Hi friend,
It’s a beautiful, breezy night in Karachi when I am sending you this. Even the eagles have broken their sleep, and are circling above me in the sky. My mother thinks God has especially blessed us when the weather is like this. As if God is actually in the wind. God is actually the wind.
I hope God especially blesses you too, wherever you are. Happy reading!
Sanna and I met virtually in the beginning of Jan 2024 through Malvika Jolly—another superstar—during the Tamaas Translation seminar among other—brilliant—South Asian poets.
I don’t know how it was for Sanna—though I think any connection of the kind we share tends to be reciprocal—but I instantly connected to her like jam to bread. Like bananas to brioche. Mmm.
We talked frequently and deeply—then—about translation, language, politics, living in third spaces (I was in New York then). We talked of Kashmir (Sanna talked and I mostly listened). We talked—unsurprisingly—of Agha Shahid Ali.
Although herself Toronto-born and based, Sanna’s poems are informed and carry the legacy of being from—of—Kashmir. And though, I have never visited her land, I have visited—rather frequently—the landscape of her language. And if that is anything to go by, I think Kashmir is beautiful. Gentle and strong. I think it truly blessed by God.
And so, friends, it gives me immense pleasure to be able to translate a couple of her poems here in Urdu. The two poems I have chosen display both technical prowess and the kind of intertextuality that has become essential to Wani’s work. She realizes how many speakers make up a poem, a landscape. And what more does a translator love?
Both the poems I will translate were first published in The Seventh Wave.
#1
A Poem is Not after Danusha Laméris an object. A thing that can be held. Not hungry for love or victory. Incapable of the law. It does not enforce. It does not uphold. It cannot witness.
Translation + Transliteration
Aik Nazm Yeh Nahin Hai koyi cheez. koyi shay jise haath mein pakra jaaye. mahabbat ya jeet ke liye bhooki. qanoon ki na-ehl. nazm jabr nahi karti. woh barqaraar nahi rakhti. woh shahaadat nahi de sakti.
Notes
This poem was deceptive because I initially thought it would be so easy to translate. Humbled me real quick on the title itself.
Some of the options were:
ایک نظم کیا نہیں ہے؟
ایک نظم نہیں ہے
نظم نہیں ہے
Basically all the many permutations and combinations you can think of with these words was in my deck. The decision to include or not “ایک” (aik / one) for “a” (since Urdu doesn’t have an equivalent to English-language articles.)
The decision is essential because of the connection the original poem makes between the title and the first line, aka, the title is part of the body of the poem. In English-language contemporary poetry, this would be idiomatic, in a sense. In Urdu, however, this is extremely unfamiliar. At one point, I was thinking of changing the form of the poem entirely and convert it into a list poem to show continuity between the title and the first line.
I eventually chose the title and kept it traditional for Urdu (i.e. one doesn't need to think that the title is the body of the poem).
In Urdu—as for English, perhaps—object and thing are synonyms. I kept it that way for Urdu as well: “چیز” (cheez) for object and “شے” (shay) for thing. Synonyms.
I made different decisions for different enjambments depending upon pace and effect. For example, I kept the first two enjambments (“thing that / can be held” and “not hungry / for love or victory”) as the original, however converted the third enjambment of the original (incapable / of the law”) into a single line in the translation. So both the words for incapable and law appear in the same line in the translation.
I did this because while the first two enjambments in the translation quicken the pace of the poem, the last one—if kept as an enjambment—would make the line length clunky + be confusing for the reader. (Try it out: qanun in the same line, just beside bhooki.) Not nice.
As in Sarah’s poem, there is a witness in this one too. I instantly knew I wanted to use the word for witness in Urdu that has a connotation of matryrdom: شہادت (shahaadat / witness).
In Urdu—then—the last line renders at least two meanings:
The poem cannot witness.
The poem cannot offer martyrdom.
#2
Kashmiri is a Dying Language
The translator says. The book says.
The news says. The other language says.
The television says. The country says.
The border says. The valley says.
The military says. The law says.
The hunger says. The village says.
The money says. The road says.
The door says. The window says.
The grass says. The river says.
The stone says. The grave says.
The future says. The ancestor says.
The past says. The poet says,
Translation + Transliteration
kashmiri zubaan koi nahi kehta
mutarjim kehta hai. kitaab kehti hai.
khabar kehti hai. doosri zubaan kehti hai.
TV kehta hai. mulk kehta hai.
sarhad kehti hai. vaadi kehti hai.
fouj kehti hai. qanoon kehta hai.
bhook kehti hai. gaon kehta hai.
paisa kehta hai. sarrak kehti hai.
darwaaza kehta hai. khirki kehti hai.
ghaas kehti hai. darya kehta hai.
pathar kehta hai. qabar kehti hai.
kal kehta hai. ajdaad kehte hain.
kal kehta hai. shayar kehta hai,Notes
Again, allow me to fangirl once again—this poem completely blows me over every time I read it. It embodies third spaces, third languages, third persons, so deliciously.
Sanna was also excited to see how I translate “a poem about translation.” No presh.
There is no particular word for “dead language” in Urdu as there is in English. A language would be considered dead when people who speak it die
(“وہ زبان جو کوئی نہیں بولتا”). I didn’t want to use “بول” (bol / say) in favor of “کہتا” (kehta / speak) for two reasons:
In Urdu, a poet speaks a poem (“شعر کہنا”)
bol is considered colloquial (even disrespectful if you ask some elders), while kehna is considered literary.
Forgive me but this once I had so much fun remembering that nouns in Urdu are gendered (same as Spanish, if you lean that way): it just gave an extra layer of variation and musicality to the poem.
River is masculine, valley is feminine. Hunger is feminine, money is masculine.
Even though both past and future have equivalent distinct words in Urdu: ماضی (maazi) and مستقبل (mustaqbil) respectively, I used the one word that can mean both: کل (kal / past / future). I made this decision for poetic purposes (repetition, ambiguity of time, etc).
If you enjoyed this, do let me know. I myself have been enjoying the hell out of this. I am also open to taking requests and/or names of poets I should collaborate with.
Fellow writers, translators, thinkers—I am hungry for what this sparks in your brain. Please do share through comment, email, letter, etc.
If you haven’t yet, do check out the other ones I have done so far. If you haven’t yet, and you like my work, do subscribe, like, share among friends, etc.
Thank you, Sanna Wani, for trusting me with this. Thank you all for giving me your precious time.
With love,
Javeria