Poetic Renditions
column 5
نظم ۔ تہذیب حافی
Translated into English
by Asna Nusrat, Mehak F. Khan, and Sakina Hassan
Introduction by Fatima Shafi
A rendition of a work focuses on conveying its essence while a translation of it focuses on accurately conveying the originally intended meaning. There’s a fine line between the two, and you may find a bit of both as you read each piece in this section, where different poets from around the world offer their version of the same poem in a new language. Together, they are a celebration of the original work.
نظم
میں سپنوں میں
آکسیجن پلانٹ انسٹال کر رہا ہوں
اور ہر مرنے والے کے ساتھ مر رہا ہوں
میں اپنے لفظوں کے ذریعے
تمہیں سانسوں کے سیلنڈر بھیجوں گا
جو تمہیں اس جنگ میں ہارنے نہیں دیں گے
اور تمہاری دیکھ بھال کرنے
والوں کے ہاتھوں کو کانپنے نہیں دیں گے
آکسیجن اسٹاک ختم ہونے کی
خبریں گردش بھی کریں بھی تو کیا
میں تمہارے لیے
اپنی نظموں سے وینٹیلیٹر بناؤں گا
اسپتالوں کے بستر بھر بھی جائیں
کچھ لوگ تم سے بچھڑ بھی جائیں
تو حوصلہ مت ہارنا
کیوں کہ رات جتنی چاہے
مرضی کالی ہو، گزر جانے کے لئے ہوتی ہے
رنگ اتر جانے کے لئے ہوتے ہیں
اور زخم بھر جانے کے لئے ہوتے ہیں
Fatima Shafi
I never thought much about the nuances of translation until I read Rebecca Kuang’s Babel. “An act of translation is… always an act of betrayal,” she writes. And so the world became, to me, interpretable. Malleable, mercurial, its permanences not so permanent anymore. My academic research and literary interests have manifested in a persistent grapple with the influences of colonial tongues on vernacular ones, how language and literature are used to integrate a colonial culture into an indigenous one, and how their reclamation is one of the most profound means of resistance. How else would so many revolutionary movements be spearheaded by students?
I did not accidentally stumble upon Tehzeeb Haafi. I was searching for Urdu poetry that would connect me to the disconnection of my generation, that would feel like a punch to the gut. After so much research into the magnificent poetry of earlier generations, I wanted something that would situate me in the literary milieu. I was feeling left out, to be honest. And as for situatedness, well, Haafi’s nazm was just the thing.
It definitely does not adhere to classical Urdu poetic structure and form. It has none of the resplendence one typically associates with Urdu poetry. But there’s a skeletal sort of beauty the poem shines with, without all the flesh one might expect. Structurally, linguistically, it seems to reflect the hurried nature of the century – the constant turmoil, the abruptness and breathlessness. And given that it invokes themes of COVID-10, it’s not expected for Haafi to maintain the standard heavily-adorned classical Urdu poetry set.
It reads like the desperate last few breaths of a dying man. It recalls 2020, the forgotten year, the pariah of years. It forces me into the center of action, the hospital that, despite successes or failures in the battle of vaccinations, only ever saw the cost. It leaves me with a newfound appreciation of my persisting existence. A last resort on the wings of a dove, that’s what this poem is. A final laugh in the face of uncontrollable fate.
Nazm
in my dreams
I am installing an oxygen plant
and dying with every dying person.
I will use my words as a vehicle
to send you a cylinder of breaths
which won’t let you lose this war
or let those who look
after you have trembling hands.
if news of the oxygen
stock depleting threatens, so what?
for you I will
make a ventilator out of poems
if hospital beds fill up
even if people are lost to you along the way
don’t lose heart
because no matter how dark
the night it is made to pass
stains are for fading away
and wounds are for being healed over.
§
In reading this short little poem by Haafi, we find we are in a world where there is a shortage of breaths. Literally, of course, the poem evokes oxygen tank and ventilator shortages in the early era of the pandemic of 2020, but in its wake, we are left mourning many of those for whom no amount of equipment could return health or life. For those people, all we can do is “make a ventilator out of poems,” like Haafi, and live in them, reminiscent of John Donne’’s injunction to “build in sonnets pretty rooms.” But although Haafi’s language is tender like Donne’s, it is not lush like him, and the spareness of his Urdu was a challenge to convey in English. I made stanzas where there were none to insert pauses more germane to Urdu poetry. This is in part because the poem is looser with maintaining tense, as might be noted in the present tense of the first stanza and the future-oriented second and third. In the end, the poem is meant to be a balm, even as the helplessness of the speaker is evident, and we have to believe him when he says the night will pass, the stain will fade, and the wound will heal.
Nazm
In my dreams
I am installing oxygen plants
and dying with the dead
Through my words
I will send you cylinders of breath
that won’t let you fall in war
and won’t let tremble
the hands that care for you
So what if word of oxygen stocks ending
spreads loose, like wind
With my poems, for you
I will make a ventilator
Even if no hospital beds are free of bodies
Even if you never see the same faces again
let hope prevail.
Because no matter how dark the night,
it holds the promise to pass,
Colors hold the promise to fade,
And wounds hold the promise to heal.
§
Translating ‘Nazm’ by Tehzeeb Haafi posed interesting challenges, concealed at several turns along the way. While the message flowed easily from one stencil to another, difficulty arose in capturing, in English, the essence of how some lines read in Urdu. I am aware that the said “essence” may be subjective to my reading of Haafi’s poem, and my personal dialect may have lent music and meaning to the sounds in it, which is why attempting to translate my experience may not necessarily be an ambition of exactness. At the risk of losing likeness to the original word, I preferred the contours my translation added to the meaning, such as imagining “khabrain gardish bhi karain bhi tou kya” as winds running loose, like a vast sea of air delivering news of imminent failure to the survivors of war. In my imagination, the fear of losing must have shadowed them like a dark cloud. Therefore, the winds appear as an ominous presence, multiplying and spreading the singular “word” (of the oxygen supplies depleting) like a curse of hopelessness.
Another line that I reworked many times was “tum hosla mat haarna”. I had to debate against going for the obvious “Don’t lose hope” since “lose” easily converts the reference to failure in the original. However, the transliteration does not quite hold the same impact as the uplifting words of hope, in the original, for war-hardened hearts. The boost in “hosla” and “haarna”, both ending in a rising, Alif sound reaching high like a column of strength didn’t convey in the close-mouthed landing: “Don’t lose hope”. As a deviation, I reworked the words and syntax to opt for a more open-sounding word (“prevail”) to land on, that contains the weight and variety of the sonic experience in Urdu. My hope is for the readers to find enough closeness between the original poem and my translation, with rationed departures that reconcile the two tongues.
Nazm
In my dreams I am
Installing oxygen plants
And with each of the dying I am
Passing on
I will use my words
To send you cylinders of breath
That will not let you lose this fight
And will still the trembling hands
Of your caretakers
So what if there is news abroad
Of oxygen stocks running low
For you, I will construct
Ventilators out of my poetry
Even though the hospitals may by overflowing
When you next meet friends, there is no knowing
Do not lose hope,
Because no matter how black the night
It is meant to pass
Colours are meant to fade after all
And wounds are meant to heal
§
As I researched Tehzeeb Haafi for this translation, I came across his Instagram account with over a million followers, a television interview with a famous comedian, and multiple clips of the poet performing for screaming fans who chant his name as though they are at a rock concert instead of a mushaira.
Haafi is part of the new age of viral Tiktok poetry, introducing Urdu to a generation of South Asians that one would expect to be entirely disconnected from the subtleties of the language. It was tempting to think of him as the Rupi Kaur of Urdu shairi, but his versatility, and handling of structure and rhythm embarrass any comparison. However, to the Ehl-e-Zubaan, his work might invoke strong feelings – if I were to show one of his nazms to my Lucknow-born grandmother, she would be horrified at how casually he mixes English words into his verses. Still, his popularity begs the question: how much does a poet owe to the ‘purity’ of a language compared to what he owes to his readers?
He has written some poignant pieces on the COVID-19 pandemic, a time that pop culture is keen to forget. This nazm captures the strange mix of helpless despair and defiant hope that characterized the lockdown years. It could not have evoked the panic and isolation of the time without using the English words we heard so frequently while trapped indoors, unable to provide or seek any physical comfort from our loved ones.
Tehzeeb Haafi is a contemporary Urdu poet who combines the timeless beauty of classical Urdu poetry with current sensitivities. Born in 1989, his work frequently uses vivid metaphors to convey the subtleties of interpersonal relationships while resonating with sentiments of love, grief, and desire.
His spoken-word poetry and viral video recitations have garnered significant praise and earned him a large social media following, making him a keynote figure at mushairas and other literary events in Pakistan.
Haafi’s poetry embodies the romantic spirit of Urdu literature while making it approachable for the contemporary age.
Fatima Shafi is a high-school student of literature and the humanities, with a keen interest in the psychosocial forces that have shaped the postcolonial world. She’s written papers on history and philosophy, extensively researching the progressive writers’ movement in the subcontinent through a feminist lens. She posts recitations of her own poetry on TikTok under the name @fatiwritespoetry, and runs a small online hijab business called Ferozi (@ferozibyfatima on Instagram). She also drinks an exorbitant amount of tea.
Dr. Mehak F. Khan is a writer and academic, currently Assistant Professor of Global Anglophone Literature at the University of Notre Dame. She has a Ph.D. in English and Critical Theory from the University of California, Berkeley. She is also a founding editor of Tasavvur, a magazine for South Asian speculative fiction.
Asna Nusrat (she/her) is from Karachi, Pakistan. She mostly writes fiction, nonfiction, and translations in English and Urdu. Her nonfiction is about the immigrant experience, financial debts, family and disease. Her novel-in-progress follows the life of a married Pakistani woman and explores the strangeness of feminine desire, the romance in the company of objects, and the private life of a woman’s mind. She worked as an Associate Editor for Hayden’s Ferry Review from 2021-2023 and served as the Genre Editor for Translations for 2023-2024. Her translations have been published on the Thousand Languages Project website and Lakeer Magazine. She completed her MFA in Fiction from Arizona State University and is currently pursuing a PhD in Literature and Creative Writing at University of Georgia.
Sakina Hassan is a freelance writer who creates short fiction and poetry in her spare time. Her story “The Shoeshop Jinn” won the 2023 Salam Award for Imaginative Fiction. “Bodies in the Air” was longlisted for the 2023 Zeenat Haroon Writing Prize and included in their commemorative anthology collection Mightier. Her poetry has been published by The Aleph Review, And Other Poems, and Gully Collective.