Kaise Kaise...

At school, an inevitable – and difficult - question in the English exam was to differentiate between similar sounding words – eminent/imminent, insolent/indolent and the like. Now before you start googling those words, let me tell you what I’m getting at.

Urdu poetry too has similar sounding ghazals, complete with matching rhyme, metre and even words. Even diehard aficionados get confused, often merging the couplets of one with those of the other.  That the poetry was written by different poets over different eras, matters little.

Consider the lines ending with the words `kaise kaise’ in two prominent ghazals as a case in point.

Aatish

The first is by Khwaja Haider Ali `Aatish’ (1778-1848).  He rues the changing of the times, the total effacement of the greats in a Shakespearean `How have the mighty fallen!’ tone.  Note the lines

Na gor-e-Sikandar hai na qabar-e-Dara


Mite naamion ne nishaan kaise kaise

I felt much the same sentiment on a trip to Alexandria, where we tried tracing the tomb of Alexander the Great. Imagine, he conquered half the world, and has left behind not a trace of where he lies buried. Again, to quote Shakespeare..

The scepter, learning, physic must

All follow this, and come to dust..

Here’s Aatish’s ghazal, and my version..

Dahan par hai unke guman kaise kaise


Kalaam aate hai darmiyan kaise kaise

His face inscrutable, expression unbeknown

Words only add to the doubts he has sown

Zameen-e-chaman gul khilati hai kya kya


Badalta hai rang aasman kaise kaise

The earth alters hues from autumn to spring

What moods do the changing skies too bring

Na gor-e-Sikandar hai na qabar-e-Dara


Mite naamion ne nishaan kaise kaise

No grave for Darius, nor Alexander’s tomb

Such glorious names, now back in the womb

Bahr-e-gulistan ki hai aamad aamad


Ke phirte hai khush baghbaan kaise kaise

As spring forces buds to open up in bloom

It’s gardeners that strut, jump up and swoon

Tawajju ne teri hamare maseeha 


Tawana kijiye natwan kaise kaise

A glance from our saviour has so often sent

Our spirits soaring, though broken and bent

Dil-o-deeda-e-ahl-e-aalam mein ghar hai


Tumhaare liye hai makaan kaise kaise

You live in our hearts, our minds and our eyes

Abodes that are humble, but only in size

Gham-o-ghurse-o-rang-o-andoh-o-hirman


Hamaare bhi hai mehrbaan kaise kaise

Sadness, grief, gloom and despair

Like lovers have loved me, with o’ so much care

Kar jis qadr shukr-e-naimat woh kam hai


Mazaa loot ti hai zabaan kaise kaise

Yet how does one thank Him, words always fail

The mellifluous tongue does tell its own tale

Amir Minai

Now let’s take the next ghazal by Amir Minai (1828-1900). Amir is more famous for the `Sarakti jaye hai rukh se naqab aahista aahista’ made popular by Jagjit Singh.

But in this poem, he talks more of how us humans (the earth) will always be beholden to the Almighty/Heavens (the skies), so much so that the Heavens, in their inexorable ruthlessness have `gobbled up’ the earth – zameen kha gayi aasmaan kaise kaise..  

The tone is a tad defeatist, as in the end he tells himself that solace may only be found in the madeena, the mosque – if you can’t beat the system, you join it..??

Here is Minai’s poem, and my version..

Hue Namwar Be-Nisha'n Kaise Kaise,

Zamee'n Kha Gai Aasma Kaise Kaise..

Such glorious names, all effaced by time

The earth bows its head to skies sublime

Na Gul Hai Na Boote, Na Gunche Na Patte,

Hue Baag Nazr e Khiza'n Kaise Kaise..

No flowers, no leaves, no petals we seek  

Desolation, despair, wretchedness so bleak

Sitaro Ki Dekho Bahaar AANKH Utha Kar,

Khilata Hai Phool Aasma Kaise Kaise..

Yet the stars will shine as bright as the day

Like flowers that blossom in every which way

Jigar Me Tadap, Dil Me Dard, Aankh Me Nam,

Mile Hai Hame Maihmaa'n Kaise Kaise..

Heart full of sorrow, eyes brimming with tears

With such bountiful gifts, my life has no fears

'AMEER' Ab Madeene Ko Tu Bhi Rawa'n Ho,

Chale Jate Hai Kaarwa'n Kaise Kaise..

To the mosque, I too must now wend my way

Each caravan must lumber along everyday..

Epilogue

And how could Bollywood keep its hands off such inspiring words? In the 1967 adaptation of Arthur Miller’s `Death of a Salesman’, Nasir Husain got Majrooh to pen these soulful lyrics against a desolate Rajesh Khanna job hunting through Bombay’s heartless streets, in `Baharon ke Sapne’..

Zamaane ne maare jawan kaise kaise

Zameen kha gayi aasmaan kaise kaise..

2015 : A Space Odyssey

Of course we all need our space. Anybody squeezed into the middle seat on an aircraft will tell you that. Particularly if he happens to be squeezed between Oliver Hardy and Hulk Hogan!

I first realised I needed space when appearing for my Part `B’ exam, and the guy behind me kept kicking me on my calf, wanting to know the full form of the acronym LASER. I tried to stage whisper `Light Amplification by Simulated..’ but he cut me off with a `Chhod yaar, zara multiple choice bata!’

He happened to be my neighbour, and had burnt the midnight oil in gallons preparing for the exam, while I had spent the hours pacifying a wailing, bawling six month old daughter! So one would have thought it would have been me seeking his help, but then he was a true blue Infantryman!

Growing up in a household of five siblings in two rooms, space was not a luxury one could even think of. And I’m sure that if I had ever asked my parents for `space’ they’d have wondered what that was – O ki hunda ae??

So when a precocious 13 year old Cherie puts up a poster on her Facebook page asking for - what else, space - I’m more than delighted! Of course, her dad, the man mountain Sid Khullar is busy rolling up his sleeves, ready to pounce on the first `guy’ who trespasses into the space little Cherie’s screaming for! But that’s another story, dads will always be dads!

Would Sid, I wonder, be tempted into taking a peek into Cherie’s WhatsApp timeline, to `monitor’ the goings on in her life? You know, just in case? Being protective, right? I mean, surely that would be ok? No??

I should think not.

In a similar scenario, I once found I had access to my daughter’s laptop, and she happened to be going through a rough patch. God, how I wanted to protect her! Yet, I had steeled myself, and refrained from taking a peekaboo. If there was something she wanted me to know, I reasoned, she’d tell me herself!

But let’s be honest, that’s more the exception than the rule these days. Suspicious spouses thrive on opportunities to grab smart phones that have been carelessly left lying around, and gleefully pounce upon messages that have been left carelessly undeleted.

The more despicable ones even hire professional hackers to hack into their spouse’s e-mails and chats. The fact that they’re actually killing the very relationship they’re trying to `protect’ is of little consequence to them!

Most of them have a `dog in the manger’ attitude. If not me, then nobody else!

Most of my generation, of course, are technologically challenged. In the days of NSA level snooping, and sophisticated privacy invasion techniques, the simple expedient of passwords, and `touch ids' no longer guarantees you space.

So what’s the solution?

Simple. Either be very careful, or adopt a `hell with you’ attitude to all invasions into your private space! Remember that people will hurt you only if you give them the capacity to do so!

My first advice to little Cherie is, welcome to the real world, my dear! What you ask for is a commodity that’s scarce to come by. These days. But the very fact that you ask for it is heart warming. It gives me hope. It bodes well for the future.

For if you ask for it, you will surely give it to others, will learn to respect it.

And the chest thumping pride with which your dad has posted your plea on his Facebook timeline shows that his heart’s in the right place too!

There’s no denying it. My generation screwed up big time, what we handed over was far from perfect. The generation that followed did a much better job, and I’m sure that when the torch passes on to your lot, things will have improved to an unrecognisable degree!

Take all the space that you want, dear Cherie! For it is in people like you that the future rests, that’s where true salvation lies..

To the future, Onward Ho!!

Faiz Translated, Part 2..

To the handful of you who have been following these chronicles (and may the Power be with you for doing so), the fact that translating Urdu poetry into English has been an enduring passion with me is a known fact. 

Urdu poetry, of course, defies translation, and no attempt comes anywhere near the original in its form, rhyme and metre. Yet, the passion endures..

Among the greats, Iqbal is arguably the most obtuse, and I gave up my attempts at translating `Shikwa' long back. Faiz is sheer poetry, and one can lose oneself in his sublime imagery. I had posted my attempt at his `Soch' as `Reflections' some years ago. One could look it up at 

http://hbpuri.blogspot.in/2012/05/faiz-translated.html


Here is my attempt - I use the word `attempt' advisedly, for that is precisely what it is - a feeble attempt) - at translating his `Tanhaii'. It was done in a dash, when I was feeling particularly lonely (Ah, the travails of creeping age..)

TANHAII

- Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Phir koi aayaa, dil-e-zaar! Nahin, koi nahin;
Raah-rau hoga, kahin aur chala jayega.
Dhal chuki raat, bikharne laga taaron ka ghubaar,
Larkharaane lage aiwaanon mein khwaabiida charaagh,
So gayi raasta tak tak ke har ek rah guzar;
Ajnabi khaak ne dhundlaa diye qadmon ke suraagh.

Gul karo shamiin, barhaa do mai-o-miinaa-o-ayaagh,
Apne be-khwaab kivaaron ko muqaffal kar lo;
Ab yahan koi nahin, koi nahin aayega!

SOLITUDE

- Translated by Harish Puri

Hark, is that a footfall I hear?

Or is it just my sobbing heart?

A vagrant, he’ll soon be on his way

This slender hope too shall depart..

As night falls, and stars, like clouds

Scatter across the crimson sky

And worn out lamps, like broken dreams

Shall flicker dimly, before they die

Soon sleep shall overcome these lanes

Weary with wait, with misery

As dust that mercilessly blows

And obliterates each memory

Blow out the lamps, empty the wine

Bolt all doors, forego all dreams

Now solitude and loneliness are mine

For none, just none shall come this way..

Sage Words at 64? Hardly!

My annual birthday piece on `Mitti Pao!’ has almost become like the Pope’s Christmas message, or Bal Thackrey’s Dusshera diatribe. So how can I disappoint the millions (ok 47, give or take) who hang on to my every word? So here goes.

Yesterday, Wasim Akram, or rather the Mercedes he was travelling in, in Karachi, was shot at by an idiot in an apparent act of road rage. Thankfully, the Sultan of Swing was unhurt.

But what sort of an idiot would want to shoot at Wasim Akram?  Wouldn’t you rather shake his hand, ask for an autograph, maybe even plead that he take over as India’s bowling coach. Please, Wasim bhai??

But the world is full of idiots.

In the 2004 US Presidential debates, Senator John Kerry faced the incumbent US President George W `Dubya’ Bush.  Kerry was erudite, lucid and succinct, whereas Bush was his bumbling, incoherent self.

Yet, the polls continued to show Bush ahead. In spite of Kerry’s brilliance and his eloquence, he continued to trail Bush in the ratings. “I can’t understand it,” Kerry wondered, “I’m losing to an idiot!”

Anybody who has had occasion to argue with an obdurate traffic cop, or a dim witted booking clerk, or even a swarthy jat driving an SUV along Karol Bagh’s congested streets, will readily empathise with Kerry’s plight.

The world, of course, is full of idiots! And they’re everywhere, including, sadly, the cyber world, where I mostly reside.

So, I recently decided to give myself (and the world) a birthday treat by going off social media completely! I de-activated my Facebook account, went off Twitter, even gave `Mitti Pao!’ a much needed break. I thought I’d connect with the real world for a change!

I felt free! In the first few weeks of being `liberated’, I managed to read Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, scale Mount Kilimanjaro, straddle the Great Barrier Reef and trek through the great Inca trails at Machu Pichu!

Well, not exactly. All I actually managed was to get into flaming rows with my course mates (over OROP, what else?) convince my kids that I was finally `losing it’, and generally piss off anyone who came within pissing off range.

My last post `The Hen in My Backyard’ upset a lot of people, including the hen in my backyard, and everyone I had mentioned in the post, including the descendants of Graham Bell, Edison, Einstien and Bhimsen Joshi! So here’s an unqualified apology to all those illustrious folk, along with a single word of advice – Chill!

My `Parenting 2.0’ post rendered me persona non grata to that venerable establishment and its global ambassador. Once more, an unqualified apology, once more the advice to simply Chill!

We are simply too old to carry grudges..

All that I’ve learnt of life, said Robert Frost, can be summed up in just three words – it goes on.

Any sage words of advice on turning 64? I’m hardly qualified to deliver any homilies, except to say, just count your blessings.

Don’t rock the boat. Unless, like the legendary Ship of Theseus, it needs to be restored, plank by rotten plank. And after every plank has thus been replaced, it no longer remains the same vessel to mourn, does it? So learn to let go.

Don’t get too bogged down with outward impressions, or what people might think. Stop trying to prop up facades that cannot or will not stand up on their own.

When one is young, the opinion of ones peers, of the `world' at large, of what that amorphous entity called `they' will say, matters a great deal, and even dictates ones behaviour and ones reactions to situations.

But as one grows older, the wheat begins to separate from the chaff, we begin to recognise and isolate people whose opinions really matter to us. The old adage reveals its innate wisdom - those that matter don't mind, those that mind don't matter!

And know this - even an ageing heart will not be denied its dreams, so dare to dream, look ahead, for even for us sexagenarians, there is a future out there, and the future is, who else, US!

As only the great Faiz Ahmed Faiz could have put it,

Nahin nigaah mein manzil, toh justaju hi sahi

Nahin visaal mayaasar, toh aarzoo hi sahi..

Cheers folks, and a here’s wishing me a Happy 64^th!! 

The Hen In My Backyard..

So there’s this saying, that home cooked chicken (Ghar ki murgi) tastes no better than ordinary lentils (daal barabar)! Wonder if Daniel Weber would agree. Or Amey Gosavi..

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had just received a mail, extolling my blog posts, and generally going ga-ga over what a `wow’ writer I was! Admittedly, the adjectives used to describe my turn of phrase were way over the top, and much more than the blog deserved.

It’s not to say I wasn’t pleased as punch. Of course I was blown away, and asked the wife and kids why they didn’t offer similar praise. Their reactions varied from a derisive snort (no guessing who) to a coquettish `Aww’ (Sowmya) to his signature shrug of the shoulders (Sid). Puja said she’d read the mail and revert.

Translated into plain English, that only meant that while the posts were no doubt good, they were, for them, in the end, no more than home cooked chicken – ghar ki murgi!

Can’t blame the poor sods. Remember Mrs Graham Bell? Her reaction to Alexander announcing that he had just invented telephony was an exasperated “Put away those toys dear, and come to bed!”

You think Edison was feted as the `Wizard of Menlo Park’ at home? Perish the thought! He was curtly told to switch off the incandescent lamp that he had just invented, and `come to bed!’

Mrs Einstein, on seeing the magic formula E=mc², merely wondered how any man could earn a living through the haphazard scrambling of just three letters of the alphabet! ‘Whatever, dear, just come to bed!”

Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, arguably the greatest vocalist of his generation, had just composed a new raga, and offered to hum it for his son. “Dude, maybe some other time?” said Joshi Junior, not taking his eyes off his iPad.

So I was actually in exalted company.

Of course, like all wise sayings, this one also originates from the kitchen, and the culinary skills of the `hen’ in question.

Is there a man with soul so dead

Who, to his wife has never said

When Mrs X cooks, only then I be fed…

So here I was, at this friend’s place, slobbering over the prime ribs Mrs X (name changed to protect her well being) had conjured up. Along with the creamiest mashed potatoes, a few stray greens, and a barbeque sauce that was to die for!

The `Oohs’ and the `Aahs’, the wows and the whistles as I licked my fingers, swooning in delight, were sounds one normally associates with low grade porn movies! I kid you not, I was in epigastric heaven!

My wife kicked me under the table. I ignored her. Mr X (name changed to protect my well being) glared at me across the table. I ignored him. It was me, and the ribs, one on one. We had established a connect, and would brook no intrusion!

Mr X, to whom the whole meal was no more than `home cooked chicken’ (or in this case, pork) couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about. Snorting, in between generous helpings of the mashed potatoes, he roundly chided me for going overboard.

I continued to lick my fingers. Nary a trace of the barbeque sauce was spared. When they were as clean as to have made my mother proud, only then did I deign to look up.

“You were saying?” I said.

Then of course there are the vegans, or even some die hard Punjabis who love their `mah-di-dal’ - slow cooked overnight over a charcoal angheeti, then smothered in cream and butter – as the ultimate companion to the ubiquitous tandoori roti, with slivers of onion and mooli that pass for salad (`slaaad’ lyaayin, yaar!) in the dhabhas that dot Sher Shah Suri’s Grand Trunk Road.

Yes, the chicken versus daal debate is real. So the Parsis, geniuses that they are, simply merge the two, and come up with `Chicken dhansaak’! Makes us all feel rather silly, doesn’t it?

An aside here. We were attending Amrita’s wedding reception at JW Marriott, and happened to share a table with the delectable Sai Tamhankar (of `Hunterr’ fame). Seated next to her was a dark, dishevelled, uncouth looking guy with a straggly beard. Dismissing him as no competition whatsoever, I chatted up Sai, turning up my charm to overdrive, when she waved her pretty hand expansively “Meet my husband,” she says pointing to the guy in question.   

Turns out he was Amey Gosavi, a rich money-bags from the Marathi film industry. If looks could kill, I’d have decimated, decapacitated and de-boned the guy in five seconds flat. Talk of life being unfair! Talk of home cooked chicken! Talk of `ghar ki murgis’!

Which brings me back to the question I started with. Does the `ghar ki murgi’ always taste like daal? Would Daniel Weber agree?

Daniel who, you ask? The hen in his backyard, the murgi in his ghar happens to bear the name Sunny Leone!

I mean seriously, where’s a rope and a ceiling fan when you really need one??

Horn NOT Ok, Please!!

After the ban on beef and the insistence on screening of Marathi movies, the Maharashtra Govt has now banned the ubiquitous `Horn OK Please’ that stares at you from behind most trucks!

Reason? It makes people honk all the more! Seriously! What will they ban next? `Buri nazar wale, tera muh kala!’ because it’s racist??

Of course, we honk like our lives depend on it. We are truly the `horniest’ nation on earth, going by the incessant cacophony on our roads.

An aside here. Durex, that maker of luxury condoms, in a recent survey, has ranked India the 8^th most `sexually satisfied’ nation on earth! How the f@£$ did they arrive at that dubious conclusion? By totaling the sales of their products plus pills plus spermicidal creams?? Am I missing something here??

There, now I’ve gone way off topic! Horny so-and-so! Come back, you ill begotten son of a what-not…

No `Horn OK Please’ now? Seriously?? After the decades it took me to figure out what this pithy slogan really meant (Want to overtake me? Horn loudly as you do so, ok? - Please!).

Good men have made hobbies, even careers out of recording, if not actually authoring the verses one sees behind trucks, busses and rickshaws.

If any of you have seen the hilarious, rib tickling, rip roaring Pakistani stage drama `Bakra Qishton Pe', you will remember Professor Nizami’s sher-o-shayairi competition  with his neighbour Mirza.

Mirza asks him "Tum ne kitne deewan padhay hain?"

The professor replies "Sher-o-shaiyari jaan ne ke liye deewan padhna zaroori nahin hai - truck padho, rickshaw padho, bus padho!"

Of course, Delhi is the most culturally bereft city in the country. Sad, considering that the likes of Meer, Ghalib and Zouk once habited its courts. The hordes of Punjabi jats that descended on it after partition completely crushed its fragile culture beyond recognition.

So once where you reveled in a

Zameen-e-chaman gul khilati hai kya kya

Badalta hai rang aasmaan kaise kaise,

behind a truck, today all you get to see in Delhi is a `Sonu te Pinky di gaddi'.

Where indeed have the mighty fallen..

Yet, here are some gems that I’ve managed to pick up in my travels – mostly along Sher Shah Suri’s Grand Trunk Road..

`Ameeron ki zindagi, fruit aur cake pe,

Driver ki zindagi clutch aur brake pe!’

Anyone familiar with Delhi’s traffic and obnoxious drivers will easily identify with

Kaun kehta hai ke maut aayegi aur main mar jaoonga,

Main toh Dilli ka driver hun, cut maar ke nikal jaaonga!

And here are some from Pakistan..

Yeh jeena bhi ko jeena hai? 

Jhelum ke aage Dina hai!

(Dina is a village about 20 Km ahead of Jhelum)

Itna dubla ho gaya hun sanam tumhari judaai se

Ke khatmal bhi kheench le jaate hain mujhe chaarpai se

Kis kadar khush nazar aate hain mere shehar ke log

Aaj akhbaar na padhaa ho kisi ne jaise.

Ya Ilahi kya ghazab hai, khat ka aana bandh hai

Ya mohabat kam hui hai, ya dak khana bandh hai

Ya Ilahi, tujhe maloom hai, nahi dekh sakta apni biwi ka bewa hona

Wo jo mar sakti hai mere liye, mujhe manzoor us ki khatir randwa hona

Aadmi aadmi ko dans raha hai

Saamne saamp baitha hans raha hai

Kismat azma chuka hun, kismat azma raha hun

Kisi bewafa ki khatir rickshaw chala raha hun

Na jawan hotay na dil lgatay,

Na karte muhabbat, na rikshaw chlatay

Sawaari pichhay Kareena Katrina,

Driver aggay Paseena Paseena

Or the simple but oh so effective `Aag lawaan teri majbooriyaan nu!!'

Professor Nizami was absolutely spot on. For true shayari, you don’t need to pore over the deewans of the greats. Just read buses, trucks and rickshaws!

Irrespective of what Mr Phadnavis decrees, Horn will always be OK, Please!!