It is we sinful women
who are not awed by the grandeur of those who wear gowns
who don’t sell our lives
who don’t bow our heads
who don’t fold our hands together.
It is we sinful women
while those who sell the harvests of our bodies
become exalted
become distinguished
become the just princes of the material world.
It is we sinful women
who come out raising the banner of truth
up against barricades of lies on the highways
who find stories of persecution piled on each threshold
who find that tongues which could speak have been severed.
It is we sinful women.
Now, even if the night gives chase
these eyes shall not be put out.
For the wall which has been razed
don’t insist now on raising it again.
It is we sinful women
who are not awed by the grandeur of those who wear gowns
who don’t sell our bodies
who don’t bow our heads
who don’t fold our hands together.
The grass is really like me
The grass is also like me
it has to unfurl underfoot to fulfil itself
but what does its wetness manifest:
a scorching sense of shame
or the heat of emotion?
The grass is also like me
As soon as it can raise its head
the lawnmower
obsessed with flattening it into velvet,
mows it down again.
How you strive and endeavour
to level woman down too!
But neither the earth’s nor woman’s
desire to manifest life dies.
Take my advice: the idea of making a footpath was a good one.
Those who cannot bear the scorching defeat of their courage
are grafted on to the earth.
That`s how they make way for the mighty
but they are merely straw not grass
-the grass is really like me.
By Kishwar Naheed (Pakistan, 1940) translated from Urdu to English by Rukhsana Ahmed
Kishwar Naheed is the first poet I read in whose poetry I saw a reflection of my life experiences as a young woman. Her poetry was my first real introduction to the ideas of feminism as well as the kind of poetry that goes beyond Aestheticism. I can very clearly mark the beginning of my interest in subversive poetry with my reading of the collection of Pakistani feminist poets translated by Rukhsana Ahmed, among whom Kishwar was my clear favourite. The book had the original poems in Urdu script along with the English translation and read it for weeks over and over again.
Then years passed and I understood feminism a little better and appreciated poetry a bit more… I happened to hear Kishwar Naheed at an Indo-Pak mushaira organised by the Jamia Millia Islamia on 01.9.2007. She sat just two rows further down the aisle in the auditorium but I couldn’t muster enough courage to go upto her… what would I say? Would she patiently hear out what her poetry means to me? If she was curt or rude it might spoil the whole heady/romantic thing I have got going with mixing her poetry, urdu, feminism and subversive poetry of people around the world… no… it was too huge a risk and in hindsight I feel good about not taking it, though at the time I felt tortured as I’ve never felt before. After all individual artists are not just the art they have created but more (or less?). Engaging with the artist and engaging with her art may not necessarily be similar experiences.
Heres a few lines of the original “we sinful women” (hum gunahgaar auratein hein)
Ye hum gunahgaar auratein hein
Jo ahl-e jabba ki tamkinat se
Na rob khaayein
Na jaan bechein
Na sar jhukaayein
Na haath jodein
Ye hum gunahgaar auratein hein
Ke jin ke jismon ki fasl bechein jo log
Voh sarfaraaz thahrein
Nayaabat-e imtiyaaz thahrein
Voh daavar-e ahl-e saaz thahrein
Ye hum gunahgaar auratein hein
Ke sach ka parcham utha ke niklein
To jhoot se shaah-raahein ati mile hein
Har ek dahleez pe sazaaon ki daastaanein rakhi mile hein
Jo bol sakti theen voh zubaanein kati mile hein
From the same collection I was struck by these lines by Ishrat Afreen (my rough translations)…
Mera qad
Mere baap se ooncha nikla
Aur meri ma jeet gayi
My height
Surpassed that of my father
And, my mother won
And …
Mere dil ke nihan-khane mein
Ek tasveer hai meri
Khuda jaane use kisne banaayaa
Kab banaayaa tha
wo poshida hai mujh se
Aur mere doston se bhi
Kabhi bhooley se lekin
Mein use gar dekh leti hoon
Usey khud se milaaoon
Toh mera dil kaanp jaata hai
In the deepest chamber of my heart
There is a picture of me
Only God knows who made it
and when
it is hidden from me
and my friends
if I ever see it even by mistake
and compare it with myself
my heart gives a shudder.
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