Whispering Houses

 

Who said only haunted houses whistle, sigh, shudder, and scream? All houses talk, twitter, chat, converse, whisper and sometimes mutter to themselves. Born upon this earth, subject to age, deterioration, decay, and death; each house has a body and a soul, and has got feelings.

Houses keep chatting all the time to socialise with neighbours or to keep boredom at bay, though at a decibel level below human threshold.

House-to-House Talk

House No. A3: Hi, A6, how are you? Feeling better now? Do the new residents treat you well? Are you happy?

A6: I’m good. How about you? Yes, the new tenants are caring, almost like foster-parents. Locked up for so many years, I was suffocating. The spiders- big, black, hairy ones- had taken over the interiors; the jungle mouse, toads from the swamp, and snakes lived in the garden reclaimed by nature with tall grass and wild plants.

A3: Why was that? Had your parents abandoned you?

A6: (Sighs) Well, the stars could have been misaligned at my birth.

A3: Why do you say that?

A6: Orphaned since birth. My parents never spent even a day with me. You know how that feels, don’t you?

A3: Of course, I do. Suffered the same dejection and desolation for twelve years since birth. Vacant for years, ill-treated by occupants, some of whom were notional tenants since they paid a token rent, and the others freeloaders. Tell me whoever pours acid on the white marble floor in the bathroom or permits a pet Alsatian to chew the teak door?

But my misery ended when my parents moved in. They’re very fond of me. In fact, I’m their only child who lives with them.

A6: You’re lucky.

A3: How about your parents? Do they plan to live with you?

A6: How should I know? When they conceived me, they were oh-so-thrilled; spent much time planning our happy years in the future: morning tea on the north-western balcony overlooking the little lake fringed with verdant green filled with birdsong; reading a novel in the afternoon while gently rocking on the swing in the flower-scented garden; enjoying the delicious mangoes and chikoos (no, none of my parents have diabetes) in season, and garden-fresh vegetables in all seasons. Jhilmil sitaron ka angan hoga, rimjhim baras-ta savan hoga ….

Indeed, they ushered me into this world with much pride and elation. Then, they left the town, never to return. I’ve heard they have a better house, and a better life in a much bigger city.

But do they get to watch the iridescent blue sky from their bedroom, wake up at the kingfisher’s trilling call, inhale the gladness of the salubrious morning breeze uncontaminated by toxic fumes and caressed by the faint tunes of a distant flutist?

Why would they return to me – a decaying body with creaking joints and flagging muscles; and located in this forlorn, neglected colony lacking basic civic amenities. Just the approach road, more potholes than road, would deter anyone; how could I blame my old parents?

A3: Happiest day in your life?

A6: Griha Pravesh Day- my first birthday. All decked up with buntings and balloons and my soul sanctified with the pandit’s holy chanting. How blessed I was, how much loved by my doting parents, and admired by the select invitees. Owner’s pride, neighbours’ envy!

A3: Your saddest day?

A6: During one of his rare visits, my parent was asked, ‘Do you plan to sell it?’ and he said, ‘I may, if the offer is good.’ I know he will. I’m no heirloom, just an investment.

A3: Your worst fears?

A6: Old age, failing health, festering sores on my body, Peepul plants drilling determined roots into my fissures. End-of-life anxiety. Would I give up my soul grieving for my mother like the delicate Swarna champa tree?

A3: What happened to her?

A6: Planted lovingly by mother, she grew big and was laden every year with fragrant flowers loved by gods. I’ll wait for twenty years for my mother to return and caress me, but no longer, she had resolved. She just shrivelled and died thereafter.

A3: Any wish before you are signed away by your parents, and pulled down for a spanking new mansion by a money-bag?

A6: Sparkling laughter, prattle of babies, patter of their cotton-candy pink feet – cool kisses on my cheeks; and for my parents to live with me for at least a day and a night. Who knows they may get to know of my feelings, and rekindle their lost love for me?

 Human Chat on WhatsApp

‘I wish we lived in the house we built with so much care. The air is cleaner than in this mega-city.’

‘Yes, I guess you’d have enjoyed living in your own house.’

‘For the last fifty years, we have lived in houses built by others. Never stayed a day in any of our three houses in three different cities.

I wish we had been living next door watching the same rivulet like you, dear friend. हर घर पर लिखा है रहने वाले का नाम!’

‘We wish you lived here. But I guess a house chooses who will stay there.’

‘You are right. We have never stayed in any of the houses we own. Looking forward, I fear about how our children would dispose of these houses; or, by the immutable laws of nature, these would go back to anonymity as every inch of land we occupy was once someone else’s.’

‘So true. Pointless to worry about possessing tiny parcels of land and the midget mansions we build on it.’

How Much Land Does a Man Need?

A peasant named Pahom becomes obsessed with acquiring land. Hearing of plenty of virgin land at unbelievably cheap rates, he travels far to the land of the Bashkirs where he is heartily welcomed.

He asked the Chief: How much land may I buy?

‘As much as you want.’

Barely able to hide his excitement, he asked, ‘What’s the rate, please?’

‘A thousand roubles a day.’

‘I don’t understand. What’s the rate per acre?’

‘We don’t sell by the acre. It’s a thousand roubles a day. As much land as you can walk around and mark with a spade in a day. From your chosen point, you begin walking when the sun rises, and must return there by sunset, failing which you forfeit your one thousand roubles.’

Pahom walks fast and covers a vast area, but with the sun about to set he runs in a frenzy, falling dead with the end point only a few feet away.

The story ends by answering the query in the title:

‘Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed.’

(Cover page of Tolstoy's story; Image Source -Wiki)

दो गज़ ज़मीन (Do Gaz Zameen)

kitnā hai bad-nasīb 'zafar' dafn ke liye

do gaz zamīn bhī na milī kū-e-yār meñ

कितना है बद-नसीब 'ज़फ़र' दफ़्न के लिए

दो गज़ ज़मीन भी न मिली कू-ए-यार में

कू-ए-यार - the street where the beloved lives, and in this verse – the beloved motherland.

“How unfortunate is Zafar, for even in death, he was deprived of two yards of land in his beloved country.”

A poignant sher by Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal Emperor of India, conveying his deep sorrow and longing for his homeland.

A Quote

"All happy families are alike, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." (Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy)

Maybe, all happy houses are alike, and each unhappy house is unhappy in its own way.

Resources & References

• How Much Land Does a Man Need? A short story (1914) by Leo Tolstoy. Link: https://www.owleyes.org/text/how-much-land-does-man-need
• Do Gaz Zameen, a Radio Play (1984) by AIR, a Hindi adaptation of Tolstoy’s story. Link: https://youtu.be/qeiK2_zue8k?si=_7RFblyeEJt437cS
• Bahadur Shah Zafar’s poignant lament; Rekhta.org

• Co-Pilot

 

Dear Departed Friend!

Are you free tomorrow morning? Please have tea with me at 11.00 AM.

That was an invitation I could not resist. I went over to his place, and we had a little chit-chat over tea. Always a pleasure to spend time with him, a raconteur par excellence with a treasure-trove of delightful anecdotes of a bygone era.

Mr. Manohar Keshav had joined the IAS in 1953, before I was born. The senior-most colleague in Madhya Pradesh cadre, he comes immaculately dressed to all get-togethers hosted by our Association, and loves to make friends with the youngest officers. Recently, he and his spouse graciously hosted an enjoyable High Tea for the 2022 Batch officers at their home.

Will you do me a favour, please, he asked?

Sure, Sir. What is it?

Please translate a small poem for me. It is in Urdu.

Humbled, but also alarmed by his faith in an untested translator, I protested: But I don’t know Urdu!

Of course, you do. One who knows Hindi also knows Urdu, in a way. Let me read it for you.

He picked up a slim volume from the side-table, opened the flag-marked page, and read it out. A touching poem by Faiz Ahmad Faiz.

During his visit to Bhopal in 1982, Faiz stayed with us; and this is an anthology of selected Urdu poems, compiled and edited by Ali Sardar Jafri (1913 – 2000), himself an eminent Urdu poet. A gift from Sardar Jafri, and autographed by him, he said, and showed the autograph. Mr. Keshav has a rich collection of Urdu literature.

I got the gist of the poem. It is about grief, a sad song in memory of a dear, departed friend, I said, but I don’t know the meaning of several words, a few of which I haven’t even heard before. May I read the poem, please?

Do you read Arabic? The anthology was in Arabic script.

No, I don’t.

Which words are unfamiliar to you, he asked?

He read the poem once again, and paused whenever I wanted the meaning for a particular word.

May I attempt the translation right away while memory is fresh?

He gave me a sheet of blank paper, read the poem once again line by line, and I made a first draft. My handwriting is awful, don’t even try to read it, I said, and read it out for him. He suggested a few changes after which I copied it to a second sheet, the final draft.

Faiz’s original poem is placed below. No idea for which departed friend Faiz wrote this poignant elegy. His biographers might know.

नौहा - फ़ैज़ अहमद फ़ैज़

मुझ को शिकवा है मिरे भाई कि तुम जाते हुए

ले गए साथ मिरी उम्र-ए-गुज़िश्ता की किताब

इस में तो मेरी बहुत क़ीमती तस्वीरें थीं

इस में बचपन था मिरा और मिरा अहद-ए-शबाब

इस के बदले मुझे तुम दे गए जाते जाते

अपने ग़म का ये दमकता हुआ ख़ूँ-रंग गुलाब

क्या करूँ भाई ये एज़ाज़ में क्यूँ-कर पहनूँ

मुझ से ले लो मिरी सब चाक क़मीसों का हिसाब

आख़िरी बार है लो मान लो इक ये भी सवाल

आज तक तुम से मैं लौटा नहीं मायूस-ए-जवाब

आ के ले जाओ तुम अपना ये दमकता हुआ फूल

मुझ को लौटा दो मिरी उम्र-ए-गुज़िश्ता की किताब

***

Meaning of words unfamiliar to me:

उम्र-ए-गुज़िश्ता – past life  अहद-ए-शबाब – youth   ख़ूँ-रंग – colour of blood, red  

एज़ाज़ – marvel, miracle, honour, esteem, respect  चाक – torn, tattered   क़मीसों – shirts  

बार  – load, burden  मायूस-ए-जवाब – disappointing answer

Rekhta.org

The lyrics in Hindi are sourced from rekhta.org, an excellent portal for Urdu literature for the cognoscenti, and for a novice like me. A few years ago, struggling to make sense of Hafeez Jalandhari’s ‘abhi toh mein jawan hoon’, I texted my friend Anjuly a few times for meaning of unfamiliar Urdu words in the poem. She said, ever so helpful, unfailingly polite, and without any irritation: why don’t you look up the poem in rekhta.org.? Just click the word you do not know, and the meaning pops up readily. I checked, and was delighted.  Thanks, Anjuly, for telling me about Rekhta! If you love Urdu literature, you may find this portal very helpful.

Lament

(Translation of Faiz Ahmad Faiz’s ‘Nouha’ by this author)

I am aggrieved,

Dear Friend, Soul-mate, Brother,

For you departed

With my treasured Book of Life,

Filled with priceless memories,

Of childhood and youth;

Bidding adieu, you left for me,

Grief - a deep, raw, gaping wound,

This flaring blood-red rose,

A return gift;

Of what use is this marvel,

Treasure of lost love,

How can I bring myself to wear it on my lapel?

Much easier for me

To count all our torn and tattered shirts.

Let me burden you with this final query,

Never have I received from you

A disappointing, hurtful response;

Dear Friend, Soul-mate, Brother,

Take back your flaming flower,

Return my Book of Life,

Filled with precious pictures,

Of our shared joys and sorrows

Of childhood and youth.

***

After finishing the job, I asked: why do you need an English translation?

Saturday Club is hosting a condolence meeting for Late K. S. Dhillon, one of the Founder members of the club, a very dear friend, and my neighbour. I wish to read the English translation of Faiz’s poem in honour of my dear, departed friend. Many in the audience may not fully understand the Urdu nazm.

K.S.Dhillon

Mr. Kirpal Singh Dhillon (1929 – 2018), a distinguished IPS officer (MP:1953) served as Director General of Police, Madhya Pradesh, and Punjab. He has authored ‘Defenders of the Establishment: Ruler-supportive Police Forces of South Asia’ and ‘Time Present and Time Past: Memoirs of a Top Cop.’ After retirement, he also served as Vice-Chancellor of Bhopal University, and was later elected a fellow of the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies, Shimla.

Kirpal Singh Dhillon (1929 – 2018)

Okay, I will type it on my laptop, and send you a printed copy, I said, and took leave. That was the first ever Urdu poem, and the only one that I have translated till date.

He read the poem with great feeling at the condolence meeting. A touching tribute to his friend. All of us were moved by a fond remembrance through this poignant elegy of love and loss, of memories sweet and sour, of joy and sorrow.

Manohar Keshav, now in his 96th year, is the senior-most member of IAS Association, Madhya Pradesh.

Faiz Ahmad Faiz

Faiz Ahmad Faiz (1911 – 1984) was one of the most celebrated Urdu writers of his time. After studying Arabic and English literature at college, he began his career as a lecturer in English, then joined the army, and thereafter journalism.

His nazms – ‘hum bhi dekhenge (sung beautifully by Iqbal Bano, You Tube),’ and ‘bol ki lab āzād haiñ tere, bol zabāñ ab tak terī hai’ are hugely popular anthems of protest.

Another Faiz poem मुझ से पहली सी मोहब्बत मिरी महबूब न माँग  ( soulful singing by Noor Jehan, available in You Tube) inspired a great Bollywood song. Here is the little anecdote about how that happened. Raj Khosla was a Faiz-fan, and upon Raj’s insistence, Mazrooh Sultanpuri sought and obtained Faiz’s consent to use a line from the above-mentioned song - तेरी आँखों के सिवा दुनिया में रक्खा क्या है – and wrote the lyrics for a timeless song in Chirag (1969).

Faiz Ahmad Faiz (1911 – 1984)

A Note on the Translation

What do you think of my translation? No need to tell, I kind of know. Why, what more did you expect from a non-Urdu, non-Hindi, non-English speaking desperado venturing into the very difficult task of translating Urdu poetry to English?

I have made a rudimentary translation based on my limited understanding, and Mr. Keshav’s patient explanation. Proficient Urdu readers may have a different appreciation of the poem, and others may find much better translations on the net.

***