The way it was: From Rumi to Mao
Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
An individual cannot be severed from his time and assumed to be indifferent or
neutral to human and social conflicts, nor can aesthetics be separated from
ideas. Ideas denuded of aesthetic experience become mere descriptions
While clearing my writing desk and tables, which readily get littered with a
pile of assortments, I came across the draft of a letter, which I had despatched
several months back to Sir Nicholas Barrington. After his retirement from
Foreign Service, Mr Barrington spends part of the week at his flat at London and
the rest at his house at Cambridge. What an interesting way of spending the
whole week, visiting art galleries and theatres in the metropolis and reading
Rumi and other Persian poets near the banks of River Cam.
The draft reads, “I thank you for what you have done for Pakistan, in
helping...organise a show of paintings from Pakistan at the Brunei Gallery in
London. At the same time I would like you to know that I found the Exhibition of
fifty years of painting and sculpture from Pakistan, assembled by Tim Wilcox,
smart but misleading. I found [that he has disregarded] both the distinctive
achievements of Pakistani painting, which separate it from painting of other
regions, as well as the concerns of artists who forged a new vision for its art.
“The curator who was entrusted the responsibility of selecting the works was
neither an artist nor an art critic, but merely a procurer. He had proceeded to
collect paintings and sculpture that pandered to the values of the Provincial
‘gallery art’ of his own country. A rather patronising way of looking at
things. But I recall when I quietly expressed my concerns, working on a lamb
chop at the Athenium, you very wisely rejoined that I should consider it...an
opportunity [to] introduce Pakistani painting to British public. Out of respect
for the effort that you had put in to raise funds and make the actual show
possible, I kept my silence.
“My fears were however later confirmed because the exhibition only helped to
encourage funky art back home in Pakistan.”
The draft letter continues, “These are some of the views which I have been
wanting to convey, besides of course Rumi ever since you spoke of him at the
luncheon arranged by Sardar Aseff Ahmed Ali at Kasur. I wonder if you recollect
the occasion? I find Diwan e Shamash quite outside the realm of human endeavour.
I experienced a similar strange feeling on reading sections of War and Peace and
on standing before a Velasquez in the Prado museum at Madrid.
“While paging through Rumi, to my amazement I also discovered that Ghalib,
Shah Hussain and Buleh Shah, not to speak of our more recent Iqbal, generously
helped themselves from his verse. In some cases literally translating him in
Urdu and Punjabi. But as I never cease to remind myself, it is better to imitate
your betters than to fall in love with oneself. Personally I find the devotional
intent of Rumi’s Mussnavi less exhilarating than the poetic content. I should
perhaps read through it again. I find myself more rapt with the common trials of
the head and the heart than divine love or fear of retribution.”
I haven’t heard from Sir Nicholas recently but I am sure he is in good health
and benefiting from the bustle of London and the leisure of Cambridge.
Rummaging through old books and papers is always remunerative. On a recent
occasion I found myself cleaning the dust off the cover of the first edition of
Mao Tse Tung’s poems (Peking 1976). The poems were translated into Urdu a year
later by my late friend Yahya Amjad. The book contains fifty-one poems and a
facsimile of a poem in Mao’s own handwriting. Which reminds me of the author
who, labouring to tell the story of the Red side, pleaded to the reader to just
compare the handwritings of Chang and Mao to know the difference between the two
sides.
Mao, even in revolution, was firmly rooted in the best classical Chinese
traditions. All the poems in the volume, according to English translators, are
written in classical verse form. Most poems are written to certain classical
musical tunes.
On the ice-clad rock rising high and sheer
A flower blooms sweet and fair
Sweet and fair, she craves not spring for herself alone,
To be the harbinger of spring she is content.
(Lines from Ode to the Plum Blossom, 1961)
I have just drunk the waters of Changsha
And come to eat the fish of Wuchang.
Now I am swimming across the great Yangtze,
Looking afar to the open sky of Chu.
Let the wind blow and the waves beat,
Better far than idly strolling in a courtyard
Today I am at ease.
“It was by a stream that the Master said
‘Thus do things flow away!’”
(From, Swimming, 1956)
At the talks at the Yenan Forum on Literature and Art (1942) Mao laid down
certain guiding principles for art and literary criticism. He believed that
things, which were essentially good, should not be run down for their weaknesses
while things that were essentially bad should not be praised for their good
points. He also asked writers to know whom they were writing for, what was their
audience?
He also pointed out that there is a time when villains have to be exposed and
then there comes a time when they stand revealed for what they are. Their
further exposure becomes a kind of opportunism. It is then time for writers and
creative individuals to show how villains can be overwhelmed. This may sound
didactic in free liberal democratic societies, where very soon distinguishing
right from wrong is likely to be declared a fascist act.
For societies, which are in resistance, Mao’s suggestions are useful for
survival. An alternative view claims that the mere act of painting or writing is
its own justification. This narrows down and restricts the scope of creative and
aesthetic expression. An individual cannot be severed from his time and assumed
to be indifferent or neutral to human and social conflicts, nor can aesthetics
be separated from ideas. Ideas, denuded of aesthetic experience, become mere
descriptions.
In the same way, aesthetics, divorced from ideas, usually transform into
cosmetics. In fact even to discuss the two separately can be grossly misleading.
The one is an inseparable part of the other. It is not easy to imagine that a
creative person can be indifferent to ideas and conflicts of his time. Those who
are innocent of the charge are welcome to pursue their own passions and skills,
because wittingly they harm no one and unwittingly they may add something of
value.
But those who pretend to have their heads in the clouds and will not demean
themselves with common concerns are either pitiable slaves or despicable
monsters. They claim to express themselves metaphysically or amorphously because
obscurity expresses complexity whereas perspicuity and clarity are virtues of
propaganda. In other words, calling ‘a spade a spade’ is propaganda but
calling it a ‘metallic palm leaf with a wooden handle’ immediately
transforms it into highborn literature. These slaves would want art and
literature to lose its bite, so that their toothless masters are spared their
wrath.
Ho Che Minh being a poet must have helped the Workers’ Party of Vietnam to
establish and strengthen the culture of resistance. During the Vietnam War, most
important historical relics and specimens of Vietnamese art were moved from the
south and stored in the caves of northern mountains.
A struggle to protect their lives and property soon became a struggle to defend
their motherland, their history, their culture, in fact to defend and protect
their very soul and being. Hence they fought with stolen guns, homemade weapons,
with sharpened bamboos, with their nails.
Uncle Ho never once forgot to send Christmas Greetings to the people and the
children of the United States, and in the end changed everything.
Nearly two thousand years ago
Wielding his whip, the emperor Wuof Wei
Rode eastwards to Chiehshih; his poem survives.
Today the autumn wind still sighs,
But the world has changed!
(Lines from Peitaiho, 1954, Mao Tse Tung)
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is a painter, author and a political activist