An earthsong

An earthsong
Renuka Narayanan

A two-day fest of Khusrawi mausiki at Humayun's tomb in Delhi, organised by Delhi Tourism and film-maker Muzaffar Ali, had me awhirl with excitement, because I adore Amir Khusro's verse. Its pathos, beauty and wit are like tonics for the tired mind and never fail to refresh. What adds charm to the whole exercise is the effort involved in trying to pronounce the Persian and Brijbhasha, of asking around for the precise meaning, the hidden nuance.

Does anyone really care if Khusro was Hindu, Muslim, Amish or Athonite? He was a survivor, who outlasted seven sultans with all of their attendant whims and vagaries. If he had to toe the official Islamic line in some of his writings, he also spoke and sang from the heart in a manner unmatched in his time. If Khusro's words did not ring with sweetness and simplicity, with honesty of feeling, would his verse be still so popular, centuries after he passed away? Our filmi songwriters still make free with his words, be it òf40ógori haathon pe hari chooriyan or piya se naina lad aayi re or bahut kathin hai dagar panghat ki or the perennially `hot' òf40ósakhi piya ko jo main na dekhun kaise main kaatun andheri ratiyaan (if I do not see my Beloved, how shall I last the long, dark night?).

The only comparable phenomenon (until Hindi film music came along) was Jayadeva's òf40óGita Govinda, that spread like wildfire across India, beyond Orissa to Manipur and Malabar and is translated into sixteen languages. It inspired the dance called Krishnattom in Kerala, it was declared the sole official text of the Jagannath temple at Puri, while the ashtapadis on Vasant are almost unbearably exquisite.

But the point here is not to incite a competition in status and statistics. It is simply to celebrate the spiritual and cultural wealth we can still enjoy with so much pleasing poetry. In particular there's a song by Khusro that all Delhi is currently blooming to in silent testimony. It goesòf40ó sakal ban phool rahi sarson, ambva phoote tesu phule koel bole dar dar aur gori karat sringar. The mustard blooms in every field, mango buds snap open, the tesu blooms, the koel sings from every branch -- and the woman bedecks herself. The poem goes on to describe how all the girls who work in the gardens bring armfuls of flowers of every kind, but `Aashiq rang' (the Beloved) who promised to return to Hazrat Nizamuddin's door has not turned up even this Spring -- òf40óaur beet gaye barson, sakal ban phool rahi sarson. Many seasons have passed since then, (yet) the mustard blooms in every field.

Drive around Central and South Delhi, or out towards Gurgaon in Haryana. Or simply sit out and look around. The North is wearing its prettiest face of the year. Gardens and windows are bursting with flowers, the bougainvillea is foaming colour over the walls, mango trees are heavy with pale green flowering cones. Under the roar of the traffic, you can actually hear a sweet, insistent ``kuuuu''. Even the curryleaf tree blooms proudly, while the pomegranate flaunts bright red anarkali.

Despite the squalor, sorrow and din of our daily lives, Mother Earth persists in renewing herself each Spring. Perhaps we could as well. Khusro says, so subtly and kindly, without damaging our self-respect or preaching at us in a heavy-handed, boring manner, that we should wake up and look around, see what a large scheme we are part of, learn from eternal Spring that hearts may break but life goes on.

Accordingly, we may need to treat ourselves to small pleasures. Buy a bunch of flowers, if we don't grow any. Share sweets with deprived children. Write or call the neglected people in our lives. Take the initiative in resolving an old quarrel, so that it may be laid aside forever -- and even if the other party won't relent, at least we know that we sincerely tried.