The Colours of My Heart
Author- Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Publisher- Penguin Books, Rs 499
Selecting verses from all eight volumes of Faiz’s poetry, this compact new translation of one of the subcontinent’s most lastingly iconic poets is jarringly beautiful, writes Anubhav Pradhan
Amongst the many dangers and pitfalls of translation, the question of fidelity has provoked practitioners, readers, and critics in equal measure. The relationship between source and target has always been circuitous and uneasy — and more illustrious the original, greater is the scrutiny to which the translation is subjected. In many ways, however, a pronounced emphasis on fidelity undermines the effort of the translator and dilutes the merit of the translation as a work of art in its own right. It is just as important to see the translated text in isolation of the original as in a dynamic, unceasing conversation with it.
All of this comes to mind when grappling with The Colours of My Heart, a fresh translation across Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s varied oeuvre. Selecting verses from all eight volumes of Faiz’s poetry, this compact new translation of one of the subcontinent’s most lastingly iconic poets is jarringly beautiful in a way which is deeply disturbing as well as satisfying. Both stem from the linguistic and ideational gaps wherein projects such as these flounder and flourish: To translate well is to not translate at all, irrevocably fail and succeed resoundingly at the same time.
But the work of the reader is perhaps not to have a balance sheet of hits and misses, a ledger of what works and not. Poetry, often, is best understood when half understood, and reading verse is a chiaroscuro of heights and depths, impressions which remain as the haunting memories of stardust in shadows. This associational quality of poetry — indeed, all good literature — is what resonates across barriers of language and context, making words and voices long gone immortally pertinent. Be it ghazals ortaranas, across the spectrum of form it is the beauty and despair of revolutionary action marrying the dusk and dawn of love which makes Faiz a contemporary of all times. As Ralph Russell indicated, a catholicity of expression is what lends universality to his verse and makes it intensely relatable in many ways.
It is to Farooqi’s credit that she is able to successfully convey this throughout The Colours of My Heart. Many of the pieces selected for this volume are known well to the reading public, with some — such as “speak” — firmly ensconced in the popular imagination as clarions to the soul’s deep designs. A vein of gossamer delicacy, however, weaves through even the most staunchly political of verse, lending it the motility of a breathing, living entity. Consider, for instance, the closure of ‘Some Is Supplied to the Secret Assemblies’:
Confined to the cage, we aren’t all that alone, really
The morning breeze of home, every day
Arrives scented with memories and departs bright with tears
The lyrical quality of Urdu is, of course, extremely difficult to reconcile with the poetic cadences of English, and so some verses pale discordantly in comparison with the original:
These colourful particles belong perhaps
To those beautiful, crystalline dreams
Which embellished and enhanced your private being in the drunken prime of youth (‘The Heart’s
Wine Glass Once Broken Can’t Be Repaired”)
Yeh rangeen reze hain shaayad
Un shokh bilori sapnon ke
Tum mast jawaani mein jin se
Khalwat ko sajaaya karte the (‘Sheeshon Ka Maseeha Koi Nahin’)
Victor Kiernan’s long shadow, too, seems to haunt this volume, as comparison with his translation of ‘Bol’ with Farooqi’s will indicate. Providing transliterations of Faiz’s originals in the Roman script also encourages comparison, which at times becomes adverse. Given this bilinguality, it seems all the more unfortunate that Farooqi did not embed Urdu into her translations as and when it became near-impossible to satisfactorily transfer meaning and effect.
Yet, page after page this homage to a master craftsman shows ample evidence of mastery in its own right, and the rush, sweep, and tinkle of strikingly good art moves recurringly:
Madness for fidelity’s face is no more/What will you now do with the hanging rope and the gallowsIJ
The sinners who were proud of the crime of love are no more (‘The Sorrow of Your love Needed lives’)
Now that you have come, stay so that some colour, some season, some entity
Should stay in place
One more time everything become just what it really is
The sky endless, the road a road the wine glass a wine glass (‘The Colours of My Heart’)
Not just for those familiar with Urdu but also for many multilingual in deep ways, Farooqi’s achievement here will lie in successfully curating and co-creating a body of verse which will be a source of joy for all who engage with it.
The reviewer is an Urban Research Fellow with the Indian Institute for Human Settlements.
The views expressed here are his own
