Gods would keep coming one after the other

Till finally, fed up, the brain said there’s no God

Writing the introduction to his collected works, Kaifi begins thus: ‘What I can say with conviction about myself is simply that I was born in subjugated India and grew old in independent India and will die in a socialist India. These are not the ravings of a lunatic nor the dream of a crazy idealist. My poetry and I have always been associated with socialism for which a great struggle has been going on for a long time in India and the world over. My poetry is born out of this very conviction.’ Kaifi did not die in a socialist India and the Red Revolution that he and his fellow progressives had longed for and sung in many a passionate and rousing song never materialized. Perhaps it was this that made him cry out in anguish:

Koi to sood chukaye koi to zimma ley

Uss inquilab ka jo aaj tak udhaar sa hai

Someone should pay the interest, someone must own up

To that revolution that is still due till today

* * *

Love and romance run like warp through the woof of politics and protest in Kaifi’s poetry. This collection chooses to focus on poems that reflect Kaifi’s views on women and romance. As in all selections, this too is subjective. And, as in all things in a poet’s life and career, there is growth and movement in Kaifi’s portrayal of women. If there is an early poem such as ‘Bewa ki Khudkushi’ (‘A Widow’s Suicide’) and ‘Doshiza Malan’ (‘The Virginal Flower Girl’), there is also the powerful, stirring, anthem-like ‘Aurat’ (‘Woman’) written while he is still a young man. Sweetly lyrical poems such as ‘Pehla Salaam’ (‘The First Greeting’) and ‘Andeshe’ (‘Anxious Thoughts’) or ‘Pashemani’ (Regret’) are juxtaposed with robust portrayals of womanhood in ‘Behroopni’ (‘She of the Many Faces’) and ‘Garbhwati’ (‘The Pregnant Woman’). Taken together, they give a new meaning to the ‘male gaze’, how a man views women.

Translating Kaifi does not come without its share of perils. There is a sangeetmayata, a musicality, a sweet lyricism even in the most rousing of his poetry. There is also a completely idiosyncratic use of syntax, one that defies the conventions of prosody and a liberal use of the natural pauses that Urdu allows. All of this is enough to make an unwary translator trip over a seemingly simple nazm such as:

Tum pareshaan na ho baab-e-karam vaa na karo

Aur kuchh der pukaarungaa chala jaaungaa

Usii kuuche mein jahaan chaand ugaa karte hain

Shab-e-taariik guzaarungaa chala jaaungaa

Or this film lyric that sounds so haunting and poignant in the voice of Lata Mangeshkar:

Betaab dil ki tamanna yehi hai

Tumhey chaaheingey tumhey puujeingey

Tumhey apna Khuda banaeingey