Love and martyrdom are the main themes of poetry in Punjabi, and from the looks of it, most of South Asia. While in Europe the political institutions killed poets to obscure their work, in South Asia the poet immortalizes the one killed. A surefire way to insure your message lives on is to die for it. Poetry is very political in Europe, where Byron endorsed Luddites taking sledge hammers to factories, or Shelley endorsed anarchy through the cautionary tales, Ozymandius, the mask of Anarchy.
Desi poetry begins with a rejection – abandoning privilege, giving up society, and being at outs with the religious, the quaint, and sensual society. Byron died of syphillus contracted from English women and little Greek boys. Eulogizing the poets, prophets and gurus who were slaughtered is the major vein of South Asian poetry, whether it’s Hussain in Karballah, Sarmast in Sindh, or Bhai Mati Das in Delhi.
As an artist, you cannot be heaped praise for being politically shrewd, or physically strong. The only measure of an artist is his bravery.
This praise of martyrdom is anathema to Islam, whoes last prophet famously said, “the ink of a scholar is worth more than the blood of a martyr.” But South Asia’s own artistic contributions to Islamic art is steeped in the blood of its own people. Faiz Ahmed Faiz, the last famous Pakistani poet, eulogized the lives of Bangladeshis after the partition of 1971. Before him, Pakistan’s most famous singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan has sung poetry mourning the murder of al-Hallaj, a man killed for claiming “I am the truth”. Sarmast was decapitated in Sindh; the Chisti Sufis trace their lineage to Ali, the first man martyred in sajda.
People come to South Asia to become martyrs for the people. Benazir Bhutto returned knowing that she would be killed. Osama bin Laden returned to the adopted homeland he wanted to die in. Throughout the convoluted threats and paranoia we had to live with during our recent stint in Pakistan, I at least knew, my blood would be spilt at a premium. You take my life, and you put my thoughts, my wishes in others’ hearts. Youths will cut themselves, and men will beat their chest. A taqwacore will leave every mosque in America, and songs will be sent accross the globe. That’s why ISNA sent police to shut our set down, whilst young maulvis with arms crosses would not confront us.
And so the band plays on. There is no way to mute us. Art defies one life, even when its destroyed, its memory lives on. That’s why in retrospect, Thomas Moore was the first humanist, or al-Hallaj the first Five Percenter.
There is an incredible song about the martyrdom of the Sikh saint Bhai Mati Das, at the hands of the brutal Moghul emperor Aurenzeb for not accepting Islam. His words live on in the hearts of many. Here’s the kirtan (Sikh sufi song) done by Tigerstyle, my favorite European Punjabi group at the moment.
I sat with my uncles in Detroit, and transliterated/translated the poetry and openning:
Guru day sikhaN andr pyaar si, sikhi day parti, Bhai Mati day haaji, Guru Teg Bahadur Maharaji day naal, Sri Anandpur sahib ton Delhi wallay shahadat dainde liye ye anandpur da etehaas hai. Nahien ta kon kissi day liye sat sangat koi, kissay beganay nu kapra nahien dainda, maiya nahien dainda, rayn day liye kar day vich jugaa nahien dainda? Kehndeya “ai sat begana ai”
The Guru’s sikh’s had love within them. The Sikh’s leader, Bhai Mati Das and Guru Teg Bahadur left their town of Anandpur to Delhi, to give their shahadat or be martyred. This is the legend of Anandpur. Who does anything for stangers or people from the neighbourhood anymore? No one gives clothes, no one even gives startch. No one gives room in their houses. Nowadays they say, “this is a distant stranger.”
Kar jo vich wadha saaka kar vakhaiya. Sat Sangat Hindh di raki vastay apni tan di chadr paa ditti. Aisi anok misaal hai. Aiee Mati Das, Sati Das, Bhai Dyalla ji. JinnaN nay sat sangat asula badli. Dharram badli. Shahadat ditti. O pyaar si hik. Jallad nay akhri icha poocha si: “khwaish ki hai akhri? Ki chaunay O?”
JaddoN bhai mati da – jo shaheed karrn laggay, “Tuadi akhri icha ki hai?”
Jalaal pooch day nay, “Koi mang hai? Ya koi pyaar di akhir gal pyaar te hai.”
Do whatever you do for show. For all the strangers in India land, this man gave his clothes. His uniqueness is an example for us all. These men, Mati Das, Sati Das and Bhai Dyalla ji. They changed the principals of all strangers. They changed the religion of stangers. It was that one love of theirs. The executionar asks, “what is your last wish? What do you want”, when he was going to execute Bhai Mati’s companions. “What is your last wish?” the executionar asks Mati Das. “Do you have any wants? Are your last valuable words going to be about love?”
Bhai Mati awaaj ch kehnday: “maangda hai meri jay tussi puri karn nu, koi dunyabi mang ni hai meri. Mein kissi parva vallay nu milna nahien chaunda. Mein kissi rishtiday nu milna nahien chaunda. Mein kissi saaq savaundi nu milnay nahien chaunda. Ain karo, mera sis do paar karna tussi ari day nal lakr di tara chirna manu. Jad mera sis te ara challay te mera mukh meray pyaaray sat guru day wal hovay.”
Bati Mati in a loud voice said, “I have a wish for you to fulfill, but it’s not any worldly thing. I don’t want to meet anyone with influence. I don’t want to meet any of my family. I don’t want to meet any relatives or clergy. Do this, when you try to separate my hands met in prayer by sawing me in half, turn my face to my true, beloved Guru.”
Sirro bunkay te teri khoon chogayaa,
Chowk Chandni da Delhi naal hogaya,
Roya andro vaikh ke nizara…
+
Becoming a fountain, they drained out your blood,
It happened at Chandni Chowk near Delhi,
we cried from inside, seeing the sight…
+
MukhoN satnaam bolda,
“Bhai Mati Das – Guru da pyaara”
MukhoN satnaam bolda
+
From his own mouth, the true name says
“Bhai Mati Das is the beloved of the Gurus”
From his own mouth, the true name said.
+
Ara kichda – Jalaad sohnay dhollaya,
mukh ko khaj, kaisi Mati Das boleya,
“mera nibjavay sidak pyaara”
+
The saw was pulled, and surprised the dear executioner,
with his mouth now unvisable, Mati Das still spoke,
“I have accepted the truth, beloved.”
+
Ara karda hai do kare shareer nu,
loki vekh kay vagaunda akhoN nir nu,
Dholgya si Mughal haathyaara
+
The saw cuts the body in half,
people watching weep tears from their eyes,
and the Mughal’s weapon shakes.
+
Singh ant nu shaheedi jaam pigaya,
sher markay tareekay valla ji gaya,
gun gaunda hai dev jag saara
+
In the end, the Singh drank the nectar of martyrdom,
when you kill the knowing lion, he lives forever
now the whole world sings his song.
-
-
-
-
I’ve always been drawn to Sikhism, because I don’t know enough Arabic to read the “original text” of the Quran and get any meaning out of it. I’ve read translations, lived in a Muslim household and come from a family known for building Mosques and preserving an ancient form of recitation of Quranic arabic. It’s a tradition that’s likely to die amongst my fellow cousins, which is a great loss of art. Whoever concieved these religions is irrespective, it’s the imagination that remains their source. From the Necronomicon to the Book of Mormon, religions are forged of humanity’s own imagination. The only difference between what’s called religion and what’s called art is that religion has seen the blood of more martyrs.
RSS - Posts
