Manzil-e-Sufi

A friend of mine asked me to translate this Sindhi Sufi poem. It is a simultaneously flattering and very scaring responsibility, because now I know for sure there is one person who is looking for what I write, and so I must do well. The poem is by a Sufi mystic Sachal Sarmast. His name in Sindhi translates to Truthful Mystic. Interestingly, Sindhi and Urdu scripts are almost entirely similar!

This poem adheres to the Sufi philosophy. Selfless love, without any expectations of any return or result. The lover mentioned in Sufi poetry is most often God, or a teacher or another mystic, and not necessarily a romantic lover. 

Before I begin translating the poem, I recall a few lines from a Punjabi Sufi song about Heer and Raanjha, the couple in Indian folk stories who epitomize never ending love and devotion. 

Heer says:

Raanjha raanjha kardi ve main appe Raanjha hoi, 

Raanjha Ranjha saddo ni menu Heer na akkho koi.

Let us move now to Manzil-e-Sufi, The Sufi's Destination.

Mullaan maar na maikon jhirkoon,

Don't hit me, don't punish me for it,

Maikon apnaan yaar manaawan de
Let me charm my beloved, let me please him (she is willing to go to any lengths to maker her lover happy, even socially forbidden lengths)

Kanjri ban ke saadi izatt naan ghatdi
Becoming a kanjri (lowly, courtesan-esque) does not lower my honour.

Saakoon nach ke yaar manaawan de
Let me dance, and please my beloved.

Jogan theesaan yaar de picchhon
I'll become a jogan, a fakeer in pursuit of my beloved.

Saakoon gal wich maalhra paawanr de
Let me wear the jogan's braid in my neck. (The rosary that sadhus and sadhvis often wear)

Ghulaam fareeda ondi oah jaane
O Farid, he knows his own heart best. (Again, the Sufi love that expects no return, she just wants to love her beloved, regardless of his reciprocation, if any at all)

Saakoon apni tor nibhaawan de
Let me just fulfill my pledge.

Main taan koi khayaal haan
I am really just a thought

Hun milsaan naal
Now I can only be met with-

Milsaan naal khayaal de
I can only be met with through a thought.

Main taan koi khayaal
I am really just a thought

Main deedar deedar main wich
I am the vision and the vision is in me (I am not sure what 'vision' means here, perhaps God)

Pahriyam des wisaal de
I rove in the land of union

Hun milsaan naal
Now I can only be met with

Milsaan naal khayaal de
I can only be met with through a thought

Main taan koi khayaal
I am really just a thought

Sachal sach karenda zaahir
"Sachal" makes the Truth apparent
(Using the poet's name in the last lines of a poem is traditional in Urdu poetry, and is known as the takhallus, or pen-name of the poet. Like Mirza Asadullah Khan 'Ghalib').

Illah kaan qitaal de
Except it would result in battle-

Hun milsaan naal
Now I can only be met with-

Milsaan naal khayaal de
I can only be met with through a thought

Main taan koi khayaal haan
I am really just a thought

Main taan koi khayaal
I am really just a thought.

As an afterthought, I am tempted to believe the second half of the poem refers to God, and how he is an idea, and can only be met with through an idea. Sachal makes the truth apparent, but since it would amount to blasphemy, he fears it will lead to battle. I might be totally misplacing my interpretation, but I strongly suspect this is what it means. 

Aigiri Nandini.

I like Aigiri Nandini and I got to know of it only recently. This song in praise of Goddess Durga is much more popular in the southern states than here in the North. It puts Durga in an amazing light. She is this absolutely beautiful woman, sweet and charming, and at the same time, she is the mother of the universe, the feeder of the triloka or the Three Worlds, one who takes care of all that could go wrong. She kicks sad demon asses for breakfast and raises war cries worthy of only the daughter of the Mountains and the Oceans. Durga is someone everyone can look up to. Men and women alike. 

I am not an authority on Sanskrit, at all. I read a lot of translations, some missing in a few details, and some misinterpreted, and referring to literal meanings of many of these words, came up with the following three paragraphs (the original poem has around 21 paragraphs!). 

अयि गिरिनन्दिनि नन्दितमेदिनि विश्वविनोदिनि नन्दिनुते
गिरिवरविन्ध्यशिरोऽधिनिवासिनि विष्णुविलासिनि जिष्णुनुते ।
भगवति हे शितिकण्ठकुटुम्बिनि भूरिकुटुम्बिनि भूरिकृते
जय जय हे महिषासुरमर्दिनि रम्यकपर्दिनि शैलसुते ॥ १ ॥

Praise be to you, daughter of the Mountains, praised by the world, who fills the world with joy and happiness, whom Nandi himself praises,

Who resides on the peak of the king of the mountains, Vindhya, who lives with Vishnu (as his sister) and is praised by Lord Indra,

O Goddess, wife of the lord with blue neck, the mother of the Universe, the creator of prosperity. 

Glory to you, O vanquisher of Mahishasura, O beautiful daughter of the Mountains.

सुरवरवर्षिणि दुर्धरधर्षिणि दुर्मुखमर्षिणि हर्षरते
त्रिभुवनपोषिणि शङ्करतोषिणि किल्बिषमोषिणि घोषरते
दनुजनिरोषिणि दितिसुतरोषिणि दुर्मदशोषिणि सिन्धुसुते
जय जय हे महिषासुरमर्दिनि रम्यकपर्दिनि शैलसुते ॥ २ ॥

You who shower even the Gods with your blessings, the one who defeated Duradhara and Durmukha, the joyous one, 

The nourisher of the three worlds, the consort of Shankara, the destroyer of sin and the one with the furious war cries,

The killer of Danu's and Diti's demon children, destroyer of the demons' pride, daughter of the Ocean.

Glory to you, O vanquisher of Mahishasura, O beautiful daughter of the Mountains.

अयि जगदम्ब मदम्ब कदम्ब वनप्रियवासिनि हासरते

शिखरि शिरोमणि तुङ्गहिमलय शृङ्गनिजालय मध्यगते ।
मधुमधुरे मधुकैटभगञ्जिनि कैटभभञ्जिनि रासरते
जय जय हे महिषासुरमर्दिनि रम्यकपर्दिनि शैलसुते ॥ ३ ॥

Glory to the mother of the Universe, my own mother, the dweller of the forests of Kadamba trees, who delights in laughter, 

Who resides on the jeweled peaks of the Himalayas, who walks mildly, and makes herself beautiful*

As sweet as honey, who humbled the demons Madhu and Kaitabha, and killed them, indulging in battle cries,

Glory to you, O vanquisher of Mahishasura, O beautiful daughter of the Mountains. 

*I have been told that in Indian scriptures Madhyagati (medium pace) is a mark of an ideal woman, and is part of her shringaar.

The new song of revolt.

Shorish-e-barbat-o-nay, The new song of revolt, by Faiz. Barbat literally translates to Lute/Harp)  

Ye haath salaamat hain jab tak, 

Is khoon mein haraarat hai jab tak

Till the life in these hands of ours remains,

Till the warmth in this blood of ours remains, 

Is dil mein sadaaqat hai jab tak,
Is nutq mein taaqat hai jab tak. 

Till honesty in this this heart of ours remains, 

Till the power in this tongue of ours remains.

In tauq-o-salaasil ko hum tum,
Sikhlaaenge shorish-e-barbat-o-nay

To these shackles and chains, you and I,

Will teach the melody of the new song of revolt.

Wo shorish jiske aage zuboon,
Hungaama-e-tabl-e-qaisar-o-kay

The revolt before which are humbled,

The war cries of the mighty Caesars.

Azaad hain apne fikr-o-amal,
Bharpoor khazeena himmat ka

Free are our thoughts and expressions

Full of the treasures of courage.

Ik umr hai apni har saa'at
Imroz hai apna har farda

Our every hour is a life in itself,
Every tomorrow of ours, is today.

Ye shaam-o-sahar ye shams-o-qamar
Ye akhtar-o-kaukab apne hain

This night, this morning, this sun, this moon

The stars in the sky, these all are ours. 

Ye lauh-o-qalam ye tabl-o-alam
Ye maal-o-hasham sab apne hain

This tablet and pen, this drum and flag,

These treasures, are to serve us here.  

Speak

I am translating another nazm by Faiz. It is called Bol. Speak.

Bol, ke lab azaad hain tere,

Bol, zubaan ab tak teri hai.

Speak, for your lips are free,

Speak, your voice is still yours.

Tera sutwaan jism hai tera,
Bol ki jaan ab tak teri hai.

Your strong body is still yours,

Speak, for your life is still yours.

Dekh ke aahangar ki dukaan mein,
Tund hain sho'le, surkh hain aahan,

Look how in the blacksmith's shop,

Glowing ambers and crimsoned iron are.

Khulne-lage quflon ke dahaane,

Phaila har ek zanjeer ka daaman

Look how all padlocks have been undone,

Look how all chain links are broken.

Bol ye thoda waqt bahut hai,

Jism-o-zabaan ki maut se pehle,

Speak, for this little time is enough,

Before your body and voice betrays you.

Bol, ke sach zinda hai ab tak

Bol, jo kuchh kehna hai keh le.

Speak, for the truth is still alive

Speak, speak whatever you will.

Dasht-e-tanhaai

Dasht-e-tanhaai is a nazm by Faiz Ahmed Faiz. The title translates to Desert of loneliness. I decided to translate it because I think the poem is too beautiful to suffer at the hands of petty things like language barriers.

Dasht-e-tanhaai mein, ai jaan-e-jahaan, larzaan hain
Teri avaaz ke saanye, tere honthon ke saraab

In the desert of my loneliness, oh love of my life, quiver the shadows of your voice, the mirages of your lips.

Dasht-e-tanhaai mein, doori ke khas-o-khaak tale
Khil rahe hain tere pehlu ke saman aur gulaab.

In my desert of loneliness, buried within the ash and dust of distance, blossom the jasmines and roses of your proximity.

Uth rahi hai kaheen, qurbat se, teri saans ki aanch,
Apni khushbuu mein sulagti hui, maddham maddham

From somewhere close, rises the flame of your breaths, smoldering in its own fragrance, slowly.

Door ufuq paar, chamakti hui, qatra qatra

Gir rahi hai teri dil daar nazar ki shabnam

Far beyond the horizon, glittering, bit by bit falls the dew of your gracious gaze.

Is qadr pyaar se, ai jaan-e-jahaan rakkha hai,
Dil ke rukhsaar pe, is vaqt teri yaad ne haath

Love of my life, I feel your memories caressing the blushing cheeks of my heart, with such delicacy, such love, 

Yoon gumaan hota hai, garche hai abhi subah-e-firaaq
Dhal gaya hijr ka din, aa bhi gaye vasl ki raat

That although it's still the morning that marks our separation, the day of parting is gone and the night of our union already feels close.


Meesha Shafi has woven another magic of a very different kind in this very beautiful rendition of Dasht-e-tanhaai.
Dasht-e-Tanhaai, CokeStudio

Shadow.

La valse d'Amelie, recommended reading companion by Dhanush.

It follows him around. He is very happy when it does. His shadow falls over so many things and still stays around. The other day it fell on a big bus. He shuddered to think that the shadow will go away with the bus but it stayed. He shuddered anyway.

Something was burning. The flames made his shadow on the road weaker. It was wavering, as if signalling an end. He wanted to douse the fire out and save the shadow. He picked up a bucket of cold water. It made his hands numb and it was too heavy, maybe he should ask for help. No, he could do it alone. He just wanted the shadow to stay. He shuddered to think of the fire. The fire died but the road became darker where water hit it so the shadow was gone. He shuddered anyway.

Water evaporates. The shadow comes back. It plays with him. Sometimes it falls on himself. For an instant he sees no light, for the the next he is blinded by it. This goes on along the whims of the shadow. He cannot stop it. He wants the shadow to know this makes him dizzy. Why does it do this? Someday he won't be able to take it and will fall.

He often wants the sun to stay and not set at all or the shadow will die. He wants to talk to his shadow. The shadow doesn't speak. It cannot speak they say, how will it? He often wonders if the shadow is dead. No. It was smart enough to be with him and play with him and tease him and disappear and reappear. It had to be alive. But then, could it speak?

His phone buzzed. He is very anxious when the phone buzzes next to his head. He doesn't know why. It was Mother. "Yes, everything is good! Enchanting!"

The phone buzzed again. He shuddered to think if the phone knew the shadow. Maybe they were the same thing. He was going crazy. Was it the cold that made him shudder? The phone buzzed and he thought it was the shadow. Yes! Now he knew. He could talk to the shadow on the phone. That was possible. But it wasn't.

A little music box plays Ode to Joy. How happy he is to own it! It is blue in colour. Just like the shadow is on the walls of his room back home. Someone trampled over the music box. He will repair it soon, but he doesn't know how. Maybe he will buy a new one. But he isn't earning yet. Music boxes are precious.

He loves the shadow. He likes how it falls on leaves and flowers and disappears between them. He used to believe it will always come back again. It always had. It had been with him for as long as he could remember. It had kept him warm and safe. Sometimes he fears the shadow will not return. Was it tired? Did it feel shackled by the weight of that silver chain around its neck? The shadow had a heart. He should talk to it. It was time. If the shadow listened he will ask it to stay. The shackles are just trinkets, don't be scared he'll say. Or are they?

He dislikes the evening. The shadow grows longer and more distant. Soon the sun will go and take it away. He wants to talk to the shadow before it disappears for the night. No. He will scare the shadow like this. He loves it so much, if it is scared it might not come back. He should wait. The stars are too feeble and the moon just as whimsical as the shadow, but he must wait. What should he do? He will try to sleep. He could perhaps dream of the shadow and see if it will talk there. But sleep is just as whimsical.

The phone buzzes again. He shudders. Many people know the shadow. Some of them warn him against it. They say shadows are cruel. Some say he is cruel and the shadow must feel so scared of him. Maybe it feels lonely. He must always be around. How could I throw cold water at it? they ask. How could I not? he says. There was a fire!

Nobody knows the shadow but him. It is his shadow. And he loves it.

The buzzing phone often scares him. It also gives him hope of a way to the shadow. It's complicated business, this fear and hope.

He just wishes for the shadow to stay. When he talks to it he will tell how he feels. The shadow is a good companion. Was he bad? Does the shadow hate being his shadow? Is it very upset? He will arrange for a mirror. A big mirror everywhere around him so the shadow becomes an image. Then it will be happy. He wants to keep the shadow happy. The shadow understands, of course it does. It is his shadow, after all.

Night falls. Someone turns the fluorescent on. There it is again, right there on the wall.

Enchanté.

The French countryside was slowly unfolding into neat Parisian suburbs.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, our next and final stop is Paris, Gare l'Est. Thank you for choosing Deutsche Bahn, we wish you a pleasant stay.” Over the muffled sound of the PA, a Parisian fellow traveler replied to my question, “Yes, you take bus 30 from l'Est and reach the Moulin Rouge. Are you sure you will be able to find your way around? It's a big city.”

I was sure.

I picked up a map of the Subway and walked out of the station. The joy of reading maps I cannot describe. There was the Louvre, and Les Invalides, and the Notre Dame, and Champs Élysées , all tiny dots on a tiny map. I can spend days staring at maps and memorizing them. For me, finding directions to a place is the best part of traveling. Asking directions is my way of breaking ice and meeting new people. In the course of finding my destination, I always ended up discovering hidden treasures hitherto unknown to all maps I had seen.

My first destination was the Louvre. On the same side of the Seine as the station but closer, the Louvre is a magnificent building much larger than it looks in photographs. I crossed the inverted pyramid inside the lobby and entered the galleries. I had a map of the museum from the website that had directions to some of the most visited sights. There are thousands upon thousands of pieces of art. All in a museum that is large enough to tire you down to dehydration easily. I saw all the good things I wanted to see. The Mona Lisa looked like a postage stamp from behind the throng of what looked like a few million people, each one trying to get as close to the painting as possible. In the presence of the Mona Lisa, all other paintings somehow seemed to have lost their due respect. She was covered with bullet proof glass and wooden railings, when you could literally touch the others. I saw the statue of Venus de Milo, the Winged victory of Somothrace, and Cupid and Psyche, and more. The painted and sculpted ceilings of the palace were just as awe inspiring as the exhibits.

Louvre's Pei pyramid.

I am a grave enthusiast. I don't know if that is a valid phrase, but yes, I love searching for graves of great people. For me, the feeling of being so close to them is worth all the pain I suffer looking for single graves in huge cemeteries. What better place for a grave trail than the Panthéon? It's built along the lines of the Roman Pantheon. Greek columns and delta in the front, and a dome. The inscription on the front reads, “To great men, a grateful fatherland.” My throat often wells up on seeing inscriptions like this in places like this. How the French loved their scientists, philosophers, their writers! There are the graves of the Curies, Lagrange, Sadi Carnot, Braille, Hugo, Rousseau, Voltaire, and more. It is said that that when Hugo died, the wreaths and bouquets people brought over at his funeral covered the entrance to the Panthéon.  The Panthéon has a dimly lit crypt where these graves are, and it is compulsory to visit the Panthéon if you go to Paris.

The Panthéon

I found my way from the Pantheon to the Champs Élysées, the widest street I had seen in my life, and one of the most crowded. Incredibly expensive stores lined the street, including what looked like the Louis Vuitton HQ. It's a long avenue, and ends at the Arc de Triomphe. Next, I decided to go the most popular location in the whole of France.

The Eiffel Tower is nice. And the lights make it look nicer. But that's about it. I don't like it much.

View from the Eiffel tower terrace.

Having learned a little French 6 years ago out of sheer love for the way the language sounded, visiting Paris was also a revision of the various conversations I had roted and practiced. Talking to people in their native language as a foreigner, albeit miserably, has its effect. They like the fact that you respect their language. No matter how busy they are, they will help you. Remember to learn more than just a few words of the native language of your destination. Learn their gestures too, you will feel much more at home.

My day pass was valid till midnight, and I had just about an hour to get from the Eiffel Tower to where I was staying. I decided a little detour wouldn't hurt. I exited the destination subway station and came out to face the most impressive nightly sight ever, the Moulin Rouge. A red neon windmill slowly spun around, and an overwhelmingly long line waited for the night's cabaret performance. I stayed with the Moulin for around 15 minutes, when I ran back and reached home in time. 

Early next morning, I went to the Catacombs of Paris. In the 18th century, a municipality in Paris decided to empty the graves from a cemetery that was overflowing. They decided to transfer millions of skeletons to quarries in the south of Paris. Incidentally, these were the quarries that supplied stone for the Notre Dame. The skeletons are beautifully arranged. In circles, lines, stacks, and some even in hearts. And there are an unfathomable number of thigh bones. You walk through an empire of dead people, so deep inside the earth that you can touch underground water. Visiting the Catacombs of Paris was a brilliant decision, and an hour well spent. Nearby in a cafe that looked as ancient as it claimed, I had macarons that I now know I could have killed for. And more Parisian baked delights whose names I find difficult to remember.

But the best hour I spent in Paris, probably the best hour I have ever spent, was in Shakespeare and Co., the famous bookstore facing the Notre Dame de Paris. But more about the bookstore later.
The Notre Dame is a beautiful building. Notre Dame de Paris means 'Our Lady of Paris'. Stained glass windows are always pretty, but the ones here are another level of awesome. A gigantic statue of Charlemagne greets you near the entrance to the Cathedral. Gothic style arches and vaults make the cathedral look larger than it is. Inside, besides the stained glass windows is another historic delight. The Shrine of The Three Holy Kings as it's called, is a magnificent gold casket that is said to contain the remains of the three wise men who brought gifts to Mary after the birth of Jesus. The Notre Dame, along with the Cathedral at Köln is my favourite church in Europe.

Gargoyle outside the Notre Dame.

Immediately facing the Notre Dame, on the other side of the Seine is the small bookstore I mentioned. Inside are creaking floorboards and crooked narrow shelves teeming with books while the whole place smells of fresh paper. It is very difficult to convince yourself to leave once you have entered. Up a narrow, rickety staircase is a small library, with a lot of books. Ernest Hemingway wrote some of his works here. So did Anais Nin and many other great authors and poets who, in their initial years, found it hard to find a place to live in. The bookstore has many tiny beds, and for long, they have been freely available to people who promise to either read/write all the time that they are awake. Old typewriters are strewn around, and an old yellowing piano sits silently. 

A reading group meeting convenes in the adjoining room with a small balcony. Imagine sitting in that balcony with cup of hot Parisian coffee and a good book, looking at the Notre Dame and the Seine and reading away.
A middle aged lady asked me, “Excuse me, I am sorry, but what is it with this bookstore? Why does everyone look so awed?” I told her what I knew, and added that the bench she was sitting on was used by Hemingway too. She was delighted beyond measure and thanked me thrice before leaving for what she found 'extremely valuable information'. 

Library in Shakespeare and Co.

I reluctantly leave the bookstore after a little over an hour, when the attendant stamps a “Kilometer Zero Paris-Shakespeare and Co.” stamp on my copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

My last stop was the Musée d'Orsay. Set inside an old defunct railway station, the museum is dedicated to art. I waited in a queue for around 2 hours before I got my ticket. Works by Monet and other impressionists, as well as van Gogh's Starry Night on the Rhone are among the wonderful delights that Orsay has to offer. I personally liked this museum more than the Louvre. For one, it's smaller.

From inside the clock at Orsay.

I promised myself that I will return to Paris with a lot more time at my disposal.