Ye pukar saare chaman main thi, vo sahar hui vo sahar hui,
Mere ashiya’n se dhua’n utha to mujhe bhi is ki khabar hui
(There were calls everywhere of the impending dawn
as smoke rose from my home, I also came to know about it)
Kaleem Aajiz
“itna musalman to hun k maara ja sakun (I am Muslim enough to be murdered)”, Manto is famously quoted saying when leaving India for Pakistan. Manto’s work does not talk a lot about his experiences as a Muslim but Manto was reduced to his immediate religious identity in that moment. Which Indian Muslim does not resonate to this feeling? The moments when your personal politics, your ideologies, how you see life—does not matter and vulnerability and otherness takes over the conversation. To put it outrightly, it does not matter, whether you are a practicing Muslim or not—our system will remind you of your Muslimness in more ways than one—the most traumatic of them being violence.
Recently, while the discussion around demuslimization of Maulana Rumi was gaining momentum, I was going through a collection of poetry of Dr. Bashir Badr, it suddenly stuck with me how we often reduce him to romantic poetry, taking cue from Maulana Rumi’s romanticization. Dr. Badr was born in Babri Masjid’s Faizabad, now Ayodhya, is a poet bearing the trauma of Anti-Muslim Meerut violence. The side of him where he rose from the ashes of Meerut and shifted to Bhopal, where his unpublished work got destroyed in the violence are seldom talked about. This is the poet who famously wrote:
log toot jaate hain, ek ghar banane main,
tum taras nahi khaate bastiya’n jalane main
(people break to build a single home
You don’t feel sorry for burning settlements)
Further, at a mushaira in Karachi, before narrating this sher to his audience, he added how he cannot narrate it in his own homeland i.e. India:
faakhta ki majboori ye bhi keh nahi sakti,
kon saanp rakhta hai uske aashiyaane main
(how helpless the bird is, cannot even tell
who put snakes in her abode)
One of his works aptly illustrates the pain of proving Indian-ess and to not be the “other” in your own homeland:
Hindustan ka sachcha wafadaar kon hai?
Hindustan ka sachcha wafadaar main hi hun,
Qabron se pooch asl zamin’daar main hi hun
Dariya k sath wo to samandar main beh gaya
Mitti main milke mitti ka haqdaar main hi hun
(Who is the true loyalist of India?
I am the true loyalist of India.
Ask the graves, who is the real landlord
With the river, he was swept away in the ocean
Merged with the soil, entitled to the soil I am)
The ghost of Babur still haunts the collective manufactured memory of the majority swiftly turning it into collective conscience. The Babri Masjid Demolition, still afresh in the minds, is often known to be a turning point in Indian political landscape but Babri Masjid demolition had far greater ramifications than just a political clickbait—in the minds and hearts of people—often projected through art. “We had a dream in 1947 about the kind of country we wanted to be. That collapsed over a period of time but the actual last stroke to me, personally, when the Babri Masjid came down,” Saeed Akhtar Mirza says about his film Naseem (1994), a movie portraying the everlasting mark the Babri Masjid demolition left in the minds of all Indian Muslims—irrespective in which ideological cube you place them—progressive, conservative, etc. Akhtar, in 1989, i.e. even before the Babri incident remarkably portrayed the anti-Muslim atmosphere that was already thriving in another of his work, Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro which ends with a memorable dialogue, “mera naam Salim hai, Hindustani hai mai, mere ko ijjat se jeene ka hai (My name is Salim, I am Indian, I want to live a life of respect).” But did these Salims ever receive respect? Our shared testimonies tell a different story.
Coming back to Urdu poetry, poet and scientist Dr. Gauhar Raza, in his poem Ram Mandir (Ram Temple), wrote:
Ke Jis Mandir Ka Gara Khoon Men Goondha Gaya Ho
Ke Jis Ki Saree Eeten,
Bastiyon Men Aag Sulga Kar
Pakaee Ja Rahee Hon
Ke Jis Ki Ghantiyon Men
Siskiyan, Aah-O-Buka, Cheekhen
Piroee Ja Rahi Hon
Ke Jis Mandir Ke Bunyaaden,
Watan Ki Sab Zadon Ko Khod Kar Tameer Ki Janyen
Ke Jis Ke Rang-O-Raughan Ko
Hazaron Aurtoon Ki Mang Ke Sindoor Ki
Wahshi Zaroorat Ho
Ke Jis Ke Patharon Men
Naqsh Jab Ubhren, To Yun Ubhren
Nazar Aaye
Kisi Masoom Ki Bindee
Kisi Majboor Ki Aahen
Kisi Burhe Ki Ummeeden
Kisi Kamsin Jawani Ki
Sisakti Aakhri Sansen
Use ‘Maryada Purshottam Ka Mandir’
Nam Dena Pap Hoga
Karo Tum Pap
Karte Hi Rahe Ho
Magar Mujh Se To Ye Hargiz Na Ho Ga
Men Us Ko ‘Ram Ka Mandir’ Naheen Keh Paoon Ga Hargiz.
Naheen Keh Paoon Ga Hargiz.
Naheen Keh Paoon Ga Hargiz.
(A temple built
With mortar kneaded in blood
bricks fired in burning ghettos
and with its tolling bells,
screaming with cries, lamentation, sobbing.
A temple rising
from torn, uprooted foundations of the land
sucking, vampire like,
the vermilion from a thousand foreheads.
its grotesquely carved stones
etched deep with the
cries of the oppressed,
dead hopes of an old man and
the dyeing breath of a young life,
cruelly smothered.
It is sin
to name a temple such as this,
The abode of Ram
You may,
Sinning comes naturally to you.
But I will
Never be able
to call it
The temple of Ram)
Post Babri Masjid demolition on the 06 December, 1992; Kaifi Azmi wrote Dusra Ban-bas (The Second Exile):
paanv sarju main abhi raam ne dhoe bhi na the
ki nazar aae wahan khuun ke gahre dhabbe
paanv dhoe bina sarju ke kinare se uthe
raam ye kahte hue apne duware se uthe
rajdhani ki faza aai nahi raas mujhe
chhe december ko mila dusra banbaas mujhe
(Ram had not even washed feet in River Sarayu yet
When he saw dark blood stains
rose from the side of the Sarayu without washing
getting up and saying
I do not like the ambience of the capital
I have gotten the second exile on the 6th of December)
With another poem of his, Dr. Raza questioned the religiosity of those who only worship their hate, he writes:
Lahoo main doobe yeh haath kab tak?
Kahen ge khud ko dharam ka chaalak
Khuda-e-bartar ka naam leva
Manu ke qadmon pe chalne wale
Tere hi naare lagaa lagaa kar
Tere gharon ko gira gira kar
Tere hi bandon ka qatl kar ke
Ye bastiyon ko jala jala kar
Lahoo main doobe yeh haath kab tak?
(For how long will these blood-dripping hands
Call themselves the managers of faith?
The upholders of God?
But follow the footsteps of Manu
How long will they
In your name
Demolish thy houses
slaughter thy flock
and destroy shelters?
arrogantly laying claim
on your inheritance
of love, piety, prayer.
How long?)
A young Dr. Rahat Indori in early 1990s recited in his distinctive energetic style:
Aur hain kuch din nafrat k ye daftar vaftar sab
Laathi waathi topi wopi naykar waykar sab
(left are only some days of hate, of offices,
of batons, of caps, of knickers)
Post 9/11, the anti-Muslim rhetoric throughout the world gained momentum, India obviously was also affected. With the introduction of stringent terror provisions, rather draconian, the story of targeting young Muslim boys unfolded. In 2008, when young Muslim men were acquitted from the Mecca Masjid Blast case, Dr. Raza wrote Shiddatpasand (Extremist):
ki jis ko tana diya tha tum ne
ki us ke mazhab ki kokh qatil ugal rahi hai
wo maa ki jis ka jawan beta
tumhaare wahm-o-guman ki aandhi mein gum hua hai
tumhaare badle ki aag jis ko nigal gai hai
wo dekho ab tak bilak rahi hai
wo muntazir hai
koi to kandhe pe hath rakkhe
kahe ki hum ne bhi qatilon ki kahaniyon par
yaqin kiya tha
kahe ki hum ne gunah kiya tha
kahe ki maa hum ko muaf kar do
(the one you taunted
that his religion is giving birth to terrorists
the mother whose young son
has vanished in the winds of your delusions
whom you have swallowed in the fire
of your hatred
look, that mother is still lamenting
she awaits
a hand on her shoulder
a voice which says
that yes, we believed in the stories of murderers
that yes, we sinned
that o mother, forgive us)
Munawwar Rana, the famous Urdu poet, wrote:
Me dehshat-gard tha marne pe beta bol sakta hai
Hukumat ke ishare par to murda bol sakta hai
Kai chehre abhi tak muh zabani yad he isko
Kahi Tum puchh mat lena ye gunga bol sakta hai
Hukumat ki tawajjoh chahti hai ye jali basti
Adalat puchhna chahe to malba bol sakta hai
Adalat me gawahi ke liye lashe nahi aati
Wo aankhe bujh chuki he fir bhi chashma bol sakta hai
Bahot si kursiya is mulk me lashon pe rakhi hein
Ye wo sach hai jise jhute se jhuta bol sakta hai
(I was a terrorist, a son can say after his death
at the behest of the government, even the dead can speak
he still remembers by heart many faces
don’t ask, even the dumb will speak
this burnt ghetto seeks government’s attention
If the court wants to ask, even the debris can speak
Deadbodies do not appear in the court to testify
Those eyes are extinguished but the glasses will speak
A lot of thrones are placed on the deadbodies in this country
This is the truth that even a liar will speak)
Manzar Bhopali, another famous Urdu poet, wrote:
Yahan Gunah Hawa Kay Chupaaye Jaate Hain
Chiragh Khud Nahi Bujhte Bujhaye Jaate Hain,
Ye kesa qarz hai nafrat ka kam nahi hota,
Ye badhta jaata hai jitna chukayen jaate hain
(concealed are the sins of the wind here
lamps do not extinguish themselves,
are compelled to extinguish,
Never decreases such is the debt of hate
It grows more the more it gets paid)
Dr. Indori, capturing the frustration within the community and condescension from outside, wrote:
Ab kahan dhoondne jaoge humare qatil
Aap to qatl ka ilzaam humi pe rakh do
Apni pehchaan mitaane ko kaha jaata hai
Bastiya’n chord k jaane ko kaha jaata hai
Pattiyan roz gira jaati hain zehreeli hawa
Aur hume ped lagane ko kaha jaata hai
(Where will you find our murderers now
put the blame of our murder on us
we are asked to erase our identity
asked to leave the ghettos
poisonous wind make the leaves fall everyday
and we are asked to plant more trees)
From Malikzaada Manzoor Ahmad’s dekhoge to har mod pe mil jayengen laashen, dhundoge to is shehar main qaatil na milega (look and you will find dead bodies at every turn, search and you will not find a murderer in this city) to Irfan Sattar’s Main jaag jaag ke kis kis ka intizar karun, Jo log ghar nahi laute mar gaye hongen (For whom should I be awake and wait?, those who did not return home must have died) to Kamil Bahzadi’s Is qadr maine sulagte hue ghar dekhe hain, Ab to chubhne lage aakhon main ujaale mujhko (smoldering houses I have seen so many, O light, you prick my eyes now), the shadows of communal trauma is inevitable.
The pain in poetry of contemporary poets like Manzar Bhopali, Rahat Indori, Bashir Badr, is often seen to be fuelled by the loss and trauma post 1992. Young poets like Hussain Haidry who got into prominence with his poem Hindustani Musalman (Indian Muslim) to Aamir Aziz’s Sab Yaad Rakha Jayega (Everything will be Remembered)— No generation of Indian Muslims sans the shadows of communal trauma and anti-Muslim violence. Every generation, very systematically and efficiently, is reminded of its place in our society. Naturally, there is something in poetry that is unsettling for the oppressors—it turns testimonies into shared history. It keeps reminding people of the pain they have felt, the pain their people have felt, the same pain that their ancestors had felt—datas and reports do not do this. This human element of trauma is what the oppressor fears.
Anyhow, Indian Muslim poetry, with contours of memories of violence also has remarkable hues of resistance. Dr. Rahat Indori, famously wrote:
Lagegi aag to aayengen ghar kayi zadd main,
Yahan pe sirf humara makaan thodi hai
Main jaanta hun k dushman bhi kam nahi lekin
humari tarha hateli pe jaan thodi hai
Jo aaj sahib e masnad hain kal nahi hongen
Kiraaye daar hain zaati makan thodi hai
Sabhi ka khoon hai shamil yahan ki mitti main
Kisi kay baap ka Hindustan thodi hai
(If there is a fire, many houses will get affected
It’s not only our house that is here
I know that the enemy is no less but
he can’t put his life at stake like us
Those who possess the throne today
will not be here tomorrow
tenants they are, not landlords
Everyone’s blood is in this soil
India does not belong to anyone’s father)
These lines gained quite popularity during the Anti-CAA/NRC Protests in India. During one CAA-NRC poet-protest meeting in Hyderabad, Manzar Bhopali recited:
Rang laata hai lahu mazloomon ka
Haal har haal main zalim ka bura hota hai
Aap har daur ki tareeq utha kar dekhen
Zulm jab hadd se guzarta hai fana hota hai
(The blood of the oppressed bears fruit
the oppressor is defeated, in every situation
Pick history of any period
When oppression crosses its limits, it fades)
One of his famous sher that he has recited time and again given the situations that have almost been identical for generations of Muslims, he further recited:
Taqaten tumhari hain, aur khuda humara hai
Aks pe na itraao, aaina humara hai
(The power is yours but God is ours
Don’t boast over the reflection, the mirror is ours)
These days, it is often discussed how the “tide has changed” post 2014, how we are losing the India that we have always known—the India of our ancestors. These assessments, besides being subjective, further reek of privilege. If anything, the experiences of marginalised communities from generations refute them. This ignorance towards the shared inter-generational trauma within Indian Muslims and demuslimization by reducing their poetry to romance and talaffuz (Urdu pronunciation/articulation) should be called out.
