What is it about Gandhi — born 156 years ago in a world altogether different from ours, killed 78 years ago in a newly-independent India — that still resonates with the Urdu poet/writer of today?
First, a sampling from some recent works, and then a search for answers.
In a long, lyrical ghazal, Nushhur Wahidi speaks of Gandhi as a light that cannot be snuffed out, as a life force that will always show the way, as a treasure that can never be pillaged: Woh hamesha ke liye chup hue magar ik jahan ko zabaan dii/ Woh hamesha ke liye so gaye magar ik jahan ko jaga diya (He was silenced forever but he gave voice to a world/ He went to sleep forever but he awakened a world).
Writing especially on the occasion of Gandhi’s birth, Kanval Dibaivi speaks with the pride of ownership, that a man such as Gandhi was “ours”: Watan ke aasman par ek rakhshanda sitara thhe/ Hamein ye fakhr hai ahl-e-jahaan mein Gandhi hamare thhe (He was a resplendent star in the country’s firmament/ We are proud that among all the people in the world, Gandhi was ours).
Nazish Pratapgarhi seizes upon the occasion of Gandhi Jayanti to exhort his country to remember all that Gandhi stood for: love for fellow beings, peace for all mankind, and, above all, the creed of ahimsa (non-violence). And forsaking all the bloodshed, hatred, violence, enmity, and ill-will of past years, the poet urges his people to take a pledge on this special day to replenish and renew: Phir apne zehnon mein lahkao dosti ka chaman/ Phir apni saanson se mahkao pyaar ka madhuban/ Phir apne kaamon se chamkao sar-zameen-e-watan (Once again, let the garden of friendship bloom in your mind/ Once again, let the forest of love become fragrant with your breath/ Once again let the soil of your motherland be burnished with your deeds).
To the generations of Indian children who have seen the photograph of Gandhi hanging on a wall, for whom the Father of the Nation is little more than a quaint, smiling, toothless figure in a loincloth, clutching a stick, here’s Ataur Rehman Tariq writing about the country’s collective mahapita (great father): Bachcho tum ne Bapu ki tasveer to dekhi hogi/ Eik nazar mein samjhoge tum un ko budha jogi (Children, you must have seen the picture of Bapu/ At first glance, you’d have taken him for an old ascetic).
No talk of Gandhi’s life is possible without a mention of his death, the manner in which he was killed. Here’s Gulzar, a poet with a distinctly modern sensibility, presenting a harsh truth in a uniquely modern, straightforward way. Without mincing words, and with great economy of expression, he is saying that just as Gandhi’s legacy lives, so does that other, opposing view that killed him: Sawa gaz aasmaan odhe huwe sar pe/ Badan par eik langoti lapete/ prarthana le liye nikla thha baahar/ Kisi ne aagey badh kar/ Tamancha rakh diya seene pe yeh keh ke/ Tumhari raaye se sehmat nahi hoon main/ Tamancha chal raha hai –/ Woh raaye marti nahi hai! (Wearing a yard-and-a-quarter of the sky on his head/ A loincloth wrapped around his body/ He had come out for prayer/ Someone stepped forward and/ Placing a pistol on his chest, said:/ “I do not agree with your opinion!”/ That pistol is still firing —/ That opinion does not die).
And now for a search for answers as to why Gandhi remains relevant in a world that has changed so dramatically, and not always for the better, since he lived. What is the reason for his enduring appeal?
Charkh Chinoiti offers some clues: Bapu ne har insan ko insaan samjha/ Bahbuudi-e-har-fard ko iman samjha/ Injeel ko Quran ko aur Gita ko seene se lagaya/ Unhein yaksaan samjha (Bapu treated every human being as a human/ Regarded the welfare of every individual as his faith/ Be it the Bible, or the Quran, or the Gita/ He held them to his bosom as equal).
Abrar Kiratpuri, better known as a poet of hamd (praise of God) and naat (devotional poetry honouring the Prophet), writes a lovely short poem telling us why we should remember this rahbar (guide), who showed us the way of desh-bhakti (patriotism): Dosti ka sabaq de gaya/ Mar ke javed woh ho gaya (He left a lesson of friendship/ He became undying after dying).
That Gandhi is alive and well in the modern writer’s imagination is evident from this very short story by the Hindi writer Asghar Wajahat; so keen is its rapier-sharp insight, so deep the well of belief from which it springs that it gives one fresh reasons to hope.
The spirits come to Shah Alam Camp after midnight. One night, an old man’s spirit comes along with all the other spirits. The old man’s body is naked save for a skimpy loincloth. He wears chappals on his feet and holds a wooden staff in his hand. An old-fashioned fob watch peeps from the folds of his loincloth. Someone asks the old man, “Are you too looking for a relative here in this camp?”
The old man replies, “Yes, and no.” The others leave him alone, taking him for a senile old man. The old man walks round and round the camp.
Someone again asks the old man, “Baba, whom are you looking for?”
The old man says, “I am looking for someone who can kill me.”
“Why?”
“I was killed fifty years ago by a bullet. Now, I want the rioters to burn me alive.”
“But, why do you want that, Baba?”
“Simply to tell the world that I was not killed by their bullet, nor will I die if they burn me alive.”
Rakhshanda Jalil is a writer, translator, and literary historian. The views expressed are personal
