Gautam Kumar's C&B Blog

Calligraphy

For this calligraphy project, I chose to sketch the word of “Allah” using pens—a reflective look at the importance of calligraphy and scripture itself in the formation and identity of Islam. As Sardar observes, the “Qur’an” even literally means “reading” in Arabic; calligraphy often proves a powerful way of drawing the beauty that Allah has created. Indeed, as we have seen in some of the paintings in the second week, many of the miniature paintings lack dimensionality so that the artist does not try to mimic Allah’s divine creations of the beauty in the world. Poetry and its penmanship—for example, as we see in zoomorphic calligraphy—therefore enter as appropriately modest media through which to express the wonder that Allah has created.

I was moved by this particular focus that transcends the art of poetry and extends into the presentation of the verse itself. There are few other religions that have such a strong emphasis on the art of writing, and that individual characteristic differentiates Islam—and even fewer have the detailed origin myth of God beseeching the worlds to create a script. Schimmel highlights few stories, ranging from letters following the patterns of light falling on a table to Adam’s purported writing of books that detail the language.

I used multiple types of pen in this image to connote the sense of unity within the multiplicity that Necipoglu described. Within multiple incarnations or different events, there is the one binding notion of “Allah” that unifies them together. And writing and the art of calligraphy similarly unite thoughts and people together.

Creative Assignment Image

In this pictures I took during a trip I made to Istanbul, Turkey, in the summer of 2007, I captured a few pictures of the Blue Mosque. I remembered these pictures when reading Sardar’s piece in week 2. His account of interpreting the Qur’an when a child reminded me of these images—of young children playing in the courtyard of the mosque, learning Islam through osmosis. They frolic, light-heartedly, in front of the grand Blue Mosque, as a moon makes a high-day appearance, as seen in the bottom right picture. They are at the same time interacting with the religion, as covered women and men wearing white enter the impressive structure to say their prayers for the day, and removed from it, understanding the place only as a playground.

Sardar’s recollection of hearing his mother read the Qur’an to him as a child seemed to offer the same level of duality: both heavy in substance but light in routine. As a child, he seemed to know this was an important text, but he also appreciated the cadence of the language, almost as a lullaby as hew would drift to sleep.

In the arrangement of photos, I wanted to impress the scale of the mosque and its seniority by place that picture above the two of the children. But I also wanted to show how the grand spirituality and playfulness coexisted, at the same level, by placing the photos of the children with the photo of the mosque with the moon in the background.

Yeh ishq, yeh pal, yeh saans, yeh zindagi;

Yeh sab hai tumahara, ya, Ali!

Tum hai pati, tum hai pitaji;

Tum hai mere ishwar, ya, Ali!

Kaise chalta hai bine admi;

Kaise hai woh insaan, ya, Ali!

Mera viswas hai ahl al-bayt ki;

Ishwar ki bete hain, ya, Ali!

Allah ishwar, Muhammad bani.

Aur tum inke wali, ya, Ali!

This love, this heartbeat, this breath, this life;

This is all yours, O, Ali!

You are a husband, you are a father;

You are my god, O, Ali!

How does it travel without a man;

How are these people, O, Ali!

My faith is in the ahl al-bayt;

You are the children of God, O, Ali!

Allah is God, Muhammad his prophet;

And you are their helper, O, Ali!

I wrote this ghazal in Romanized Hindi and translated it into English in response to reading the Ta’ziyeh. There are five couplets that each refers to the narrator’s Shii love for Ali, the fourth Imam and son-in-law to the Prophet. For Shi’a, Ali was seen as the chosen successor to the prophet; Sunni uphold that Abu Bakr was the rightful heir. The Ta’ziyeh is a play that is often staged in Shii communities to remember the Battle of Karbala. In the battle, the Sunni Caliph massacred Husayn, Ali and Fatima’s son and Muhammad’s grandson, and his followers. The Shi’a remember Husayn as a martyr, and, in particular, the scene in which Husayn’s horse returns to the encampment, riderless and thereby signaling Husayn’s death, moves many.

In this ghazal, or a form of Urdu poetry, I refer to the devotion of the writer to Ali, the first leader of the Shi’a in the first two couplets, discussing his role as a spiritual leader but also as a family man. Indeed, the Ta’ziyeh, when looking at Husayn and his family, portrays them as very human in their emotion and love for each other—the second couplet is a nod to that empathy. The third couplet examines that powerful scene in which Husayn’s horse returns, riderless, and bemoans the cruelty of the Sunni caliph. The fourth couplet is a resounding statement of belief in the ahl al-bayt, the family of Muhammad, and the Shii leaders of the religion. Lastly, the fifth couplet is an adaptation of the fifth pillar of Shii Islam, which adds a commitment to its belief system to Ali.

For the Hindi version, I tried to maintain a consistency in the rhyme meter of the language, at ten syllables per line. Further, the last line repeats, linking the otherwise disjointed couplets. In each couplet, the first and second lines rhyme.

I turn, my arm not knowing where to fall; I remember, my memories knowing only one person. 

I am present yet only existent when you are here and your memories are only ghosts,

I am left but traveling only towards home which is only where you are,

O, Muhammad, shine your light into the heavens—guide me!

O, Allah, let you fill me with the spirit so that I may live, not remember; that I may be existent, not be present. That I may be home. 

This maulud, inspired by the week 4 reading of Asani’s writings on Sindhi poetry, uses the poetic device of a virahani, or a woman separated from her lover. This type of poetry communicates one’s love for Muhammad as if the narrator is a virahani—lost from her love, disoriented in the world.

In this poem, I extended the story of Sassui and Punhal, the washman’s daughter and the prince, respectively. The two have married happily, but the prince’s brothers snatch him when drunk from his bed with Sassui. Sassui wakes up without her beloved, and she travels 200 miles to find him, to her death.

This maulud begins with her unconscious, her innate disorientation as Punhal’s body does not provide rest to her arm, and her dreams wander to remembering only him. The next two lines track her travels as she voyages to find Punhal, capturing the feeling of incompletion, as if part of her inner being is now vanished.  I played with this notion of incompletion in two ways: in trying to capture the feeling of lack of full existence and to convey the notion of homelessness. In the final two lines, I directly name Muhammad as my lover, identifying Him as the object of my love, praying to him and to Allah that I might find my way to home, to existence.

While the poem derives its inspiration from the story of Sassui and Punhal, it ultimately must be dedicated to Muhammad and the narrator’s feelings of love to the Prophet.