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review A
dreamer of exquisite fancies Essay
review Melay
Kay Intzar Mein Ruki Howi Zindagi By
Mumtaz Shaheen Publisher:
Leo Books, Blue Area, Islamabad. Pages:
310 Price:
Rs 425 You arrive at the railway
station and go towards an old Banyan tree which is standing there for ages.
As you walk past the old tree, it starts whispering to you, and you are
simply wonderstruck. The tree has inherited many a secret over the years as
it has been silently watching many generations taking solace under its balmy
shade. Thus, the old tree starts sharing with you its secrets of the times
that are long gone. You head towards your destination and there are more
surprises in store for you. The village where you stay embraces you with open
arms and the aroma of the village soil mesmerises you. Everything seems to be
conversing with you: the animals, birds, and even the old well of the
village. Nature is purely sublime and you happily allow yourselves to merge
with it. The paragraph above is how
Mumtaz Shaheen likes to write stories, with a deftness one rarely finds in
one’s debut book. Melay Kay Intizar Mein Ruki Howi Zindagi is Shaheen’s
maiden collection of short stories and it took her a long time to publish it.
Shaheen, perhaps, thought that in fiction it is patience which pays you back.
So, now, when she is comparatively free of any financial responsibility, she
has undertaken the giant leap at last. Mumtaz Shaheen appears to
be a teller of stories without any pretensions of championing any sort of
cause or ideology. She is a story-teller through and through. She does not
pay court to anyone and focuses all her energies to write stories which are
morose, sardonic, and at times trenchantly sharp. That’s why she warns you
when the title of one of her story reads, “Iss Kahani Ko Bewuzu Parhein”.
The story is a pitiless indictment of the so called custodians of morality
who are playing havoc with our society. Shaheen, however, does not rely on
sensationalism and lets the reader judge by themselves. She seems to be a
bystander in her stories, believing utmost in the power of the narrative
instead of arm twisting her characters to submission. Shaheen’s characters know
well that they are living in suffocating times but yet they continue to sing
sweet lullabies. One of her characters plays the flute to weave eternal songs
of love and separation on a hilly platitude. The flute becomes the symbol of
love as well as resistance and soon the moral brigade springs into action and
the enchanting songs stop playing in the scenic beauty of mountains. Shaheen also seems to be
deeply interested in the art of painting as one notices that her pen is
filled with colours instead of ink. She does not apply flamboyant and harsh
colours on the canvas; rather she uses light colours and creates quite a
delectable portrait. As far as her prose is
concerned, one feels as if one enters into a dense forest where one sees the
beauty of the nature at its most ethereal. There is lyricism in her prose
which suits the locale where her characters find themselves in. Quite often,
you find her characters in surreal environments where they are trying to come
to terms with the strange ambience. There is another trait of
Shaheen’s fiction which needs to be discussed. She is not willing to tag
herself as a writer who writes with a “feministic” angle only. She is
aware of the plight of the women in our society, and her stories amply
reflect this malaise quite vividly, but she does not spew venom against all
males of the society In Shaheen’s stories, we
find that her female characters continue to shower love despite many ups and
downs. They complain and murmur and at the same time, but they like
to hold the thread of love come what may. “Family Tour Se Pehlay” is one
such story where we see the life of a couple gone awry. Perhaps, most of
Shaheen’s female characters are introvert by nature and that’s why they
are less demanding. Publisher’s
site http://isbndb.com/d/publisher/leo_books.html
A
dreamer of exquisite fancies Iqbal By
Attiya Begum Publisher:
Oxford University
Press, 2011 Pages:
150 Price:
Rs 495 A few months back, while
finalising my report on text book analysis “What are we teaching to our
Children”, I had a chance to check a few statements given in the quotes in
text books being taught in public schools. In the process, I discovered that
the famous Allahabad address of Allama Iqbal was twisted in its Urdu
translation just to reinforce anti-Hindu and pro-Islamic sentiments in text
books. I checked the original version in a book published by the Iqbal
Academy, Lahore “Speeches, Writings, and Statements of Iqbal”, compiled
and edited by Latif Ahmed Sherwani and first published in 1944. The address,
a 19 page document, is no doubt a piece of scholarship and worth a read even
in the 21st century. The whole document is not only a proof of Iqbal’s
profound vision, his philosophic outreach, and strategic depth but also
reflects his command on time and space, keeping in mind the ground realities
of his era. I almost went into a shock
as to how Iqbal’s supporters and opponents had downplayed his true caliber.
Meanwhile, I found a reprinted edition of Atiya Faizi book Iqbal, published
by OUP, edited and annotated by Rauf Parekh and introduced by Fateh Muhammad
Malik. It consists of 10 letters written by Iqbal to Atiya Faizi. In the post
9/11 world, these letters have a great value in understanding Iqbal and his
liberal progressive thinking. It reminded me of how in the mid-1980s, a
section of liberal progressive Pakistani intellectuals discovered
Quaid-e-Azam’s August 11, 1947 speech. In my view, in order to understand
the legacy of liberal progressive thought among the Muslims of Hind-Punjab,
it is important to read the complete text of Allahabad address as well as the
letters written by Iqbal to Begum Faizi. There is a debate regarding
origin of Faizi’s family, her father Hassanally Effendi and her painter
husband Samuel Faizi Rahamin, a Muslim with Jewish background. Mrs. Faizi
wrote a book on Iqbal in February 1947 in Bombay, six months before
Pakistan’s creation. Her book was translated into Urdu, yet a majority of
young Pakistanis are unaware about Faizi and the letters written to her in
early twentieth century by none other than Iqbal himself. After partition
both husband and wife migrated to Pakistan and lived in Karachi till their
death in the 1960s. Faizi was born on January
1, 1887, in the capital of Ottoman Empire, Istanbul. The city that has a
history like Lahore has remained capital for numerous empires — Roman
Empire, Byzantine Empire, Latin Empire and Ottoman Empire. Currently, it is
the capital of Turkey. Effendi, Effendy or Efendi was a title of respect or
courtesy, equivalent to the English ‘Sir’, used in the durbar of Ottomans
and hence her father’s name. While studying at a teachers’ training
college in London in 1906-7, Atiya Faizi also kept a travel diary that
published as Zamana-i-tahsil (A Time of Education) in 1921. Following her
marriage to artist and writer Samuel Rahamin in 1912, Faizi pursued a variety
of cultural activities on the international stage. Among her collaborative
works was an authoritative book in English on classical Indian music that
ultimately went into three editions: Indian Music (1914), The Music of India
(1925) and Sangat of India (1942). She was a beautiful singer too. German scholarship was not
only critical towards British scholarship but also not ready to treat East
and West as two separate entities. Iqbal was also inspired by the German
scholarship. Out of those 10 letters written by Iqbal to Begum Atiya, 9 were
written in 1907-1910, while the last one is written at May 29, 1933 from
Lahore. According to the editor “In 1906, Atiya Begum received a
scholarship to study in England where she met Iqbal in April 1907, at Miss
Beck’s London residence”. Iqbal sent her a letter from Trinity College
Cambridge on April 24, which is also included in the book. In all these
letters Iqbal not only commented about international politics and
geo-politics but also supported the idea of continuity of wisdom and
knowledge as a common heritage of human beings. You will find a different
Iqbal in this book that is talking about music and singing. Atiya
wrote about a discussion initiated by Professor Arnold at a picnic party
regarding problems of death and life. “When the discussion became one of
hazy arguments, Professor Arnold turned to Iqbal and asked what he had to say
on the subject. Iqbal, who had maintained a complete silence up to now,
replied with a cynical smile, ‘Life is the beginning of death and death the
beginning of life’. This brought the discussion to a conclusion”. In another incident, the
author reports: “Dr Ansari entertained us with songs, Lord Singha’s
daughters with music and Iqbal with extempore compositions of clever and
witty verses refraining to almost every important guest present by making
execrated remarks about their particularities, sending us all into roars of
laughter.” You can find a mixture of laughter, scholarship and respect, yet
this Iqbal is rarely depicted in our text books and media. Even opponents of
Iqbal believed in the Iqbal of textbooks and did not try to find the real
Iqbal. In his latest book, Imran Khan has also tried to find Iqbal but he
too, it seems, failed to follow the liberal progressive legacy of Iqbal.
Fateh Muhammad Malik seems uneasy while writing the introduction and said
“But these were just a few leisurely moments in a young student’s
life”. Mr Rauf Parekh’s editing
is a little faulty at times. An example is the editor’s note about
explanation of Iqbal’s verses regarding end of partition of Bengal written
in 1911. Taj-e-Shahi yanni, Calcatty sey dilli aa gaya Mil gayee babu ko jotti, Aur pagri chin gayee Atiya had better
understanding than the editor so she explained it at Page38 as “The Bengali
think he has scored a great point, little thinking that his importance has
hereby been reduced to zero point”. But the editor at Page 116 failed to
explain the hidden imperial politics as depicted in that verse. The verse was
not only a satire on the British policy but was also a proof of political
wisdom of the visionary; yet under the influence of the so-called freedom
struggle often missed the punch line.
Fifty-six
years ago this month, City Lights Books debuted Allen Ginsberg's Howl
and Other Poems - a collection of ranting, ecstatic verses that challenged
the conservatism of Eisenhower-era America. Within a year of its publication,
"Howl" had become the focus of an obscenity trial that ultimately
redefined the limits of free expression in America. Considered by many to be
a triumphant literary precursor to sixties counterculture and youth
rebellion, Howl went on to sell over more than a million copies and influence
a generation of poets. Fifty-six years removed
from the social constraints that made it seem scandalous in 1956, Ginsberg's
poem has become a victim of its own success - a quaint reminder that profane,
stream-of-consciousness verse is no longer shocking or significant. Written
as a Whitmanesque ode to id in an era of repression, "Howl" now
brings to mind reality-TV programming - a drug-addled, homoerotic variation
of "Jackass," wherein Ginsberg gleefully recounts how he and his
Ivy League buddies slummed it with the impoverished and the insane,
"burned cigarette holes in their arms," "walked all night with
their shoes full of blood," "jumped in the filthy Passaic,"
"threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers," and "threw up groaning
into the bloody toilet." No doubt "Howl"
will continue to be recognized as an essential twentieth-century poem, but if
we aspire to recognise the anniversary of a Ginsberg poem that still seems
relevant and challenging, we should fast-forward ten years to 1966, when the
iconic Beat poet penned "Wichita Vortex Sutra" - an antiwar lament
that carries an observational honesty not present in the MTV din of
"Howl." "Wichita Vortex
Sutra" originated as a kind of proto-podcast that Ginsberg intoned into
an Uher tape recorder while traveling across the American heartland in the
winter of 1966. Though the language of the poem is specific to the Vietnam
War (which was escalating at the time), it certainly speaks to the conditions
of 2012 - not only in its refrain about how empty language started, but
cannot end, a military action, but also in its riff on the contradictions
between distant Asia and the Middle American conservatism that has enabled a
war there; in its alarm at the numbing impact of global telecommunications
and the media preoccupation with statistics; in its despair at the
hypocritical politicians and corporations that are profiting from the war.
Fragments of the poem first appeared in the May 27, 1966, issue of LIFE, and
the full text later debuted in a City Lights "Pocket Poets"
collection entitled Planet News. Ginsberg's journey to
Kansas, which he undertook in a Volkswagen van purchased with Guggenheim
grant money, stemmed from his long-standing fascination with the state (in
"Howl," he mentions Kansas as the place where "the cosmos
instinctively vibrated at their feet"). In one sense, Ginsberg felt that
Kansas was politically representative of Middle American support for war and
the military-industrial complex - a stereotype that presaged its current
"red state" reputation by several decades. But beyond political
generalisations, Ginsberg saw Kansas as the mystic center of America,
celebrated by Whitman in Leaves of Grass ("chants going forth from the
center, from Kansas, and thence equidistant / shooting in pulses of fire
ceaseless to vivify all"). The poet saw Wichita, the ultimate
destination of his road-trip poem, as the symbolic heart of this
transcendental American vortex. In the early verses of
"Wichita Vortex Sutra," Ginsberg makes his way south into Kansas
from Nebraska, juxtaposing images of the Great Plains landscape with
fragmented media reports about the distant war in Vietnam. Reciting the
bloodless newspeak that will sound familiar to anyone who's followed the
current Iraq War (vague phrases like "tactical bombing" and
"limited objectives"); Ginsberg eventually grows impatient,
dismissing official military body counts as "the latest quotation in the
human meat market." One early section in particular sounds eerily
familiar: Aiken Republican on the
radio 60,000
Northvietnamese troops now
infiltrated but over 250,000
South Vietnamese
armed men our Enemy - Not Hanoi our enemy Not China our enemy The Viet Cong! McNamara made a "bad
guess" "Bad Guess?"
chorused the Reporters.
Yes, no more than a Bad Guess, in
1962 Ginsberg is referring to
former Vermont Senator George Aiken and Johnson-era Pentagon chief Robert
McNamara - but he just as well could be referring to Joe Lieberman and Donald
Rumsfeld. Substitute a few more terms - "Arabs" and
"Muslims" for Hanoi and China; "insurgents" for the Viet
Cong; "2003" for 1962, etc. - and this section could read like a
recent transcript from CNN or FOX News. As Ginsberg continues his
southward journey to Wichita, his poem notes the stunted attention span of
mass media, mixing the empty language of war ("Rusk Says Toughness /
Essential For Peace"; "Vietnam War Brings Prosperity") with
the noises of advertising and entertainment ("the honkytonk tinkle / of
a city piano / to calm the nerves of taxpaying housewives of a Sunday
morn"). Television images, which reduce everything to shorthand of
analogy and synecdoche, gloss over the human suffering ("electric dots
on Television - / fuzzy decibels registering / the mammal voiced howl / from
the outskirts of Saigon to console model picture tubes"). Just like
"terrorism" (another nine-letter word) has become an incantation
that aims to blur all manner of failures and lies by "inferior
magicians" within the Bush administration, the word
"Communism" was central to the alchemical formula for Johnson-era
spin and manipulation - a drab reminder that language could obscure truth as
readily as express it. Despairing at the idea that
the power of poetry was being lost in a sea of proliferating and
contradictory language, Ginsberg invokes icons of transcendence - Christ,
Allah, Yaweh, William Blake, various Indian holy men - to help him reclaim
language for its higher purposes. Sixty miles from Wichita, having been
"almost in tears to know / how to speak the right language,"
Ginsberg calls these "Powers of imagination / to my side in this auto to
make Prophecy." In using explicitly
Whitmanesque language to make his startling assertion - that war can be
declared over by the powers of poetry - Ginsberg's apparent aim is to reclaim
American language for the exuberant vision set forth in Leaves of Grass. But
instead of ending on this powerful and triumphant note, the poet brings us
back into the mundane reality of his surroundings - a "stop for tea
& gas" near Florence; a Bob Dylan song on the radio; his continuing
journey past "populaces cement-networked on flatness." As he drives
the final stretch into Wichita, the dull onslaught of empty language
continues, "now in black print / daily consciousness": death tolls,
battle statistics, political leveraging. Amid the euphemistic vagueness of
war-operation nomenclature ("Harvest Moon last December";
"Operation White Wing near Bong Son"), the poet inserts a sad
refrain - "Language language" - that is repeated seven times in
less than a page. Thus, moments after
Ginsberg appears to be trumpeting Percy Bysshe Shelley's assertion that
"poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world," he quietly
concedes to W. H. Auden's notion that, politically at least, "poetry
makes nothing happen: it survives / in the valley of its own making." In a way, Ginsberg is
inverting the rhetorical technique that the Athenian statesman Pericles used
in his Peloponnesian War funeral oration (cribbed later by Lincoln for the
Gettysburg Address): Poetic language cannot properly commemorate the horrors
of war, sure - but more alarmingly, it has been diluted to the point where it
has lost its effectiveness in preventing those horrors in the first place.
Consequently, "Wichita Vortex Sutra" reads like a prophetic and
final antiwar poem, an elegy for the power of language in an age of competing
information. Because Ginsberg's
revelations are difficult - because they seem to question the potency of
poetry - it's no surprise that the 50th anniversary of "Wichita Vortex
Sutra" was ignored, despite the poem's jarring relevance to the current
American landscape. Instead, the poetry
community will continue to focus on the anniversary of "Howl" - not
just because fifty is a rounder number than forty, but because it's more
enjoyable to celebrate the First Amendment triumph of an old sex-and-drugs
anthem than wrestle with a poem that reminds us of our own limitations. An
exceprt from The AntiWar Poem by Rolf Potts published in Believer magazine
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