Somewhere in the long list of things we lost in blood and fire is the joy of poetry.
It is a loss I cannot reconcile with. My memories get in the way. It was through poetry, that I learnt to think, feel, mean and be. Words existed in our household with an identity of their own, like people with names, personalities and pasts. There would be good words and bad, happy and melancholy, wise and wanton. When strung together in perfect meter and imperfect reason, they would offer doggerel explanations of the abstract in a way no other genre could. Poetry would respect life for its expanse and vagueness, not subject it to confined dialectics.
I have always felt that a poem, whether conceived in joy or pain, captures forever the place in life that elicited it; like a white Christmas trapped in a snow globe. There is a strange comfort in hearing from another, what one is feeling within. And so, having navigated life by finding solace, company and sometimes humour in these footprints from the past, I cannot imagine a world without the abstract. To lose the joy of poetry is to lose the counsel of wonder. It is not a loss to be reconciled with.
My grandfather used to quote that a poem is never finished, only abandoned. He was, among many things, a writer and a critic. His book, ‘Urdu shaairi ka tanqeedi ja’eza’ (a critical overview of Urdu poetry), is more of poetry in the horizontal than prose. However, you may not be able to find the book in print anymore. I have an old copy which I hold very dear. I fear that if I don’t, it will be lost forever as the irrelevancy that poetry has become today…
We may be sympathetic to the passion of Faiz and the romance of Faraz, but truth is that most other poets, some very good ones, hardly make it to their second editions. Book stores like Ferozesons, Maavra etc which used to have complete collections of all poets, black, white and brown, have degenerated to the level of deli’s selling what sells. Ironically, you would more easily find classical poets’ complete works in India, than in Pakistan. But is it the problem, or merely a symptom?
Perhaps it is both. Literature, in particular poetry, cannot be treated like Wall Street Journal, good only as long as it sells. But publishers are in the business of selling. I believe the onus therefore lies on the universities, Urdu boards and academies of the country to promote poetry, not as a mercantile pursuit, but as a way of looking at life.
It has to be the easiest thing to do! One would only need to create the platforms. The rest will just happen. Who can deny the fiery provocation of Faiz’s ushhaq, the transcendent drift of Ghalib’s sense of self and the lofty persuasions of Iqbal’s shaheen? What heart wouldn’t relate to the pained pride that was felt and expressed in every possible form by Faraz. Who wouldn’t identify with Jon’s temper, Nasir’s agony or Perveen’s insecurities? Whose thoughts would atleast once not have wandered as freely as Zaidi’s?
These are life-long relationships waiting to happen. Failure to recognize the joy and perspective these bring to life would be like sentencing oneself to a tunneled life clogged with reality and deprived of oxygen. We have too many people worrying ‘what colour is their parachute’, and not enough wondering ‘what colour is the wind’. It is a whole different ball game of self-actualization that is as, if not more, important as the more tangible pursuits in life.
An immediate priority should be an all-hands-on-the-deck effort to digitize Urdu poetry. We should do it before it disappears. If the Urdu Academy doesn’t do it, perhaps we should look at a more private venture to make it happen. Universities, colleges, and poetry lovers all over would need to plough in. A first step in this direction may be developing a reliable OCR for Urdu. With the talent we have in the country in the field of IT, and given the fact that Urdu has no home but ours, it is the least we should do. With the OCR in place, digitization can be led by the universities, proof-read by poetry lovers and institutions, and preserved forever in the cyber-world.
The second step, hopefully an outcome of the first, would be integrating poetry with life. More Mushaairas, more ghazal singers, more celebration of the new and appreciation of the old in the field. What better way to drain the paranoia from reality-clogged minds, too afraid to dream and too clumsy to dance?
It will take time, perhaps five to ten years, but it will be forever. I sincerely hope that we act before it is too late.
For as long as I lived in Lahore, my idea of a perfect evening was an old bench in Lawrence Gardens, a book of poetry and a steaming cup of doodh patti. I feel we have an obligation to add this joy to the packsack of keepsakes we leave behind for the next generation. They can add coffee and kindle a’ la mode, but atleast they will have their counsel of wonder …