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Book
Review
Meki
Kuj Na Akh “All
humans have been forced to repress basic instincts in order to survive
with civilisation as it has been constructed. How can civilisation freely
generate freedom when unfreedom has become part and parcel of the mental
apparatus… Surely, no government can be expected to foster its own
subversion, but in a democracy such a right is vested in the people. This
means that the ways should not be blocked on which a subversive majority
could develop, and if they are blocked by organized repression and
indoctrination, their reopening may require apparently undemocratic
means.” (Herbert Marcuse) Hamraz
Ahsan is a well-known figure in the Asian circles of England; an
experienced Urdu journalist, a researcher for documentary film producers
and an authentic Punjabi poet who is equally respected in the Muslim and
Sikh communities of the UK. His
first Punjabi collection “Tibyan uttay Chhawaan” (Shades on Dunes) got
good response from the general readers as well as sceptical critics. He
wrote several short poems on various aspects of the life of Pakistani
immigrants in UK and these poems were collected in a book called “Paar
Samundraan Wallay” (Trapped on the Other side of the Ocean). His most
recent work is a collection of Punjabi quatrains: “Meki Kujh na Aakh”
(Don’t Scold Me) These
short poems draw on the Sufi tradition of Punjabi poetry and they are
composed in the traditional four-line format.
Don’t
scold me The
worthlessness immersed in my soul I
took the leash of the beast within And
collared myself instead
Don’t
scold me I
left both mammon and mother To
take a peek at the firmament I
returned disenchanted, Adam’s brood once
more
Don’t
scold me I
have wept in my dreams Churning
the vat of my heart Hot
tears my only curd
Don’t
scold me I
have worn out my soul For
each act I was given a different costume Made
by the designer, I simply put it on
Don’t
scold me In
the dust before me glint particles of sand In
my sky only darkness reins Stars
are trodden underfoot
Don’t
scold me My
mantra neither Rabb nor Rama I
seek benediction without supplication Clutching
neither Koran nor Gita
Don’t
scold me I
have forged eternal bonds with fire Red
embers caress my palms I,
the baker, whose hand is married to the burning
clay oven
Don’t
scold me I
met my groom in my dotage My
earrings hang loose from my ears My
nose cannot bear the knobbing ornament’s
weight (Translated
by the poet)
To
describe the subversive nature of an authentic artist, Amin Mughal uses
the term “kharaabkaar”. This Persian word denotes a destroyer or a
saboteur, but traditionally this expression has been reserved for
qalanders or wandering dervishes. Some of the quatrains in this book have
direct references to qalanders. Hamraz
negates class and cast, and the lust that is caused by them. But a
distinctive feature of Hamraz’s poetry is his negation of gender
distinction. This aspect may easily be overlooked because it forms the
base of Punjabi poetry and is therefore not obtrusive and hence not
visible. The obliteration of the category of gender turns the poet and the
sufi into the woman, and not merely a woman but, following Dostoevsky,
they become the prostitute the dust of whose feet they kiss with
reverence. To
become a fallen woman is not enough; to think and feel like her is the
ultimate test of the negation of gender, and Hamraz tries to do precisely
the same. A
major role in the formation of inauthentic relations is played by the way
that man employs to see the universe. The way is empirical, rooted in
rationalism, and ultimately the senses. The metaphor for the senses in
Hamraz’s poetry is “the two eyes”. The third eye is needed to
authenticate one’s self. The failure of the third eye to open causes the
elusiveness of what is missing. The poet starts from negation and
reconstitutes his self and ultimately affirms life and the universe, but
on his own terms. It is no accident, then, that Hamraz’s patron saint is
Madho Lal Hussain and the 101 quatrains dedicated to his murshid have
grown on soil of the Punjabi folk tradition. “I
did not follow any particular genre of Punjabi poetry,” says Hamraz.
“The four-line structure came naturally to me, but the words of the
first line (me ki kujh na aakh) were uttered by a woman in Pothohar. I
heard them years ago and somehow they stuck to my mind.” One
unique feature of this poetry book is its dual script: it’s printed both
in Persian and Gurmukhi scripts. It’s worth mentioning that the Lingua
Franca of the pre-partition Punjab was divided into two separate
languages, on the basis of Gurmukhi and Shahmukhi (Persian) scripts.
Speakers of the same language, ironically, are unable to read each
other’s ideas in the written form, and thus the Punjabi literature is
mutually unintelligible across the borders in Indian East and Pakistani
West Punjab.
“The best approach is straightforward translation” During
my recent visit to London, I had a chance to meet the poet. I was
intrigued by the situation in Southall, Nottingham, Birmingham, Leeds or
other diaspora centres in the UK so I asked Hamraz Ahsan: “Do you think
there are better chances in this more educated and liberal atmosphere of
breaking the script barrier?” “I
don’t accept the premise that Punjabi communities are more educated and
liberal in the UK than in the Punjab,’’ he replied. “I migrated to
this country as an adult, but all my children were born and brought up
here in Britain, and the wilful lack of integration between diverse groups
meant that while Hindu, Sikh and Muslim children may have been friends at
school, intermarriage between these religions means ostracism for both
parties. Anecdotally, most of the young Punjabis I know — Sikh, Hindu or
Muslim — do not read either script, even if they’re fluent orally. The
similarities of language mean a close bond of friendship but friendship is
not the same as a desire to read extant literature of either group because
this would require a level of educating oneself that is barely there for
the English language, let alone for either scripts of the Punjabi.” If
that’s the case, why did he take the trouble to publish his poetry in
both scripts? “Because most of my friends and readers in East Punjab,
Europe and North America, cannot read the Persian script,” he replied. The
status of Punjabi language in the Pakistani Punjab is quite enigmatic:
there are hundreds of Sindhi medium and Pushto medium schools in Pakistan
but not a single Punjabi medium school in the whole country. “What’s
your take on educating Punjabi children in their mother tongue?” Hamraz
looked at me rather helplessly, as if I had put him a very unexpected
question. “Well, I’m a Punjabi poet, but not an activist; this
question should be asked of those who have been working for the cause of
Punjabi.” We
move on to a less political question. Shahmukhi (Persian) script is not
hundred per cent phonetic and Gurmukhi is associated with the Sikh
religion; in this situation, can Roman script be a way out? If not, what
else can be done to enable the Punjabis across the borders to read each
other’s literature? “I think that would be an inelegant solution,”
comes the answer. “To me, the best approach is straightforward
translation. While it is easy to become dazzled by the thought that it is
the same language in two distinct scripts and we want logically to bring
about one that crosses borders; it isn’t resolved by learning a third
set of phonetic symbols. Before long each group would be bemoaning the
endangerment of their own scripts as youth are always game for learning
the easiest way out, in this case Roman script. “In
a lesser form, good publishers edit books for American English and idioms
when presenting a UK or Australian text in the States. Publishers should
just accept the need to pay translators to do the same for texts crossing
borders within the Punjab,” he concluded. • [The
News on Sunday, Lahore. 15 April 2012
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These
quatrains are preceded by a detailed, and rather philosophical preface,
titled “Khraabkaar di teeji akkh” (The Third Eye of the Subverter),
masterfully written by