Translation of an Urdu poem by Parveen Shakir

Tomato Ketchup
By Perveen Shakir
Translated from the Urdu by Baidar Bakht and Leslie Lavigne

In our country,
A woman who writes poetry,
Is eyed as an odd fish.
Every man presumes
That in her poems
He is the issue addressed!
And since it is not so,
He becomes her foe.
In this sense,
Sara didn´t make many enemies.
She didn´t believe in giving explanations.
Before she could become the wife of a poor writer,
She had already become
The sister-in-law of the whole town.
Even the lowliest of them
Claimed to have slept with her!
All day long,
Jobless intellectuals of the city
Buzzed around her.
Even those who had jobs,
Would leave their their stinking files and worn out wives
To come to her,
Leaving behind the electricity bill,
And the children´s school fees and wife´s medicine.
For these are the concerns
Of lesser mortals.
Morning through late night,
Heated discussions would take place
On literature, philosophy and current affairs.
When hunger knocked in at their empty stomachs,
Bread and boiled pulse
Would be bought collectively.
Great thinkers,
Would then demand tea
Declaring her the Amrita Preetam of Pakistan.
Sara, the gullible,
Would be very pleased with herself.
Perhaps, there were some reasons for it.
Those who were responsible for supporting her,
Always fed her on Kafka coffee
And Neruda biscuits.
Because of saliva-soaked compliments,
At least, she could have one meal,
Everyday!
But for how long?
She had to free herself
From the clutches of wolves.
Sara preferred to leave the jungle itself.
As long as she lived,
The connoisseurs of Art
Kept nibbling her.
In their circle,
She is still considered delicious,
But with a difference:
They no longer can take a bite of her!
After her death,
She had been elevated
To the status of Tomato Ketchup!

Translation of an Urdu poem by Parveen Shakir

The Wife Of Bashira
Perveen Shakir
Translated from the Urdu by Baidar Bakht and Leslie Lavigne

Oh, you pitiable thing!
The lowliest
Of mammals!
You rib-born, worn as a shoe!
When your brother
Would butterfly in the garden,
Your flower-like hands
Would carry a broomstick
Taller than you.
Holding the corner of your mother´s gown,
You learnt so many household chores:
Making cow-dung cakes,
Cutting firewood,
Mixing fodder for the cattle.
But your mother
Always kept the pat of butter
For your brother´s bread
And curry from last night.
Eating leftovers
And wearing rags,
When you came to puberty,
Your father hated you even more.
He kept a close watch
On all your movements,
As if you would elope with someone
At the first opportunity.
The day you turned sixteen,
One man unburdened his soul
To the body of another.
The sty and master changed,
Your job remained the same,
In fact, increased.
Now, your duties included
Humouring the breadwinner at night, as well;
And becoming pregnant every year;
And looking after the house
Until just before giving birth.
The husband´s job was up to bed,
The rest assigned to you.
What a job!
No wages, no days off,
No rituals of resignation.
Even beasts of burden are permitted to rest
On a burning afternoon
In the shade of a tree.
No such moment is there for you.
The bypath of your life has no such tree.
Alas! It seems your life
Is the punishment for sins
Committed in past lives.
If you sell your body,
You´re a prostitute.
You trade your soul
And are called a wife.
For how long
Will these insults be heaped upon you
At the hands of time?
For the sake of a morsel of bread,
And a cup full of water,
How long will you go on
Sacrificing yourself