| WRITERS AND THEIR WORKS |
ADDRESS
S-122, Block-2,
FAHMIDA
RIAZ
Urdu Poetess and Author.
P.E.C.H.S,
Karachi-75400.
Ph:
(92-21-4534291-4537941)
IMPORTANT WORKS:
HONOURS:
Fahmida Raiz, who graduated from Sindh University and married in 1965, has published several volumes of poetry. During the Martial Law regime she was editor and publisher of the magazine, Awaaz. In all, fourteen court cases of sedition were filed against the magazine, one of which (under section 114A) carried a death penalty. She escaped to India whilst on bail, with her husband and tow children, where she lived for seven years. She worked as Poet-in-Residence at Jamia Millia, an Indian university, during this period.
She has translated Erich Fromme's Fear of Freedom and Sheikh Ayaz's poetry, from Sindhi into Urdu. Since the restoration of democracy she has returned to live in Pakistan and served as Director General of Pakistan's National Book Council in Islamabad when Bhutto's Pakistan People's Party was in power.
Her book, The Body Lacerated, caused tremendous controversy because of its uninhibited and vigorous exploration of female sexuality. A woman in traditional Urdu poetry is a concept, not a person … an ideal with rosy cheeks, shining black eyes concealed shyly under long, dark eyelashes and a shapely swaying body. Fahmida rejects that passive virginal model in favour of a living, throbbing, vocal and passionate reality.
Her greatest contribution to literature is her recognition of the role of language in society. She has some interesting insights to offer, particularly with regard to the history of the Urdu language. She brings to her poetry her conviction that literary Urdu, too closely associated with the Persianised Imperial Court, had lost its nutritive sources as a living language of the people, by losing touch with its roots. Since the sustenance, relevance and contemporaneity of a language must derive from its living usage, not from books and papers, her argument is valid. Languages which cut off links with their grass-roots communities have been known to become emaciated, and do, invariably, die. She herself struggles in her language to restore its links with the usage of peasants and workers.
Riaz has moved away from the ghazal form but her poems resonate with music and her success as a lyricist is widely acknowledged.
Chadur and Char-diwari
Sire! What use is this black chadur to me?
A thousand
mercies, why do you reward me with this?
I am not in mourning that I should wear this
To flag my grief to the
world
I am not a disease that needs to be drowned in secret darkness
I am not a sinner nor a criminal
That I should stamp my forehead
with its darkness
If you will not consider me too impudent
If you
promise that you will spare my life
I beg to submit in all
humility
O Master of men!
In your highness' fragrant
chambers
lies a dead body
Who knows how long it
has been rotting?
It seeks pity from you
Sire, do be so kind
Do not give me this black chadur
With
this black chadur cover the shroudless body
lying in your chamber
For the stench that emanates from this body
Walks buffed and
breathless in every alleyway
Bangs her head on every
doorframe
Covering her nakedness
Listen to her heart rending screams
Which raise strange
spectre
That remain naked in spite of their chadur.
Who are
they ? You must know them ,Sire.
Your highness must recognise them
These are the hand -
maidens
The hostages who are halal for the night
With the
breath of morning they become homeless
They are the slaves who are
above
The half-share of inheritance for your
Highness's off-spring.
These are the Bibis
Who wait to fulfill their vows of
marriage
In turn, as they stand , row upon row
They are the
maidens,
On whose heads , when your highness laid a
hand
of paternal affection,
The blood of
their innocent youth stained the
whiteness of
your beard with red
In your fragrant chamber , tears of
blood,
life itself has shed
Where this carcass
has lain
For long centuries, this body spectacle of the murder
of humanity.
Bring this show to an end now
Sire, cover it up now
Not I, but
you need this chadur now.
For my person is not merely a symbol of your lust:
Across the
highways of life , sparkles my intelligence
If a bead of sweat
sparkles on the earth's brow it is
my diligence.
These four walls , this chadur I wish upon the
rotting carcass.
In the open air, her
sails flapping , races ahead
my
ship.
I am the companion of the New Adam
Who has earned my
self-assured love.
- translated form Urdu by Rukhsana
Ahmed
She Is a Woman
Impure
She is a woman
impure
imprisoned by her flowing blood
in a cycle of months and
years.
Consumed by her fiery lust,
in search of her own
desire,
this mistress of the devil
followed his footsteps
into a
destination obscure
unmarked, unmapped before,
that union of light
and fire
impossible to find.
In the heat of her
simmering passion
her breasts have ripped
By each thorn on the
wayside
every membrane of her body ripped.
No veil of shame conceals
her body
No trace it bears of sanctity
But, O Ruler of land
and oceans,
Who has seen this before?
Everywhere your command is
supreme
Except over this woman impure
No prayer crosses her
lips
No humility touches her brow.
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