An individual’s passion for poetry is not a matter to be questioned. It, however, becomes problematic when that love becomes a proselytising obsession to convert others to one’s creed. And, things get out of control when a mere connoisseur takes on the responsibility of translating the verses of the greats.
This is exactly what mars Humsafar, an anthology of Urdu shayari, compiled and edited by Hitesh Gupta, who wields the nom de plume, Aadil. The book is purportedly meant for the novice to demystify the forms and conventions of Urdu poetry; an initiation of sorts into appreciating its subtle nuances.
On the surface, Aadil’s book ticks all the boxes. He has put together a selection of over 150 pieces, including nazm, rubaai and ghazals by 40 major poets, who lived between the mid-18th and 20th centuries.
The female voice too has been given noteworthy space. What, however, is jarring is the utter lack of feeling for words—both Urdu and English. The introduction is full of clichés and platitudes. Sample this: “Mirza Ghalib is the apostle of Urdu poetry for past, present and future generations.” Adil’s translations are brutally literal—the poems appear as skeletons, lifeless and drained of all lyricism and haunting imagery. Titles have been mutilated in a manner, which will put off any reader, who has encountered them in the pristine original form. Majrooh Sultanpuri, Ahmed Faraz and Faiz, all suffer equally in this travesty of a collection.
Aadil obviously believes that offence is the best defence, and tries to preempt criticism of his translations by expounding on his philosophy of the act. He states that there is always a battle between “what sounds right” versus “actual thoughts”, and underscores that he has given primacy to the latter.
Translation is a form of art where even angels fear to tread, but it is inexplicable how, lesser mortals, armed with a lughat (dictionary), feel emboldened to rush in. Going by this anthology, the realm of Urdu poetry appears to be an arid wasteland.
The question that needs to be asked before we conclude is: “Is there a need for such a work, especially when the works of great Urdu poets are easily available both in Hindi and English?” An apt example would be the series of major Urdu poets, edited by author Prakash Pandit, which carried a useful introduction to their lives and works. Difficult Urdu words were explained in colloquial Hindi. Some may quibble it was mere transliteration, but that criticism is grossly unfair. Author KC Kanda, on whose anthology Humsafar has relied, to some extent, made available to the non-Hindi reader some of the oft-quoted Urdu verse. Publishers such as Jnanpith, Rajpal and Raj Kamal have always kept the works of Ghalib, Meer, Zauq and Dagh among others in circulation, along with compilations on major literary figures by authoritative scholars. Writer Saif Mahmood too has edited a sparkling selection, which brings to life the story of Delhi through its poets. Besides, ever since the Rekhta Foundation launched in 2013, rich resources in the language can be accessed on the Internet for free. Given the rich trove, the reviewer is compelled to wonder: Why did Aadil have to embark on the well-trodden path?
The volume, small in size, is hard-bound, and is also available as an e-book. It is priced steeply for the foreign market, but differentially for the Indian one. Yet, one can’t help but sympathise with the innocent over-enthusiastic reader, who spends their hard-earned money on what appears to be an exercise in vanity publishing. There are better ways to serve the cause of Urdu.