City of poets

Academic readers (historians or literary critics) might find the book 'Beloved Delhi' to not be fully satisfying, and indeed having read it, one is left thirsting for more

Facing housing problems in Delhi in the 1990s, Urdu poet and satirist Asrar Jaameyi bemoaned: “Keh do Zafar se Dilli ke us koo-e-yaar mein/ Do gaz zameen milti hai ab sattar hazaar mein (Tell Zafar that in his beloved street of Delhi/ Two yards of land now cost seventy thousand)”. He was referring to the last Mughal emperor Bahadur Shah ‘Zafar’ II’s lament on not being buried in his beloved Delhi; after the First War of Independence in 1857-58, he was exiled to Rangoon. Those of Zafar’s contemporaries who were buried in Delhi, too, have not fared that well.

Take for instance Ibrahim Zauq, the poet laureate of Zafar’s court and one of the most important classical Urdu poets. His grave is now a non-descript walled structure at Paharganj in north Delhi, visited by a few connoisseurs of Urdu literature and history. With an increasingly loud propaganda linking Urdu to Muslims, accompanied by rising Hindutva politics, the mortal remains of 18th and 19th century poets who lived and worked in this city seem to be more and more endangered. This book is an attempt, mostly successful, at recalling the now-lost world that provided succour to these poets.

Academic readers (historians or literary critics) might find this book to not be fully satisfying, and indeed having read it, one is left thirsting for more. The critical apparatus is limited to a sparse section of endnotes. There is, however, a case to be made for popular history, especially in our undoubtedly fraught times when its study has come to resemble more a political slugfest than a cool detached analysis. The recent spate of popular history publications prompted a historian friend to ask me: Why had history suddenly become so publishable? Perhaps, it is a reflection of our undoubtedly divisive times.

Mr Mahmood’s book traces the history of Urdu poetry through the lives of eight of its classical poets — Sauda, Dard, and Mir, from the 18th century; and Ghalib, Momin, Zafar, Zauq, and Daagh Dehlvi, from the 19th century. He provides brief biographical notes on each of these poets and also translations of many of their poems. The way the translations are arranged is helpful for a non-Urdu reader: He first provides the original, transliterated into English, and then the translation. As many of his readers, like this one, might not be wholly familiar with the nuances and culture of Urdu, he explains various terms such as takhallus (non de plume) or qasida (an ode).

The strength of Mr Mahmood’s style is its conversational nature, equally comfortable in discussing theological complications or political nuances or matters of the heart. One of the most interesting portraits in this book is of Momin Khan Momin, the physician-turned-poet and a friend of Ghalib. Describing the various amorous adventures of Momin, Mr Mahmood quotes the famous couplets of the poet: “Saaf sandal se zyaada vo haath/ Narm makhmal se zyaada vo haath (Fairer than sandalwood, those hands/ Softer than velvet, those hands).” This is a reference to hakims feeling the pulse of their patients to detect an ailment.

Mr Mahmood is, however, equally at ease describing Momin’s lifelong struggle with the dichotomy of his two preferred religious leaders: Syed Ahmad Rai Barelvi, a major exponent of Wahhabism in India and Shah Waliullah Dehlvi, a Persian translator of the Quran. The book is also filled with innumerable anecdotes and analyses. For instance, while most of us are aware of Ghalib’s claim to being a half-Muslim (because he drank wine but did not eat pork, both proscribed by the religion), few would link his poetry to his lifelong legal struggle — ultimately unsuccessful — to secure a family pension of Rs 62.50 per month. Mr Mahmood provides a list of legal terms Ghalib used in his poetry, often metaphorically.

In the foreword to the book, historian Rakhshanda Jalil describes a body of poetry known as shehr-ashob, “literally meaning misfortune of the city”, expressing the political and social decline and turmoil the city went through with repeated invasions and war. This entire book could easily have been classified as a shehr-ashob, if it had been in verse. In the Afterword, Mr Mahmood writes: “I wake up one morning to find that a road named after a Mughal Emperor has been renamed.... the newspaper tells me that Shahjahan’s Qila-e-Moalla (Red Fort)... will henceforth be managed by a corporate group that openly supports a political ideology whose stance on Urdu and Mughal heritage is one of hostility, even hate.” 

This book is perhaps an antidote to the current juggernaut of history. Poet Meena Alexander, who died last week, wrote this of the purpose of the poetry: “We have poetry / So we do not die of history.” By the looks of it, Beloved Delhi, on the best-seller list of Amazon and Flipkart, succeeds to a great measure in this attempt.

Beloved Delhi: A Mughal City and Her Greatest Poet

Saif Mahmood

Speaking Tiger

367 pages; Rs 599