It is a starry night, a bit cold but pleasant, wood crackles in an old rusty wok, I sit in a rocking chair on the deck. I empty the flask in to the cup, a half cup of coffee before I have to go back. My time in solitude ends, as a group of friends comes out to sit around the bonfire. There are a couple of musicians in them also and they start to have an acoustic jam.
Fire has a certain calming quality to it, you feel safe around a fire in wilderness and, it keeps you warm on a cold night, but I believe it opens you up also. You are more open around a bonfire than a heated room. Then I see her, wide eyed like a doe, wild hair flowing with gentle breeze, the dance of fire and shadow puts a regal glow on her face. With a local shawl around her shoulders, and a longing in her eyes, she looks like the girls who used to wait for their beloveds to get back from the war waged by the invaders on this land. Her friend says something in her ear, she nods her head in no, but seemingly gives up. Her friend then waves to the guitarist and asks for a tune. An old tunefills the mountain air, she starts to sing a local song, inspired by a poem of the last queen of Kashmir, HabbaKhatoon. Her sweet voice with a tinge of despair, fills my heart with a distinct sadness, my eyes start to well up. Despite not knowing the meaning, I could feel the yearning and heartache of the poetry.
Time flew by, but the experience remained with me, the emotions I felt then would always remained precious. I started to look in to the origins of the poem, whichwas so heart wrenching that in spite of the language barrier, did not fail to move the listener. In my search, I found the following story.
Once upon a time, there was a King who ruled over a valley that was known far and wide for its beauty, immortalized in the words of poets and the melodies of traveling bards. The valley’s lakes were crystal clear, holding mirrors up to the sky, and its mountain peaks reached up to the heavens, glistening with snow. Sparkling rivers wove down the valley’s hills, coniferous trees standing guard on their banks, and fields of saffron colored the valley’s floors.
One day, legend tells us, the King went on an excursion in the hills, with no one but his horse for company, and chanced upon a woman whose beauty matched that of his realm’s. It wasn’t her beauty that enthralled the King, however – the woman was singing to herself and it was her nightingale voice, and the depth of her poetic verses, that won the King’s heart. It was, as they say, love at first sight. The King swept the woman away to his palace, made her his Queen and all was well. For a time.
The valley, we are told, found itself in the throes of conflict with neighboring lands, and the King was called away for negotiations. On his travels, he was captured, never to see his home again. The lovely Queen, waiting in vain, was never to see her husband. Distraught, the poetess Queen removed herself from court. Wandering the hills and forests in the valley, she wrote verses and rhymes filled with longing for her beloved. “Walọmyạạni,” she called out, “PosheMaduno” (Come to me, my sweet beloved).
The poetess of our story is HabbaKhatoon, the King, Yousuf Shah Chak and the valley, Kashmir.
In her despair, HabbaKhatoon wrote poetry that set new standards for the use of poetic meters and idioms; poetry that traveled down through centuries, influencing the work of contemporary poets that have since written about Kashmir. One such poet was Peerzada Ghulam Ahmad, known popularly as Mahjoor, an iconic poet in his own right who lived and wrote during the early 1900’s. Inspired by the poetry of HabbaKhatoon, Mahjoor wrote Roshe, a poem similar in meter and rhyme to one written by the poetess Queen many centuries ago, filled with the same despair and longing that she once felt, a despair that remained the Kashmiri people’s experience during Mahjoor’s life.
Here’s a link to the rendition of the classic by Zeb Bangash.
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