Modi and Rahul in America, Shakespeare and Ghālib debate the visits

 

Shakespeare, the evergreen Bard of Avon, and Ghālib, the greatest maestro of Urdu poetry, often talk to each other with gravity and at times in jest, as time, space, cultures and languages converge in a surreal realm. I have been fortunate enough to frequently eavesdrop on their tongue-in-cheek tête-à-tête because they are, after all, my uncles, my great-uncle Shakespeare and my youngest uncle Ghālib. I have been sharing the insightful dialogue between the two, which always brings out many a deep and abstruse aspect of any happening in today’s world. Incidentally, my great-uncle Shakespeare insists on speaking only in aphorisms at the dining table, while the youngest uncle Ghālib drinks through dinner and complains that no one in the family understands metaphor anymore.

This time I caught them engaged in a lively discussion about the visits of two prominent Indian politicians, the Moody and Raul, to the United States. As expected, their encounter evolved into a comical clash of wits and verses and all I do here is reproduce the same verbatim:

Shakespeare: My dear Gaulib, although I am aware just as Antonio says in The Tempest that "…Travelers ne'er did lie, Though fools at home condemn 'em.” Nevertheless, dost thou not find it amusing that these leaders gallivant across the oceans to visit the land of the free and speak the exact opposite of each other? Borrowing from the same play, this Raul speaks à la Ariel, who is in turn narrating what the prince Ferdinand shouts as he jumps the ship, on seeing the riotous loot going on by a violent mob, “…Hell is empty and all the devils are in India”. Or, like Marcellus, the officer of the palace guard in Hamlet, utters disparaging words, “Something is rotten in the state of India”. On the other hand, the Moody paints India as a land of milk and honey and as for him, unlike the King in Henry IV, “Cocksure lies the head that wears a crown”, even as I wonder at his chutzpah when he speaks to his countrymen, like Henry V to his troops, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more...in 2024”. What duelling monologues performed on foreign soil!

Ghālib: Wah bhai ShaKHs-e-Peer (Bravo brother, Old man), your progeny did misrule India for some time but you have no understanding of our great culture. One of them is dismissed as a Pepoo, or a simpleton boy, but in reality he is a sophist. He is now somewhat chastened after he badmouthed the other, the Fenkoo, or a bluffing loudmouth, and was chastised by the Supreme Court. This Pepoo, the cryptic shehzāda (prince) of India's political dynasty is blessed with infinite wisdom, just like me, but when he attempts to strike a chord with the masses, the laity is unable to comprehend what he says. Like your own Humlate (Hamlet), his labyrinth of words goes over the heads of his target audience, interpretations may vary, confusion does not, prompting lesser mortals like Aish Dehlavi to quip:

 

Agar apnā kahā tum aap hī samjhe to kyā samjhe

Mazā kahne kā jab hai ik kahe aur dūsrā samjhe

Kalām-e-Jawāhar ya phir zabān-e-Indirā samjhe 

Magar un kā kahā ye aap samjheñ yā ḳhudā samjhe

(Kalām-e-Jawāhar: sayings of Nehru, zabān-e-Indirā: language of Indira Gandhi) 

As for the Fenkoo, he lives in his own make-believe world. Modesty, clearly, is always on leave for him. When he speaks, all we can do is lapeto (wind up). I did write for him, in anticipation of the arrival of the supreme leader in our country:

 

Ik khel hai aurañg-e-sulaimāñ mire nazdīk

ik    baat   hai     ejāz-e-masīhā   mire aage

Hotā hai nihāñ gard  meñ  sahrā mire hote

ghistā hai jabīñ ḳhaak pe dariyā mire aage

(aurañg-e-sulaimāñ: throne of Solomon or an illusion, nazdīk: near, ejāz-e-masīhā: marvel, miracle, honour of the messiah, nihāñ: hidden, concealed, gard: dust, sahrā: desert, jabīñ: forehead, ḳhaak: dust, earth, dariyā: river. For me, the throne of mighty Solomon's is something trifling like a game and the messiah's miracles are merely common happenings. Deserts themselves disappear in a cloud of sand in my presence and rivers rub their foreheads on the shore in front of me.)

 

Shakespeare: To the babbling drivel of the Pepoo, I would say, like the Lear to Cordelia in King Lear, “...Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes”. As for the Fenkoo, remember, even Claudius, my villain in Hamlet, was wise enough to know the invalidity of bombast, "My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go". My advice to the Pepoo, a la Norfolk to Buckingham in Henry VIII, “...Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself...”. At the same time, I ask the Fenkoo, whether he cannot refine his political acts that tread the fine line between satire and statesmanship. Can he not consult the Steward speaking to his Countess in All’s Well That Ends Well, “...we wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them”?

 

In any case, my dear Glibby the dervish, can your countrymen not see through both of them? Let me advise them on my neat antithesis from Hamlet, as Polonius delivers a series of fatherly advice to Laertes, “...Give every man thy ear, but few thy vote...”.

 

Ghālib: Arre bhaiya, Billee Bārad (Oh my brother Billy the Bard), it is not as simple as that. Indian voters have already largely lent both ear and vote. In my country, we have a good many diehard bhakts (devotees) for whom the Moody is God. Then we also have a significant number of Kam-baKHts (the wretched), I mean Kam-bhakts (not so much devotees) who see the Fenkoo as a bugbear. For rational, balanced people, the quintessential dilemma:

Imāñ mujhe roke hai jo khīñche hai mujhe kufr

ka.aba mire pīchhe hai kalīsā mire aage

(Imāñ: faith, honesty, kufr: heresy, paganism, heathenism, kalīsā: church, synagogue. My faith curbs me when paganism draws me towards it, the mosque stands behind me and the church in my front.)

Nevertheless, ye Amreekan bhi KHabtī hain (these Americans are given to obsessions). Whereas the Moody was denied a visa not so long ago, he has become a cynosure of their eyes now. Talk of red carpet laundering! Sense the paradox, although inverted:

Haiñ aaj kyuuñ zalīl ki kal tak na thī pasand

gustāḳhi-e-farishta hamārī janāb meñ

(zalīl: base, mean, insulted, gustāḳhi-e-farishta: arrogance, insolence of an angel, janāb: a place of refuge and hence a title of respect for a revered person. I was regarded with such esteem and concern by the beloved that if even an angel would treat me with insolence, she would show great dislike for the act. But now, I have been relegated greatly in her view as a base, lowly creature)

Nevertheless, while the Fenkoo has always had thousands of NRIs following him and this time he got Amreekan kāṅgresī (American congressmen) giving him fifteen standing ovations as he addressed them, now even the Pepoo had Stanford students lining up to listen to him.

Shakespeare (adjusting his ruffled collar): My dear Assed, do not for a minute think that these fickle Americans are the cat’s whiskers. I immediately recall Puck speaking to Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and think, “Lord, what fools these Yankees be". I hope these two heed Cassio as he talks to Iago in Othello "O God, that men should put fatuity in their mouths to steal away their brains". I hope they do what Hamlet would have the first player do in Hamlet, “...Suit the action to the word : the word to the action...”.

Ghālib: Mere dost (my friend) Shekhu, after all:

Jis bazm meñ tū naaz se guftār meñ aave

jaañ kālbad-e-sūrat-e-dīvār meñ aave

(bazm: assembly, naaz: coquetry, guftār: speaking, kālbad-e-sūrat-e-dīvār: figure of the face of the wall. When you speak with such graces in the gathering, the pictures that hang on the walls of the house come alive).

Fine but I hope our country too comes to life soon.

As I left the two greats to their curious exchange, I found it very comforting to note that even in the domain of whimsical and cynical politics, a dose of light-hearted banter can be a balm for the woes of the world. Cheers!

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