When Rahman Rahi received one of India’s highest literary honours, the Jnanpith Award, the Kashmiri poet spoke of how the award is a recognition not only of his work but also of the “Kashmiri language and the people who speak this language.” This Translation Tuesday, we feature Rahi’s rhapsodic ode to the Kashmiri language, a beloved tongue that has gifted the poet the powers of perception, a tongue whom he personifies as an “eternal companion.” First written in 1966—after India and Pakistan went to war over the sovereignty of Kashmir—translator Ashaq Hussain Parray reminds us how the act of writing this poem is a way of “foregrounding Kashmiri agency after suffering years of oppression and political violence.” This immensely lyrical poem sings to the existential condition of being born into a language, how we inherit a language’s ways of seeing and its political histories even as we shape its trajectories as a single speaker, through a single poem.
“This polysemic poem, originally titled Jalveh Tei Zabur, opens Rahman Rahi’s 1997 collection Siyaah Rooda Jaren Manz (Under the Dark Downpours), and sings of language as the “house of being,” tracing the nature of Logos—the ultimate beginning of everything. Rahi sings a hymn to Kashmiri language that at once seems like a Kashmiri folksong vanvun and at the same time a sacred offering to the highest God, the word. The poem is extremely musical—using rhythm, irregular rhyme, both internal and end rhyme, symbolism, onomatopoeia, allegory, allusion—making it a typical modern poem, and difficult for a translator to get through. For that reason, I have used literal translation, borrowing, equivalence, transposition, compensation, and condensation techniques together—creating end rhymes, half-rhymes, false rhymes besides alliteration, and anaphora to create the rush and flow of the poem.”
—Ashaq Hussain Parray
Hymn to a Language
Sometimes I wonder if we had
never ever met each other
and if I had not conveyed
my joys and sorrows to you
with rich meanings
if you too had not blessed the wounds
of this statue of dust with a tongue—
my bosom would have stifled
my tears would have frozen
my thoughts would have broken
the Iris would have withered
the pigeon wouldn’t have cooed
the Jhelum would wail and weep
the hesitant hilltop would not greet
Moses would not one vision receive.
O Kashmiri language! I swear by you,
you are my awareness, my vision too
the radiant ray of my perception
the whirling violin of my conscience!
You and I are eternal companions
like sunshine to a blossom.
I was born, your sweet song I heard
I knew nothing; you taught me the word.
You suckled and sang me sweet lullabies
like a darling you lulled me in a cradle
and knit silk robes at dawn for me.
You trusted me to the fairies’ lap at dusk
when you whirred me on the violet wheel.
I flew over heavens on a couch of cotton
and when you played paternal notes on Noat1
my tears caused streams to flow in me.
When you washed my feet at the ghat
as if the scarred moon suddenly shone;
You blessed me with the pastoral songs
of village girls looking for dandelion leaves,
and flew me through dew-kissed pastures;
sometimes to geese you wished a long neck
sometimes the heart of wild mynas did you peck
sometimes at a village shrine threads you tied
sometimes in the city with storms you replied.
In spring water my bosom you washed bright,
your love has arrived under the moonlight
singing the silent songs softly for you.
Our pulse and hearts throb together:
a secret it is between a son and a mother.
Sometimes in this desert of life
ruthless winds of necessity rise—
an innocent naked bird from the nest
flies to fulfil its nascent desires best
and gets anxious when it goes west.
Slyly a sparrow hawk chases
this hapless feather bundle to dust;
watching its eyes roll under the bloody beak
I wonder if we two, the mother-son duo,
had never ever met each other?
What would I do to my frightened heart?
Where would I go with my restless soul?
Sometimes in the garden of life
begin the bygone festivals of spring—
a seven-coloured subtle skiff
lulling a lovesick pigeon pair in its lap
relishes the garden of mad spring.
(A lovely little cloud
on the azure ocean of sky
allures the heart of the heights).
The Kohl eyed cedar gives shade,
the thirst on dry lips blooms midday,
the goblet brims with ruby bubbles,
the bumblebee strokes the lotus flower,
the pinwheel spins and stirs a wave:
huck chi chi chi, chak chaen chaen.
O Apsara2! At this hour if to this reveller
you didn’t help to hold the breath,
my music of thoughts would never spring,
these songs my wild heart would never sing.
Sometimes in this world
a human drowns its own being;
where did this visitor come from?
A flower flowered from the soil!
A shooting star it fell, did it hear a bell?
The narcissus tires in the bumblebee’s wait,
a black snake spirals around the jasmine,
life is a dance of fireflies in the fire,
the dewdrop smiling at the face of a sunray.
A little squab is about to fly from its nest,
the hungry eagle will make it a blood fest.
Zuleikha bewitches the handsome hearts,
the Shraz3 jumps over hilltop for the moon,
heavens and the earth lie before us unknown,
neither the providence nor the eternity known.
Amidst this desolation of the tangible world
if you wouldn’t request the roaring river
to bless my winter wounds with a tongue,
the fire of hatred would have me swoon,
the night would engulf my bright moon.
You and I are old friends:
my heart beats-lub, dub; lips hiss-sh.
I shall always trust myself to your care,
your affection I shall always desire.
My heart shall always pine for you,
water my verses through and through—
don’t let our bond break with doubts
and demand an oyster to labour a pearl.
I am a blossom of the almond tree—
you too are spring sun-caressed curl.
Don’t slope off to play with the dunes
and cause storms to lash my lotus petals;
let not anyone buttonhole and loot you—
my innocent meanings will be orphaned.
I found the root of intuition in your silence—
for your love, I sing this lovely psalm:
O Kashmiri language! I swear by you,
you are my awareness, my vision too
the radiant ray of my perception
the whirling violin of my conscience!
1 An earthenware pot traditionally used in Kashmiri music.
2 In Hindu and Buddhist culture, a female spirit of the clouds and waters known for its beauty. “Celestial nymph” can be one example of its English equivalent.
3 Shraz is a lion-shaped imaginary being in Kashmiri mythology who is captivated at the sight of the moon. In its desire to capture the moon, it climbs the hilltops and jumps over only to fall down and die. Once it dies, it decomposes and is eaten by the insects. These insects then eat one another until the last remaining one is transformed again into a Shraz and this process continues. This is almost similar to the process of birth and rebirth of the Phoenix.
Translated from the Kashmiri by Ashaq Hussain Parray
Rahman Rahi (b. 1925) is a Kashmiri poet, critic and translator who began his poetic journey as a progressive poet but soon turned towards the modern self, exploring it in relation to itself and the world. Known for his difficult style, Rahi is a master of Kashmiri poetry, combining Eastern and Western wisdom. He is the recipient of numerous awards that include the Sahitya Akademi Award (1961) for his debut poetry collection Nawroz-i-Saba (1958), the Padma Shri in 2000, and the Jnanpith Award, India’s highest literary award for his poetry collection Siyaah Rooda Jaren Manz (1997). Rahman Rahi’s other poetry collections include Kadleh Thathis Peth (2013).
Ashaq Hussain Parray is a poet, translator, and currently a PhD candidate at the department of English, Aligarh Muslim University India working in translation studies with a particular focus on the translation of Indian Poetry into English. Parray’s poetry and translations have featured in journals and magazines like Inverse Journal, Kashmir Lit, The Punch Magazine, Cerebration: The Literary Journal, The Bombay Literary Magazine, Ezra: An Online Journal of Translation, Presence: A Journal of Catholic Poetry, and nether quarterly.
*****
Read more from Translation Tuesdays on the Asymptote blog: