However, the fact cannot be veiled through such prejudices, as the Encyclo-Iranika writes:
Pakistani Literature, 2014
160
On
ly
Pashto is an Iranic language, spoken in the south and south-eastern Afghanistan by recent settlers in Northern Afghanistan, Pakistan (N.W.F.P) and Baluchistan, and on the eastern border of Iran. According to the latest estimates, it is spoken by some eight million people in Afghanistan, six million in Pakistan, and about 50,000 in Iran. Pashto is thus the second in importance among the Iranic languages and in Afghanistan the official language, beside Dari. (Encyclopaedia Iranica, Page 516: edited by Ehsan Yarshater, Center for Iranian Studies, Columbia University, New York; vol. 1: Routledge and Kegan Paul, London- Boston 1985)
Pr e
vie w
The fact of the matter is that neither the correct population of the Pashtuns has been given, nor does any other part of this research looks sound. Pashto is, at present, the language of 50 to 60 million Pashtuns. It is a different matter that its proper value and importance, which it deserves, has not been given to it at the government level. During its long and ancient history, it has neither been declared as an official language or the language of the court during the rule of Pashtun rulers, nor has anyone else given it its due right. It has not been given its due right; rather its right has been snatched from it due to political compromises. When the British captured Peshawar, they, in a bid to achieve their targets, showed cruelty towards Pashto. This cruelty was not towards the language only; it was towards the Pashtuns too, because as a result of this cruelty the Pashtun children were deprived of getting education in their mother tongue. This is also considered as a reason for the Pashtuns’ lagging behind that they have never been given the facility of education in their mother tongue, Pashto. Whatever the British did, the same is being done today. Despite the fact that a British Major Rawarti recommended (though for a different purpose) that Pashto should be the medium of education, the public instruction director of the secretary of the Punjab Government wrote in a letter: Even in the frontier districts of Peshawar and the Derajat, where Persian may be considered the vernacular of the educated classes by the masses, I would recommend that Urdu be continued as the Court Vernacular. On the annexation of the Punjab, political motives, I dare say, had a great share in giving the superiority to Urdu over Pakistan, which was commonly used in the Courts in the Frontier and the
Pakistani Literature, 2014
161 desirability of making the union of the wild tribes with the adjoining populations in our territories more complete, and their intercourse more convenient, by the use of a common tongue, is obviously very desirable. All our education efforts tend to this object among others and they will be greatly aided by the currency of Urdu, in all our courts, as the standard language. (Rahman, p. 137)
vie w
On
ly
However, this policy regarding the Pashtuns was not only adopted by the British alone. The only purpose of the British was that since the people in the Frontier are Pashtuns, and Kabul has been their cultural capital for ages, with the induction of Urdu, their faces will be turned from Kabul towards Delhi, and in this manner their annexation with India will become easier. They were aware of the influence of language. Today, if someone in the lower Pakhtunkhwa, Frontier, does not know Pashto, this is due to the efforts of the British. The Pashtuns, themselves, have also not made themselves aware of the power and importance of the language. They did not give due importance to Pashto when they were in power. They did it despite the fact that they were well aware of the fact that language is the only source of their national identity. This was the reason why Bacha Khan stressed a lot on the importance of language when he started his movement. Why did his successors not pay any heed to his mission and why did they not remain true and faithful to Pashto language, Bacha Khan writes in his book:
Pr e
While I was in Kabul, I had an audience with King Amanullah. The king could speak several languages, but he did not know Pashto. During the audience, I said to the king: “There is something I would like to say if you will allow me,” The King said: “Of course.” I said, “What a pity it is that you, who knows so many languages, do not know Pashto, which is your mother tongue and also your national language!” The king agreed with me and soon he began to learn Pashto. (Ghaffar, p.51)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
162 And then Pashto was declared as the official language in Afghanistan for the first time in 1936. However, nobody has addressed, in a proper manner, this complaint by Khushal Baba: Nobody benefitted from the beautiful shawl Pashto is still lying scattered
ly
And neither has this feeling been taken into consideration:
On
We take honour in speaking the same language But why are we not aware of each other’s condition
vie w
And nor did anybody pay attention to Bacha Khan’s sayings. Leave alone others, his own companions, in this movement, followed a different path during the days of their short period in power. In pursuit of their immediate gains in the country’s politics, they, perhaps, forgot this saying of Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan. Bacha Khan had said if a nation loses its language, the nation itself gets lost: A nation is known and recognized by its language; and without a language of its own, a nation cannot really be called a nation. A nation that forgets its own language will eventually disappear from the map of the world altogether. (Ghaffar, p.88)
Pr e
At present, it seems as if this feeling has arisen among the Pashtuns that the real base of their identity is their language. But this feeling will have to be materialized, because the nation has reached a stage in history where it will go behind the curtains or it will have to strike for its durable existence, stability, and survival. This will happen only when someone, at this stage of history, comes forth and calls the nation: When the courtyard of the sky is turned narrow for the stars Not many, just two bows of this kind are needed When the chest of the earth is smashed with a thumping voice Not many, just two prostrations of this kind are needed There will be no dearth of such effective people with the truest Pashtun spirit, provided the demand of the age is kept in view and understood. (Translated from Pushto by Inayatullah Khatak)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
163
Tahir Afridi
Mourning
vie w
On
ly
I saw a poor old woman who was sitting right in the middle of the highway. She was making a hue and cry and seemed to be in mourning. Her cries and wailing were so heartrending that they pierced my heart like a hot bullet fired from a gun. Her dirty and worn out shawl had slipped from her head but she was unconscious of her uncovered head and also the shawl that had fallen. Her hair was dry and parched like waterless, scorched grass and bushes in extremely hot summers. In the completely dried-out pools of her eyes, the two desiccated eyeballs looked like two pebbles. Her face was covered with wrinkled zigzaging lines as if the armies of age, tradition and customs had used it as a battlefield to fight their wars to the full, and as if the spiders of hatred, jealousy and disgust had weaved a great number of webs there. In front of the old woman, there was a clay lamp which neither had a drop of oil, nor it seemed it had ever been lighted by anyone. She seemed trapped in darkness. The old woman’s face, her exhausted lament and sobs showed as if she had been sitting there in mourning for ages.
Pr e
However, her blind eyes, had a faraway look as if she was waiting that someone would come and free her from the chain of darkness. As soon as she felt my presence, she renewed her wailing. She started pulling her hair and beating her head and chest. In her mourning, she reminded herself of all the departed souls.. After a while, when she was calm she started narrating to me her age-old traditional story. But I did not listen to her mourning, her cries and her old traditional story and left her going my way. In a big ground some distance ahead, a large number of women had gathered like herds of sheep and goats, and they were all wailing and crying making the place look like the doomsday ground. These women were surrounded by the darkness of helplessness. In front of these women, clay lamps were lying upside down as if some enemies
Pakistani Literature, 2014
164
On
ly
of light had put out all hope of the future, and kicked these candles in anger and fury. The remains of some unripe and delicate buds and flowers were lying in the form of scattered petals and pieces, and they were lying in the laps and over the shawls of these women. These women looked at the upturned lamps, crushed buds and flowers and they were constantly mourning as if the mutilated body of their beloved, dear father or brother or husband or son was lying in front of them. The heads of these orphans, children, and young and old women were covered with so much dust and ashes as if all of them had been throwing dust and ashes on their heads all their lives. All the women, with their heads uncovered, were mourning but in different ways as if they had been mourning, crying, and lamenting in this way for ages. The pools of tears, in the eyes of these women, had parched completely due to their excessive crying and shedding of tears, as if their fountains of tears had dried up completely. However, the marks of the shedding of tears remained on their pale and scratched cheeks as if Noah’s storm had struck them.
Pr e
vie w
As soon as these widows, bereaved women who had lost their sons, orphans and bereaved women who had lost their brothers saw me, they surrounded me as if I had sorted some way out to free them from the stranglehold of the surrounding darkness of traditions, and illiteracy. Just like the old woman, all these women, renewed their lamentation as soon as they saw me. They wailed and cried so loudly that it alerted the men of the eastern and western villages, towns and cities, and further fuelled the fire of traditional revenge and vengeance in the hearts of these men. Amid their mourning cries, and sobs, these women also told me their stories. “I am a young, orphan and helpless girl.” “I am a bride who was widowed one year after her marriage.” “No sooner I did learn new songs for the marriage of my only brother than I lost him.” “I am a bereaved mother of my son.” “I …” When I looked at all these oppressed and grief-stricken women, I came to know that they belonged to different areas and there was also a difference of centuries in their ages. Their accents were also different. They did not know each other. They were enchained in the
Pakistani Literature, 2014
165 traditions and rituals of different ages as if they had gathered there in that ground on the Day of Judgment. I felt as if the grief, pain, sobs, mourning, and cries of those women, who belonged to different areas, were the same, and as if they were all mourning over a single dead body.
On
ly
“What can I do for you?” I also gathered together all the sweetness of sympathy in my tone and uttered these words in a formal but very soft manner. The women held their breath at this sympathetic and soft tone and they looked at me as if they could not believe their ears. Meanwhile, a beautiful white pigeon fell down on the ground. Both wings of the pigeon were broken and its chest was painted with red flowers. It seemed as if the pigeon had dropped from the claws of a hawk.
vie w
“Just like this pigeon, even if the women of this country get their freedom from the claws of the hawk, they will no more be able to fly,” a woman from among the lamenters said.. I was about to say something when another woman came forward, stood in front of me, and said,
Pr e
“Are you really our sympathizer or are you making fun of us?” This woman, just like the others, had her head uncovered and was mourning. However, she looked a bit different from the other women. I felt as if she was somewhat aware of the new age, and as if she knew that the twenty-first century was about to enter human habitats. On her forehead, a dim light of knowledge and learning was visible. Her tone was somewhat different, soft and orderly just like the people who have been in touch with reading and writing. It looked as if she understood the meaning of every word. Her condition was also as bad as that of the ages-old oppressed lamenters. Her shawl had also slipped down from her head. Her long black hair was covered with dust and ashes. Her eyes were swollen in a manner as if someone had kept her awake from sleep beside her lover. If her round pink face hadn’t been pale due to excessive grief, her head and cheeks would have misled and attracted butterflies, and nightingales would have mistaken her for spring, if the cursed winds of sorrows would not have hit her. Her visible neck under black hair and white face would have looked as if the full moon was about to appear from her chest. But, at present, she was neither aware of her visible neck nor was she
Pakistani Literature, 2014
166
ly
conscious of her black but dry plaits, and nor was she aware of her beauty or her fiery body and intoxicating youth. She was so much trapped in the quagmire of vengeance of her death, which was caused by grief and customs, that she had completely forgotten that part of her life for which anybody could sacrifice his/her life. She, along with these women, had been mourning for centuries. She understood very well how to live her life. Even at that time, she, just like other women, was tied fast to the chains of traditions and customs.
On
“You have a pen and paper in your hand. Are you a writer?” She asked me. “Yes! Yes! I am really a writer,” I replied proudly. “I write the stories of various ages, the stories of people, your story, someone else’s story …” “Lies, white lies,” she rejected my remarks.
vie w
“I am not telling a lie. I am really a story writer,” I stressed.
Pr e
“Then why do not you write our stories, of women who lost their sons, women who lost their brothers and those who are orphans? Why do not you inform the world about our condition? Look at these thousands of women,” she pointed to the women. “These women have been burning in the fire of hatred, jealousy, enmity, hostility, and revenge. Every one of these women has a story of her own. These women are being punished for sins they have never committed. But, the sorrow of all these women is the same. All of them have been burning in the fire of traditions of the same colour. They have been mourning over the same grief. They have been slapping their faces in the same manner and all of them have been suffering. They are born, they grow up to puberty, they get married, and give birth to children, but these children, instead of becoming a source of peace for their eyes, are turned into dry grass that fuels the ovens of the enemies. It means that these women bear children just to fuel the fire for the enemies, as if there is no other utility of these women, and as if these women do not carry any feelings and emotions. Can you write the sorrowful stories of these women? Can you convey to the world our feelings and emotions? Do you have such courage and does your pen have this much strength …?”
Pakistani Literature, 2014
167 That woman said a lot of things with great courage and without any fear but I did not stay any more to listen to her remarks, and I hurriedly moved on my way back. On my return, the same old woman was still sitting there and was busy making hue and cry, but this time she was holding the clay lamp in both her hands like a begging bowl, as if she was begging for something from the twenty-first century.
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
(Translated from Pushto by Inayatullah Khatak)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
168
Pakistani Literature, 2014
ly On
Pr e
vie w
Balochi/Brahvi Literature
170
On
Pr e
vie w
Translators Dr Niamat Gichki Farooq Sarwar Hamza Hasan Sheikh
ly
Authors Mir Gul Khan Naseer Afzal Murad Ghani Parwaz
Pakistani Literature, 2014
171
Mir Gul Khan Naseer
Where is Your Destination? Your chiefs and your masters
ly
Are busy in plundering, They have made you hostages,
On
The basic question is where your destination is. Friends do not waste your lives like blind men,
Do not live like cowards, snatch your rights by force Be courageous and be brave. Naseer through his poetry warns
vie w
And tells you who the thieves and dacoits are, My friends may God protect you.
Pr e
(Translated from Balochi by Dr. Naimat Gichki )
Pakistani Literature, 2014
172
Afzal Murad
Today I Will Go To The Mountains Any fresh information?
ly
Any bright thought? Any novel position? The same old sadness, The same old depression. Any change in miseries? Any shift from crudeness?
On
No new situation,
vie w
Any fresh sorrow? No new pain?
So has life been drab, unchanging Today I will go to the mountains, And climb the highest peak, Screaming aloud
Pr e
I will call people if one has
Fresh news and bright ideas, Can perceive the coming days, He should inform me in the name of God. In the drab old days and dark nights, I am dying, ceasing to live, Thirsty for new views, new signals, Fresh thoughts, new fangled ideas, Bored and miserable,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
173 I feel on fire, Today I will go to the mountains, To call them, for I require a change.
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
(Translated from Brahvi by Farooq Sarwar)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
174
Ghani Parwaz
The Graveyard of Life
ly
When he was totally tired of his life, he went towards the mountains to commit suicide. He was very dark and his deep black skin was the biggest grief of his life. He was brooding about it all the time: “Nobody likes me because of my dark complexion.”
On
When as a child he was sent to school, he thought, “How will the fair skinned children allow a black child like me to learn?” Therefore, he could not complete his education.
vie w
When he needed a job, he thought, “How will the white folk allow a black person like me to work with them?” Therefore he never tried for a job. When the desire to get married writhed his heart, he thought, “Who will marry his fair girl to a black person like me and who will like to marry me?” Therefore, he throttled this desire also.
Pr e
His dark outlook so obsessed him that he wouldn’t step out and ventured out only when absolutely necessary. If at all he had to go to the city he tried his best to go to the least populated and remote areas. Yet he felt that all around people were staring at him contemptuously and making insulting remarks like “See that man over there, how black he is! Look at him?” Therefore, he preferred to go to the city at night but even at that time he went to only less populated and distant areas of the city. He lived in this torture for a time but at last his patience failed him and he decided to commit suicide. He set off towards the mountain to find a high hill to jump from. He found a high cliff after crossing many valleys, mountain brooks, rocks, hills and towers. He was making up his mind to climb the cliff when suddenly he saw a man. When he looked at him carefully, he saw that it was a white man sitting on a big rock by a spring pond. He had taken off his shirt. He was pouring water on his naked body with a mug and was rubbing his body with a stone.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
175
The black man approached him slowly and when he came near him he saw that the white man’s naked body was all covered with blotches and was badly parched. It was a shocking surprise for him. “Hello Mister! What happened to your body?” The black man said expressing his shock.
ly
“Please don’t ask ….” The white man replied in a sad voice.
On
“But please tell me what happened” the black man insisted examining the white man’s blistered body.” “You are seeing my white skin yourself. It looks horrrible. The white man surveyed his body with abhorrence.” “Yes…!” the black man said attentive.
Pr e
vie w
“I hate this ugly body of mine”. The white man put the mug and the stone on the ground. “My body rotted because of these blotches and it was full of puss and insects. I have visited many doctors for treatment but in vain. Now the famous Hakeem of the city has proposed me that I daily visit this fresh water spring, and wash myself and rub the body with stones, perhaps in this way, I might get cured. According to the instructions of the Hakeem, I am washing my body with the water of the spring and rubbing it with a stone every day for the last six months. But still I am unable to get rid of the sores because when old blotches disappear and when the old puss dries up, new puss oozes out and when the old insects are eliminated, a fresh crop is born…” When the black man heard this unfortunate account from the white man, his heart trembled and was seized with fear. This fear grew so much that he was unable to stay there any longer. He hurried to the city and started roaming the streets in the most populated area of the city. (Translated from Balochi into Urdu by Ghani Parwaz, from Urdu into English by Hamza Hassan Sheikh)
Pakistani Literature, 2014
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
176
Pakistani Literature, 2014
ly On
Translation In International Languages
Pr e
vie w
Mosque of Cordova ﻣﺴﺠﺪ ﻗﺮطﺒہ By Dr. Allama Muhammad Iqbal
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
178
Pakistani Literature, 2014
179
(French)
LA MOSQLUÉE DE CORDOUE (Un poème d'iqbal traduit par le Professeur André Guimbretière)
vie w
On
ly
Chaîne des jours et des nuits - sculpteur de l'événement, Chaîne des jours et des nuits - source de vie et de mort, Chaîne des jours et des nuits - fil de soie aux deux couleurs D'où l'Essence de Dieu tisse sa robe d'attributs ! Chaîne des jours et des nuits - ô harpe d'éternité Qui révèle en un soupir le registre du possible, Soumis à son épreuve, toi, Mosquée, et moi, le sommes. Chaîne des jours et des nuits - peseur d'or de l'univers, Si l'on nous juge tous deux coupables d'impureté La mort est ton seul destin, la mort est mon seul partage. Quelle autre réalité possèdent tes jours, tes nuits, Sinon d'être le temps qui fuit hors des nuits et des jours ? Toutes les merveilles de l'art humain sont transitoires, Sans consistance et sans durée sont les travaux du monde ! Au début et à la fin, au dehors et au-dedans, La mort, la mort gît en toute oeuvre ancienne ou nouvelle !
Pr e
Cependant la lumière de la permanence brille Dans ce monument qu'un homme de Dieu a façonné. Par l'amour l'homme de Dieu revêt de splendeur ses actes. L'amour est fontaine de vie que la mort n'atteint pas; Bien que la marée du temps soit rapide et violente L'amour est lui-même un flot qui endigue les marées. Face à l'heure présente, au calendrier del'amour, Bien d'autres temps sont inscrits qui ne portent pas de nom. L'amour souffle de Gabriel et du cæur de Mahomet, L'amour est l'Envoyé de Dieu et le Verbe de Dieu. L'extase de l'amour fait luire le corps de la rose. L'amour est un vin nouveau et c'est la coupe des nobles. L'amour est le chef des armées, le gardien du sanctuaire. L'amour est fils du chemin, ses haltes sont innombrables. L'amour, archet qui fait chanter les cordes de la vie, L'amour est le rayonnement et le feu de la vie.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
180
On
ly
Mosquée de Cordoue !Tu dois ton existence à l'amour. Ignorant le passage du temps, l'amour est durée. Que ce soit cantique du marbre ou musique du Verbe Le miracle de l'art ne s'accomplit qu'avec le sang. Une goutte de sang fait de la pierre un cæurqui bat ; Grâce à ce sang, le son devient brûlure, joie et chant. Par toi, Mosquée s'embrase l'âme et ma voix la consume; Tu rassembles les cœurs et je les emplis de liesse. Bien que l'azur encercle cette poignée de poussière Le cæur de l'homme n'est pas moins digne que l'Empyrée. Si la Forme de Lumière aperçoit l'homme à genoux Que sait-Elle du feu consumant le corps prosterné ? Infidèle je suis, mais vois ma ferveur et ma joie J'ai des louanges dans le cæur, aux lèvres des prières. L'amour est sur ma harpe, l'amour est dans mon langage, Le chant de « Il n'y a que Dieu » circule dans mes veines.
Pr e
vie w
Ta beauté, ta grandeur, témoignent de l'homme de Dieu, Car il fut beau et noble pour que tu le sois aussi. Ton édifice est stable, et tes piliers sont innombrables Comme une mer de palmes sur les sables de Syrie. Sur tes murs brillent les rayons de la vallée heureuse Et Gabriel se manifeste dans tes sublimes tours. Le musulman ne peut être anéanti : son appel A la prière révèle le secret de Moïse Et d'Abraham. Son domaine est sans borne. Le Danube, Le Tigre et le Nil sont les vagues de son océan. Il sait des contes fabuleux. Aux époques vieillies Il apporta le message des nouvelles conquêtes. Porteur de coupe des nobles, chevalier de l'amour, Son vin est du meilleur cru, sa dague de métal pur. « Il n'y a de Dieu » est sa cuirasse ; Il n'y a de Dieu Sinon Dieu » est son seul refuge à l'ombre des épées. Par toi, Mosquée, fut divulgué le secret du croyant : La brûlure de ses jours et l'ivresse de ses nuits, Son sublime accomplissement et ses nobles pensées, Sa joie et sa ferveur, son dénuement et son extase. Car la main du croyant est celle de Dieu même, habile
Pakistani Literature, 2014
181
On
ly
A régir et à æuvrer, créatrice et triomphante. Fait d'argile et de lumière, homme et serviteur de Dieu, Le croyant n'a souci ni de la terre ni du ciel Ses espoirs sont mesurés mais ses desseins sont illustres Il sait le charme des gestes, la douceur des regards. Tendre à l'heure des amitiés mais fougueux dans sa quête Il est en guerre ou au festin pur de coeur et d'action. Au centre du cercle décrit par le compas de Dieu Sa foi donne à ce monde une apparence d'illusion. Etape ultime de la raison, moisson de l'amour, Il n'est dans l'univers ferveur de vivre que par lui!
Pr e
vie w
Sanctuaire de l'Art, splendeur visible de la Foi, Par toi le sol andalou est devenu lieu sacré. S'il est sous les cieux une beauté semblable à la tienne On ne peut la trouver que dans le cœur des Musulmans. Ah !ces hommes de justice ! ces cavaliers arabes, Messagers de haute certitude et de haute politesse ! Ils révélèrent cet étrange secret : la puissance Des hommes de cæur n'est pas d'ordonner mais de servir. Leur sagesse émerveilla l'Orient et l'Occident Et découvrit le chemin tandis que dans les ténèbres L'Europe gisait. De leur sang vit encore une race Heureuse, passionnée, où les fronts portent la lumière, Où les yeux de gazelle existent encore aujourd'hui, Où les flèches du regard pénètrent droit jusqu'à l'âme ! Dans l'air d'Andalousie flottent les parfums du Yémen Et dans ses mélodies passent les échos du Hijaz.
Pour les étoiles ta terre est un Paradis ! Hélas Elle n'a connu de longtemps l'appel à la prière ! Dans quelle vallée, à quelle étape, s'est arrêtée La caravane indomptée de l'amour tumultueux ?L'Allemagne vit autrefois la bruyante Réforme Ne conserver aucun vestige des jours anciens. L'honneur du Pape devint un vocable mensonger ; La barque fragile de la raison fut relancée La France déchaîna le vent de la Révolution Qui redonna l'espoir au monde usé de l'Occident. La nation romaine esclave du culte de l'antique Retrouva sa jeunesse dans le goût du renouveau. Le même désir vit aujourd'hui chez le Musulman.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
182 C'est un secret de Dieu, les mots ne peuvent l'exprimer. Mais contemplez ce qui va jaillir de cet océan Et comment les couleurs vont vivre au dôme de l'azur!
(L'Aile de Gabriel)
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
Un nuage naufragé dans le crépuscule flotte Et le couchant laisse au ciel les rubis du Badakhshân Pour la poignante chanson d'une fille du pays. Sur ses flots la jeunesse emporte le vaisseau du cæur! Eaux fuyantes du Guadalquivir ! Quelqu'un sur la rive Contemplant le passé rêve d'un autre temps. Le monde A venir se cache encor dans les voiles du destin, Mais j'aperçois déjà l'aube dévoilée de ce monde. Si de mes pensées tombait le masque, jamais l'Europe . Ne pourrait endurer le fer rouge Me mon langage. La vie qui ne subit pas de changement n'est que mort. L'esprit d'un peuple survit par la lutte qui rénove. La nation qui toujours fait le compte de ses actes A l'apparence de l'épée dans la main du Destin. Si le sang du cæur manque, l'æuvre humaine est incomplète Et toute musique n'est que désir inassouvi!
Pakistani Literature, 2014
183
)(Arabic
ا ل
On
ly
اﻟﺨﻼﻓۃ ﻣﻦ ﯾﻮم و ﻟﯿﻠۃ ﻣﮭﻨﺪس ﻣﻦ اﺣﺪاث ٰ اﻟﺨﻼﻓۃ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻠﯿﻞ واﻟﻨﮩﺎر ﮨﯽ ﯾﻨﺒﻮع رﺋﯿﺲ اﻟﺤﯿﻮة واﻟﻤﻤﺎت اﻟﺨﻼﻓۃ ﻓﯽ ﯾﻮم و ﻟﯿﻠۃ ﺧﯿﻮط ﺣﺮﯾﺮی ﻧﻐﻤﺘﯿﻦ اﻟﺘﯽ ﺗﻌﺪ ﺟﻮھﺮ دﯾﻔﯿﻦ ﻟﮭﺎ ﻣﻼ ﺑﺲ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺼﻔﺎت ﺗﻌﺎﻗﺐ اﻟﻠﯿﻞ واﻟﻨﮩﺎر ھﻮ ذوی ﺻﺪی ﺳﯿﻤﻔﻮﻧﯿۃ اﻟﺘﯽ ﺗﻄﺮاء ﺧﻼل اﻟﻤﻄﻠﻘۃ ﺗﺪل ﻋﻠﯽ اﻟﻤﻌﻠﻤﺎت ﻣﻦ اﻣﮑﺎﻧﯿﺎت واأان ﯾﺠﻠﺲ ﻓﯽ اﻟﺤﮑﻢ ﻋﻠﯿﮏ اﻵن ﺗﻌﯿﯿﻦ ﻗﯿﻤۃ ﻟﯽ ،اﻟﺨﻼﻓۃ ﻟﯿﻼ وﻧﮩﺎر ﻣﺤﮑﺎ ﻟﻠﮑﻮن وﻟﮑﻦ اذا ﮐﻨﺖ ﻣﻘﺼﺮة ،ﻣﺎ اذا اﻧﺎ ﻣﻘﺼﺮة واﻟﻤﻮت ھﻮ اﻟﻤﺼﯿﺮ اﻟﻨﮭﺎﺋﯽ اﻟﺨﺎص ﺑﮏ واﻟﻤﻮت ھﻮاﻟﻤﺼﯿﺮ اﻟﻨﮭﺎﺋﯽ اﻟﺨﺎص ﺑﯽ ﻣﺎ آﺧﺮ ﺣﻘﯿﻘۃ ﻟﻠﯿﻠﮏ و ﻧﮭﺎرک اﻟﯽ ﺟﺎﻧﺐ طﻘﺮة ﻓﯽ ﻧﮭﺮ اﻟﺰﻣﻦ ﺑﻐﯿﺮ ﻣﺴﺎء اﻟﯿﻮم ٰ وذاک ﯾﻀﻤﺤﻞ ﮐﻞ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻤﻌﺠﺰات اﻷﺑﺪاع ﻋﺎﺑﺮة اﻟﺰﯾﻨۃ ﮐﻠﮭﺎ وﺟﻤﻊ اﻷﻧﺠﺎزات اﻟﺪﻧﯿﻮﯾۃ اﻟﻔﻨﺎء ﻧﮭﺎﯾۃ ﮐﻞ ﺑﺪاﯾۃاﻟﻔﻨﺎء ﻧﮭﺎﯾۃ ﮐﻞ اﻟﻐﺎﯾﺎت و ﻣﺼﯿﺮ ﮐﻞ ﺷﺌﯽ ﺧﻔﯿۃ أو واﺿﺤۃ ﻗﺪﯾﻤۃ أو ﺣﺪﯾﺜۃ ﺣﺘﯽ اﻷن ھﻮ ﮐﻞ ﻣﻨﻈﺮ اﻟﺬی ﻻ ﯾﻤﺤﯽ ھﻮ ﮐﻞ ﺧﺘﻢ ﻋﻠﯽ اﻓﻌﺎل اﻟﺨﯿﺮ واﻟﻌﻈﻤﺎء اﻋﻤﺎل ﺗﺸﻊ اﻟﻌﻈﻤﺎء ﻣﻊ اﻟﺤﺐ وﺟﻮھﺮ ٰ اﻟﺤﯿﻮة اﻟﺘﯽ اﻟﻤﻮت ھﻮ ﻣﻤﻨﻮع اﻟﻤﺲ ﺳﺮﯾﻌۃ اﻟﺘﺪﻓﻖ اﻟﺤﺮ ﺗﯿﺎر اﻟﺰﻣﻦ وﻟﮑﻦ اﻟﺤﺐ ﻧﻔﺴہ ھﻮ ﺗﯿﺎر ﯾﻨﺞ ﺟﻤﯿﻊ اﻟﻤﺪ ﻓﯽ وﻗﺎﺋﻊ اﻟﺤﺐ وھﻨﺎک اوﻗﺎت ﺧﻼف اﻟﻤﺎﺿﯽ واﻟﺤﺎﺿﺮ و اﻟﻤﺴﺘﻘﺒﻞ و اوﻗﺎت اﻟﺘﯽ ﻻ اﺳﻤﺎء ﻟﮭﺎ ﺑﻌﺪ ﺗﻢ ﯾﺴﮏ
vie w
Pakistani Literature, 2014
Pr e
اﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ ﻧﻔﺤۃ ﻣﻦ ﺟﺒﺮاﺋﯿﻞ واﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ ﻗﻠﺐ اﻟﻤﺼﻄﻔﯽﷺ واﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ ﮐﻠﻤۃ ﷲ واﻟﺤﺐ ﻋﻘﺎر اﻟﻨﺸﻮة ﯾﻀﻔﯽ اﻟﻠﻤﻌﺎن اﻟﯽ اﻟﺪﻧﯿﻮﯾہ اﻟﻨّﺒﯿﺬ اﻟﻤﺴ ّﮑﺮ،اﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ اﻟﻘﺪح اﻟﮑﺒﯿﺮ ٰ اﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ ﻗﺎﺋﺪ ﻣﺼﯿﺮة اﻟﻘﻮات واﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ اﺑﻦ اﻟﺴﺒﯿﻞ ﻣﻊ اﻟﻌﺪﯾﺪ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻘﺎم ﺟﺎﻧﺐ اﻟﻄﺮﯾﻖ
184
On
ly
اﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ اﻟﺮﯾﺸۃ اﻟﺘﯽ ﺗﺠﻤﻊ اﻟﻤﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ اﻟﯽ ﺳﻠﺴﻠۃ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺤﯿﺎة اﻟﺤﯿﻮة واﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ ﻧﺎر ٰ واﻟﺤﺐ ھﻮ ﻧﻮر ٰ اﻟﺤﯿﻮة أن ﻧﺤﺐ ﻣﺪﯾﻨﻮن ﻟﮑﻢ وﺟﻮد ﮐﻢ ﯾﺎ ﺣﺮﯾﻢ ﻣﻦ ﻗﺮطﺒۃ اﻟﯽ اﻟﺤﺐ و ھﺬه ھﯽ اﻷﺑﺪﯾۃ ،ﻟﻢ ﺗﺘﺮاﺟﺢ ﻟﻢ ﺗﺘﻼﺷﯽ اﻻﻋﻼم ﻓﻘﻂ ھﺬه اﻟﺼﺒﺎغ،اﻟﻄﻮب واﻟﺤﺠﺎرة ھﺬه اﻟﻔﯿﺘﺎرة ھﺬﮨﮑﻠﻤﺎت واﺻﻮات ﻓﻘﻂ ﻋﻠﯽ وﺳﺎﺋﻞ اﻻﻋﻼم،ﻣﻌﺠﺰة اﻟﻔﻦ ﯾﻨﺒﻊ ﻣﻦ ﺷﺮﯾﺎن ٰ اﻟﺤﯿﻮة ﻟﻠﻔﺘﺎن اﻟﺤﺒﺮﯾۃ ﻟﺸﺮﯾﺎن ٰ ﺗﺘﺤﻮل ﻗﻄﻌۃ ﻣﻦ ﺻﺨﺮة ﻣﯿﺘۃ ﻗﻠﺐ ﺣﯽ اﻟﺤﯿﻮة ّ ﺻﻮت ﻣﺜﯿﺮ ﻻﻋﺠﺎب ﻓﯽ أﻏﻨﯿۃ ﻟﻤﻮاﺳﺎ ﺗﮭﺎ،واﻣﺘﻨﺎع ﻣﻦ ﻧﺸﻮة أو ﻟﺤﻦ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺴﻌﺎدة اﻟﮭﺎﻟۃ اﻟﺘﯽ ﺗﺤﻠﺐ،ﺗﻨﯿﺮ اﻟﻘﻠﺐ ظﻼﻣۃ ﺑﻠﺪی ﺗﻮ ﻗﺪر ﺳﻢ اﻟﻘﻠﻮب ﻟﻮﺟﻮد ٰ اﻻﻟﮭﯽ،اﻧﺎ ﺗﻠﮭﻤﮭﺎ ﺑﻠﻮم ﺗﻌﺎﻟﯽ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻌﺮش ﺗﻌﺎﻟﯽ،ھﻮ ﻋﺮش اﻟﻘﻠﺐ و ﺳﺮطﺎن ﺻﺪر اﻟﺒﺸﺮﯾۃ ﻟﻢ ﯾﻘﻞ ٰ ﻋﻠﯽ اﻟﺮﻏﻢ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺤﺪ ﻣﻦ أزور اﻟﺴﻤﺎء،رﺳﺎﻣۃ ﻟﮭﺬه اﻟﺤﻔﻨۃ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻐﺒﺎر اﻟﮑﺎﺋﻨﺎت اﻟﺴﻤﺎوﯾۃ وﻟﺪت ﻣﻦ ﻧﻮر ﻟﺪﯾﮭﻢ اﻣﺘﯿﺎز ﻣﻦ اﻟﺪﻋﺎء و ﻟﮑﻦ اﻟﻤﺠﮭﻮل ﻟﮭﻢ اﻟﺤ ٰﯿﻮة واﻟﺪف ُء ﻣﻦ اﻟﺴﺠﻮد ﺻﻠﯽ و ﺳﻠّﻢ ﻋﻠﯽ ﮐﺎﻓﺮ ھﻨﺪی اﻟﺼﺪﻓۃ اﮐﻮن اﻧﺎ،وﻟﮑﻦ اﻟﻘﺎء ﻧﻈﺮة ﻋﻠﯽ ﺑﻠﺪی اﻟﺤﻤﺎس و ﱣ اﻟﻨﺒﯽ ﺗﻐﻨﯽ ﻗﻠﺒﯽ و ﺗﻐﻨﯽ ﻟﯽ ﺷﻔﺘﯽ اﻏﻨﯿﺘﯽ ھﯽ اﻏﻨﯿۃ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻄﻤﻮع ،ھﻮ اﻟﻌﻮد ﺑﻼدی اﻟﺤﻨﯿﻦ ﮐﻞ ﻣﻦ اﻷﻟﯿﺎف اﻟﺘﯽ ﻣﻊ ﯾﻤﺘﻨﻊ ﻣﻦ وﺟﻮدی ھﻮ ﷲ
vie w
Pr e
ﺟﻤﺎﻟﮏ ﯾﺎ ﺻﺎﺣﺐ اﻟﺠﻼﻟۃ،ﯾﺠﺴﺪ اﻟﻨﻌﻢ ﻣﻦ رﺟﻞ ﻣﻦ اﻷﯾﻤﺎن،اﻧﺖ ﺟﻤﯿﻞ و ﻓﺨﻢ ﮐﻤﺎ ھﻮ ﺟﻤﯿﻞ و ﻣﮭﯿﺐ اﻟﻤﺆﺳﺴﺎت اﻟﺨﺎﺻۃ ﺑﮏ ھﯽ داﺋﻤۃ اﻷﻋﻤﺪة اﻟﺨﺎﺻۃ ﺑﮏ ﻻ ﺣﺼﺮ ﻟﮭﺎ، ﻣﺜﻞ ھﺬه اﻟﻮﻓﺮة ﻣﻦ اﻟﻨﺨﯿﻞ ﻓﯽ ﺳﮭﻮل ﺷﺎم اﻻﻗﻮاس اﻟﺨﺎﺻۃ ﺑﮏ،واﻟﻤﺪرﺟﺎت اﻟﺨﺎﺻۃ ﺑﮏ ﻣﻊ و ﻣﯿﺾ ﻧﻮر اﻟﺬی ﯾﻮ ﻣﺾ ﻣﺮة واﺣﺪه ﻓﯽ وادی اﯾﻤﻦ اﻟﺨﺎص اﻟﻤﺌﺬﻧۃ اﻟﻤﺮﺗﻔﻌۃ ،ﮐﻞ ﺷﺌﯽ ﻣﺸﺮق ﻓﯽ اﻣﺠﺎد ﺟﺒﺮاﺋﯿﻞ اﻟﻤﺠﺪ اﻟﻤﺴﻠﻢ ﻣﺘﺠﮭۃ اﻟﯽ آﺧﺮ ﮐﻤﺎﻟہ اذان ﯾﺤﻤﻞ اﻟﻤﻔﺘﺎح ﻻﺳﺮار اﻟﺮﺳﺎﻟۃ اﻟﺪاﺋﻤۃ ﻣﻦ اﺑﺮاﮨﯿﻢ و ﻣﻮﺳﯽ ٰ ان اﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﯾﻌﺮف ﻻ ﺣﺪود ﻟہ،وﻟہ اﻷﻓﻖ ،ﻻ ﺗﻌﺘﺮف ﺑﺎﻟﺤﺪود دﺟﻠۃ و ﻧﮭﺮ اﻟﺪاﻧﻮب واﻟﻨﯿﻞ،ﻟہ ﻋﺒﺎب ﻓﺴﺤہ‘ ﻣﺤﯿﻄﯿۃ راﺋﻊ ان ﯾﮑﻮن ﻋﺼﺮه راﺋﮏ،اﻟﺤﺴﺎﺑﺎت ﻣﻦ أﻧﺠﺎزاﺗہ ان ﮐﺎن اﻟﺬﯾﻦ اﻟﻤﺤﺘﺸﺪة و داﺋﻤﺎ ً ﻧﮭﺎﺋﯿﺎ ً ﻟﺘﺮﺗﯿﺐ اﻟﺼﯿﻎ ﺣﺎﻣﻞ ﮐﺄس أﻧہ ﻣﻊ اﻟﺒﻨﯿﺬ أﻧﻘﯽ ﻣﺘﺬوق و ﻓﺎرس ﻓﯽ طﺮﯾﻖ اﻟﺤﺐ ﻣﻊ ﺳﯿﻒ ﻓﻮﻻذ أرﻗﯽ ظﻞ ﺳﯿﻮف اﻟﻤﻘﺎﺗﻞ ﻣﻊ ﻻ اﻟہ ﮐﻤﺎ ﻣﻌﻄﻔہ ﻣﻦ ﻣﻌﻘﻮﻓۃ و اﻣﺾ ﻻ ٰاﻟہ ھﯽ ﺣﻤﺎﯾۃ ﻟہ اﻟﺼﺮح اﻟﺨﺎص ﮐﺸﻒ اﻟﻨﻘﺎب ﻋﻦ ﺳﺮاﻟﻤﻮﻣﻨﯿﻦ واطﻼق اﻟﻨﺎر ﻣﻦ أﯾﺎﻣہ وطﯿﺪ ﻧﻌﻤۃ اﻟﻌﻄﺎء ﻟہ ﻟﯿﺎل اﻟﻤﮑﺎﻟﺤﺎت اﻟﺨﺎﺻۃ ﺑﮏ اﻟﻌﻈﻤۃ اﻟﯽ اﻷذھﺎن ﺳﻤﻮﻟہ ﻣﺤﻄۃ واﮐﺘﺴﺎح اﻟﺮؤﯾﺘہ ﻟہ ﻧﺸﻮة واﻟﺤﻤﺎس واﻟﮑﺒﺮ واﻟﺘﻮاﺿﻊ Pakistani Literature, 2014
185
ly
ﺗﻤﮑﻦ ﻟﺮﺟﻞ ﻣﻮﻣﻦ اﻟﻘﻮة اﻷﺑﺪاﻋﯿۃ اﻟﻤﮭﯿﻤﻨۃ ّ ﻋﺰو ﺟﻞ واﻟﺤﯿﻠۃ واﻟﺒﺎرﻋۃ واﻷرﺿﯿۃ واﻟﺴﻤﺎوﯾۃ ﺟﺎﻧﺒﺎ،ﮐﺎﺋﻨﺎ ﻣﻊ ﺻﻔﺎت ﻗﺎﻧﻊ اﻟﻨﻔﺲ ﻟﺪﯾہ ﻻ ﯾﻄﺎﻟﺐ ﻓﯽ ھﺬا ﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ أو ذاک رﻏﺒﺎﺗہ ﻣﺘﻮاﺿﻌۃ واھﺪاﻓہ ﻋﺎﻟﯿۃ وطﺮﯾﻘﺘہ ﺳﺎﺣﺮة و طﺮﻗہ ﻓﺎﺗﻨۃ اﻟﻨﺎﻋﻤۃ ﻓﯽ اﻟﺘﻌﺮض اﻻﺟﺘﻤﺎﻋﯿۃ،وان ﮐﺎن ﻓﯽ ﺧﻂ ﺳﻮاء ﻓﯽ اﻟﻤﻌﻤۃ أو ﺟﻤﻊ اﻻﺟﺘﻤﺎﻋﯿۃ ،ﻋﻔﯿﻔۃ ﻣﻦ أی وﻗﺖ ﻣﻌﻨﯽ ﻓﯽ اﻟﻘﻠﺐ وﻧﻈﯿﻔۃ ﻓﯽ اﻟﺴﻠﻮک ﻓﯽ ﺗﺮﺗﯿﺐ اﻟﺴﻤﺎوﯾۃ اﻟﮑﻮن ﻟہ ﺛﺎﺑﺘۃ اﻷﯾﻤﺎن ﻣﺮﮐﺰ ٰ اﻻﻟﮭﯿۃ آﺧﺮ،اﻟﻮھﻢ واﻟﺸﻌﻮذة واﻟﻤﻐﺎﻟﻄۃ
On
ﻓﯽ ﺗﺮﺗﯿﺐ اﻟﺴﻤﺎوﯾۃ اﻟﮑﻮن ﻟہ ﺛﺎﺑﺘۃ اﻻﯾﻤﺎن ﻣﺮﮐﺰ ٰ اﻻﻟﮭﯿۃ آﺧﺮ اﻟﻮھﻢ واﻟﺸﻌﻮذة واﻟﻤﻐﺎﻟﻄۃ ﻧﮩﺎﯾۃ اﻟﺴﺒﺐ اﻧہ ھﻮ ﺳﺒﺐ وﺟﻮد و ﺣﺎﺻﻞ اﻟﻌﺸﻖ واﻧہ رﺣﻠۃ ﻣﺼﺪر اﻟﮭﺎم اﻟﮑﻮﻧﯿۃ اﻟﻤﺸﺎرﮐۃ ﻣﮑۃ ﻣﺤﺒﯽ اﻟﻔﻨﻮن،ﻋﻈﻤۃ دﯾﻦ اﻟﻤﺒﯿﻦ اَن اﻷﻧﺪﻟﺲ ﻣﺮﺗﻔﻌۃ اﻟﯽ ﺣﺮﯾﻢ اﻟﻤﻘﺪﺳۃ ﻗﻠﺐ اﻟﺨﺎص ﻣﺘﺴﺎوی ﻓﯽ اﻟﺠﻤﺎل وﺟﺪت ﺗﺤﺖ ﻗﻠﺐ اﻟﻤﺴﻠﻢ و ﻟﯿﺲ ﻷﺣﺪ ﻏﯿﺮ ھﻢ آه! ٰھﺆﻻء اﻟﺮﺟﺎل ﻣﻦ اﻟﺤﻘﯿﻘۃ ھﻮ راﮐﺐ اﻟﻔﺨﺮ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻌﺮﺑﯿۃ ﺻﺎﺣﺐ ﺧﻠﻖ اﻟﻌﻈﯿﻢ واﻟﺼﺪق واﻟﯿﻘﯿﻦ اﻧﮑﺸﻒ ھﺬا اﻟﺴﺮ اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺐ ﺑﻤﻠﮑﮭﻢ اﻟﻔﻘﺮ ﻣﻤﮑﻠۃ اﺻﺤﺎب اﻟﻘﻠﺐ دون اﻟﺮﯾﺎﺳۃ ﺗﺴﺘﺮﺷﺪ ﺣﺼﺎﻓﺘﮭﻢ اﻟﺸﺮق واﻟﻐﺮب و ﻓﯽ اﻟﻌﺼﻮر اﻟﻤﻈﻠﻤۃ ﻓﯽ أروﺑﺎﮐﺎﻧﺖ ﺿﻮء روﯾﺘﮭﻢ اﻟﺘﯽ أﺿﺎء ت اﻟﻤﺴﺎرات ﺗﺤﯿۃ ﻟﺪﻣﺎءھﻢ أن اﻷﻧﺪﻟﺴﯿﯿﻦ ﺑﻞ اﻟﯽ اﻟﯿﻮم طﯿﺐ اﻟﻘﻠﺐ اﻟﺪاﻓﯽ و ﯾﻨﮑﻞ و ﻣﺸﺮق ﻟﻤﻼﻣﺢ ﺣﺘﯽ اﻟﯽ اﻟﯿﻮم ﻓﯽ ھﺬه اﻻرض ھﯽ ﻋﯿﻮن ﻣﺜﻞ ﺗﻠﮏ اﻟﻐﺰﻻن ٰ ﺣﺘﯽ اﻟﯿﻮم ﻋﻠﯽ اﻟﮭﺪف اﻟﻌﯿﻮن ﺗﻠﮏ ﺧﺎرج اﻟﻨﺎر اطﻼق واﻟﺴﮭﺎم اﻟﺸﺎﺋﻌۃ اﻟﺒﺼﺮ ٰ ﻣﻦ ﻧﺴﯿﻢ ﺣﺘ ٰﯽ اﻟﯿﻮم ﻣﺤﻤﻠۃ ﻋﻄﺮ ﻣﻦ اﻟﯿﻤﻦ ﺣﺘﯽ اﻟﯿﻮم ﯾﺤﻤﻞ ﺳﻼﻻت اﻟﺤﺎن ﻣﻦ اﻟﺤﺠﺎز اﻟﻤﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ ٰ ﻧﺠﻮم ﻧﻨﻈﺮ اﻟﯽ اﻟﺪواﺋﺮ اﻟﺨﺎﺻۃ ﺑﮏ ﮐﻘﻄﻌۃ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺠﻨۃ و ﻟﮑﻦ ﻟﻌﺪة ﻗﺮون ﻟﻸﺳﻒ ﻟﻢ أ روﻗۃ اﻟﺨﺎص ﺻﺪی ﻣﻊ ﻧﺪاء اﻟﻤﺆذن وادی اﻟﺒﻌﯿﺪة وﻣﺎ ھﯽ اﻻﻗﺎﻣۃ ﺟﺎﻧﺐ اﻟﻄﺮﯾﻖ ﻣﺎھﻮ ﻋﻘﺪﻣﺮة ﺧﺮی أن اﻟﺠﯿﺶ اﻟﺒﺎﺳﻞ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺤﺐ اﻟﻤﺘﻔﺸﯿۃ اُ ٰ
vie w
Pr e
ﺷﮭﺪت اﻟﻤﺎﻧﯿﺎ اﻻﺿﻄﺮاب ﻣﻦ اﻻﺻﻄﻼﺣﺎت اﻟﺪﯾﻨﯿۃ اﻟﺘﯽ ﺗﺮﮐﺖ أی أﺛﺮ ﻋﻠﯽ ﻣﻨﻈﻮر اﻟﻘﺪﯾﻢ ﺑﺪأت ﻋﺼﻤۃ اﻟﮑﻨﯿﺴۃ اﻟﻤﺮﯾﻤﯿۃ ﻟﻌﺼﺎﺑۃ اﻟﺨﺎطءة ﺧﺮی رﻓﻌﻮا أﺷﺮﮐۃ ﻟﮭﺎ اﻟﺴﺒﺐ ﻣﺮة ا ُ ٰ Pakistani Literature, 2014
186
On
ly
ذھﺒﺖ ﻓﺮﻧﺴﺎ اﯾﻀﺎ ً ﻣﻦ ﺧﻼل ﺗﻮرﺛﮭﺎ اﻟﺘﯽ ﻟﻠﺤﯿﻮة اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺒۃ ﻏﯿﺮت اﺗﺠﺎه ﮐﺎﻣﻞ ٰ ﺷﻮھﺪ روﻣﺎ ﺷﻌﻮر ﻋﺘﯿﻘۃ ﻋﺒﺎدة اﻟﻘﺪﯾﻢ ﺷﺒﺎﺑﮭﺎ اﻧﻔﺴﮭﻢ اﯾﻀﺎ ً ﻣﻊ ﻧﮑﮭۃ اﻟﺠﺪة ٰ ﺳﺮ اﻟﮭﯿۃ اﻟﻌﺎﺻﻔۃ ﻧﻔﺴﮭﺎ ﺗﺪور رﺣﺎھﺎ اﻟﯿﻮم ﻓﯽ روح اﻟﻤﺴﻠﻢ ّ ﻻ ﻋﻠﯽ ﻟﺴﺎن ﯾﻨﻄﻖ دﻋﻮﻧﺎ ﻧﺮی ﻣﺎ اﻟﺴﻄﻮح ﻣﻦ ﻋﻤﻖ اﻋﻤﺎق دھﻮﻧﺎ ﻧﺮی ﻣﺎ اﻟﻠﻮن؟ اﻟﺴﻤﺎء اﻟﺰرﻗﺎء اﻟﺘﻐﯿﯿﺮات ﻓﯽ اﻟﻐﯿﻮم ﻓﯽ وادی اﻟﻄﺎﺋﺮھﯽ ﻏﺎرق ﻓﯽ اﻟﺸﻔﻖ وردی و ﻓﺮاق اﻟﺸﻤﺲ ﻗﺪ ﺗﺮﮐﺖ وراء ھﺎ أﮐﻮام،ﺗﻼل ﻣﻦ اﻟﯿﺎﻗﻮت و اﻓﻀﻞ ﻣﻦ ﺑﺪﺧﺸﺎں ﻟﺴﯿﻄۃ وﮐﺌﯿﺒۃ أﻏﻨﯿۃ اﻟﻔﻼﺣﯿﻦ اﺑﻨۃ رﻗﯿﻖ اﻟﻤﺸﺎﻋﺮ ﻏﯿﺮ ھﺪی ﻓﯽ اﻟﻤﺪواﻟﺠﺰر ﻣﻦ اﻟﺸﺒﺎب اﻟﻮدی اﻟﮑﺒﯿﺮ اﻟﻤﯿﺎه اﻟﻤﺘﺪﻓﻘۃ ﻣﻦ أی وﻗﺖ ﻣﻀﺖ ٰ ﺧﺮی ﻣﻦ اﻟﺰﻣﻦ ﺷﺨﺺ ﻣﺎ ﻓﯽ اﻟﻤﺼﺎرف اﻟﺨﺎﺻۃﺗﺸﮭﺪ رؤﯾۃ ﺑﻌﺾ ﻓﺘﺮة ا ُ ٰ ﻏﺪا ً ﻻﯾﺰال ﻓﯽ ﺳﺘﺎرة ﻣﻦ ﻧﯿۃ وﻟﮑﻦ ﻓﺠﺮ ﻟﮭﺎ وﻣﯿﺾ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺑﻠﺪی اﻟﻌﻘﻮل اﻟﻌﯿﻦ اﻟﺸﺮ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺘﺸﮑﯿﻞ اﻟﺠﺎﻧﺒﯽ ﻣﻦ ﺑﻠﺪی اﻟﺘﺄﻣﻼت ﮐﺎﻧﺖ ﻟﺮﻓﻊ ّ ﺳﯿﮑﻮن ﻣﺒﮭﻮر اﻟﻐﺮب اﻟﺘﯽ ﺗﺄﻟﻖ ﺑﮭﺎ
vie w
اﻟﺤﯿﻮة ﺑﺪون اﻟﺘﻐﯿﯿﺮ ھﻮاﻟﻤﻮت ٰ اﻟﺤﯿﻮة واﻻﺿﻄﺮاﺑﺎت واﻟﻘﻼﻗﻞ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺜﻮرة و اﻟﺤﻔﺎظ ﻋﻠﯽ روح اﻷﻣۃ ھﻮ ﻋﻠﯽ ﻗﯿﺪ ٰ ﺣﺮص،ﺳﯿﻔﺎ ً ﻓﯽ ﯾﺪ اﻟﻘﺪر ھﻮ أن ﺗﻘﯿﻢ ﻓﯽ ﮐﻞ ﺧﻄﻮط اﻟﺤﯿﻮة ﺑﺎﻟﻨﺴﺒۃ ﻟﻠﺨﺎﻟﻖ ﻧﺎﻗﺼۃ ﮐﻞ اﻟﻤﺨﻠﻮﻗﺎت دون ھﻮ ﺳﺮﯾﺎن ٰ اﻟﺤﯿﻮة ﺑﺪون دم اﻟﻘﻠﺐ ﺑﻼ روح اﻟﻨﻐﻢ دون ﺷﺮﯾﺎن ٰ
Pakistani Literature, 2014
Pr e
:ا
187
(Turkish) Muhammed İkbal
Kurtuba Camii
ly
Gece ile gündüz zinciri, hadiselerin görünüş tablosudur, Gece ile gündüz zinciri, hayat ile ölümün aslıdır.
On
Gece ile gündüz zinciri iki renkli ipek ipliğidir sanki, Bunlardan örer zat-ı ilahî kendi sıfatlarının elbisesini.
Ezel sazının tellerinden çıkan feryattır gece ile gündüz zinciri, Bunlarla yapmakta Allah teala tiz ve pes perdelerini.
vie w
Bu beni de seni de kontrol etmektedir, Gece ve gündüz zinciri, kâinatın sarrafıdır.
Senin ayarın düşük, benim de ayarım bozuksa eğer; Ölüm senin fermanındır, benim de fermanımdır. Allah’ım, senin gece ile gündüzünün aslı astarı nedir? Gecesi ve gündüzü olan bir zaman akışı değil midir? ..
Pr e
Geçicidir sanatın da tekniğin de bütün harikaları, Yoktur, yoktur dünya işlerinin kalıcılıkları. Her şeyin önü de sonu da zahiri de batını da fânidir, Yapılan eski de olsa yeni de olsa son durağı yine fâniliktir. Buna rağmen Allah dostlarının eseri olan eşyada, Bir ölümsüzlük bir ebedîlik vardır adeta! Allah dostlarının her işinin olgunluğa gidişi aşktandır. Aşk hayatın ta kendisidir, ölüm ona haramdır. Gerçi zamanın akışı pek hızlıdır her şeyi silip götürmektedir; Ama aşkın kendisi diğer selleri durduran bir büyük seldir.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
188 Aşk takviminde geçip giden asırlardan, Başka zaman mefhumları da vardır adı olmayan! Aşk Cebrail’in nefesi, aşk Mustafa’nın kalbidir, Aşk Allah’ın kelâmı, aşk Allah’ın Peygamberidir! ..
On
Aşk Kâbe’nin fakihi, aşk orduların önderidir, Aşk binlerce uğrak yeri olan bir gezgindir.
ly
Topraktan olan insan aşkın cezbesinden canlıdır, Aşk katıksız bir şarap, aşk cömert bir şarap bardağıdır!
Hayat sazından gelen nağme aşk mızrabının vuruşundandır, Hayatın nuru saadeti aşktan, ateşi alemi yine aşktandır. Ey Kurtuba Camii senin varlığın aşktandır, Aşk büsbütün devamlılıktır, onda fânilik yoktur.
vie w
Renk ya da taş tuğla, saz ya da kelime ve ses olsun hepsi bir, Sanatın harikalığı ciğer kanından meydana gelmesidir! . Ciğer kanıyla taş sütunları gönül olur, Ciğer kanından ses yanış, neşe ve nağme olur. Ey Kurtuba! fezan gönül açıcı, şiirim göğüs yakıcıdır, Senden gönüllere huzur, benden de heyecan ve yanış vardır.
Pr e
Arş-ı Alâ’dan daha kısa değildir, insanoğlunun göğsü imanla dolarsa; Her ne kadar bu topraktan yaratık gök kubbe ile bağlanmışsa da! .. Melekler daima secdede bulunuyorlarsa ne var sanki? Onların nasiblerinde secdelerin yanış ve yakılışları yok ki! Hintli bir kâfirim, aşkıma ve cezbeme bak benim, Salât ve selâma durmuştur kalbim ve dilim! Aşk dilimdedir benim, aşk üflediğim ney’imdedir benim, «Allah hu» nağmesi kanımda, damarımdadır benim. Ey Kurtuba! Güzelliğin ve azametin kahraman bir insanın âlametidir,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
189 Sen güzel ve azametlisin, seni yapan da güzel ve azametlidir. Senin mimarin ebedî, sütunların sayısızdır, Sanki Şam yaylasında hurma ormanı gibidir. Senin çatı ve kapına Sina çölünün ışığı vurmuştur sanki, Yüksek ve güzel minaren Cebrail’in tecelli yeridir sanki.
ly
İslâm milleti hiçbir zaman yok olmayacaktır, Çünkü ezanlarında Musa ile İbrahim’in sırrı tecelli etmektedir.
On
Onun vatanı sınırsız, bütün dünya onun ufku gediksizdir, Denizin dalgaları Dicle, Nil ve Dinyeper nehirleridir. Ne hayret vericiydi o müslümanların devri; Medeniyetleri inanılması güç bir efsane gibiydi.
vie w
Köhne devirlere göç emrini verdiler. Manevî zevk sahiplerine neşe cezbe vermiştiler.
Ve aşkın savaş meydanlarında onlar müthiş süvarilerdi, Onların şarapları tertemiz, kılıçları çok keskindi. Zırhları da «la ilahe illallah» olan erlerdi. Kılıçların gölgesinde sığınakları yine tevhid idi.
Pr e
Ey Kurtuba! sırrı seninle aşikâr olmuştu mü’min’in, Gündüzlerinin vecd, geceleri yanış ve yakılış dolu olduğunu gösterdin! Yüksek olduğunu makamının, ulvî olduğunu hayalini, Aşkını, neşesini naz ve niyazını sen gösterdin. Allah dostlarının eli, Allah’ın elidir; İş becerir iş yapar işi halleder ve galip gelir. İlahî sıfatları kuşanan kul, insan görünüşlü melektir, İki dünyada da kimseye minnet etmez, tok gönüllüdür. Arzuları azdır onun, gayeleri çok yüksektir,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
190 Bakışları gönül okşayıcı, tavırları büyüleyicidir. Onun konuşması sıcak kanlı, hakkı arayışta heyecanlıdır, Sohbet meclisinde de savaş meydanında da mü’min iyi kalbli ve iffetlidir.
On
Mü’min kul, aklın uğrak yeri aşkın ta kendisidir, Kâinat dizisinde meclisin ateşi ve hareketidir.
ly
Allah ehlinin gerçek imanı, Hakk’ın bu dünyaya aksedişidir, Yoksa bu dünya bir efsane, vehim ve sahte oluştan ibarettir.
Ey Kurtuba Camii! Sanat âşıklarının Kâbe’si, İslâm’ın azâmetisin, Endülüs toprağı harem mertebesine çıkmıştır varlığınla senin! .. Eğer yeryüzünde varsa bir benzerin, Müslümanın kalbindedir o da bulunamaz başka yerde eşin.
vie w
Ah! O hak yolcularına; Asil İslâm izindeydiler, Onun yüce ahlâkının, doğruluğunun ve imanının örneği idiler. Şu sade hakikati ortaya koymuştur onların hükümdarlığı; Krallık değil fakirliktir, gönül ehlinin saltanatı. Doğuyu ve batıyı onların görüşleri terbiye etmiştir, Avrupa’nın karanlık çağında onların aklı yol göstermiştir.
Pr e
Bugün bile İspanyalılar onların kanının geliştirdiğindendir, Hoş gönüllü tatlı hareketli açık ve temiz kimselerdir. Bugün bile o memlekette ahu gözlüler pek çoktur, Ve gözlerin okları bugün bile tam yüreğe dokunur! .. Endülüs’ün havasında hâlâ Yemen’in kokusu var, Onun şarkılarında hâlâ Hicaz ahengi var! Ey Kurtuba! Yıldızlara göre senin zeminin gök kubbe gibidir, Binlerce ah! ki asırlardır senin fezan ezansız beklemektedir. İslâm’ı tekrar buraya getirecek aşkın tufan gibi ordusu sert canlı,
Pakistani Literature, 2014
191 Hangi duraklarda, hangi konaktadır, nerede kaldı? .. Almanya dinde reform hareketini, inkılâbını gördü, İnkılâp ki köhne devrin bütün izlerini silip süpürdü... Hıristiyanların papasının günahsız olduğu iddiası çürütüldü; Bu çok nazik fikir gemisi aldı yürüdü.
ly
Fransa’nın da gözü o müthiş inkılâbı gördü, O inkılâp ki Avrupa dünyasını başka bir çehreye döndürdü.
On
Gelişen İtalyanlar da köhne fikirlere tapmaktan vazgeçti, Yenilik lezzetinden o da tekrar gençleşti.
Müslüman ruhunda bugün o devrimlerin dalgalanması vardır, Lisan izah edemez; bu Allah’ın bir sırrıdır.
vie w
Denizde tufan kopmak üzere derinliklerden ne çıkacak bakalım, Gök rengini değiştirecek mi, bekleyip anlayalım! Dağ yamaçlarında bulut gurubun kurnazlığına boğulmuş, Güneş sanki Bedahşan yakutundan bir yığın alev koymuş. Köylü kızın şarkısı sade ve yıkıcıdır, Gençlik devri gönül gemisi için bir sel gibidir.
Pr e
Ey Kurtuba’nın önünden akıp giden Kebîr Irmağı, kenarında senin, (İkbal diye) Biri oturmuş rüyasını görmektedir bir başka devrin. İstikbal henüz mukadderat perdesi altında gizlidir, Gözlerimin önünde onun seheri perdesizdir. Eğer fikirlerimin üzerinden perdeyi kaldırırsam görülecektir, Avrupa benim kehanetlerime tahammül edemeyecektir. Kendisinde devrim olmayan hayat ölüm demektir, Milletlerin hayatı devrim çırpınışlarını gerektirir. Kendini kontrol edebilen her millet hayatta kalabilir, Kaza ve kader elinde keskin bir kılıç gibidir.
Pakistani Literature, 2014
192
Ciğer kanı olmadan her iş eksik ve bozuktur, Ciğer kanı olmadan şairlik de sevdaların en boşudur.
Pr e
vie w
On
ly
(Translated by Yusuf Salih Karaca)
Pakistani Literature, 2014