Gender Politics and the Urdu Ghazal

Rekhti, ‘Ishq and Ambiguity
       Perhaps ultimately the crucial problem posed by rekhti is this: when a ‘woman’ addresses an unambiguously feminine beloved, ‘she’ challenges the central axiom of Urdu love poetry, which is that the beloved be of ambiguous identity, both in terms of gender and in human vs. divine terms (in other words, the beloved ought, theoretically, to be readable as either human or divine). While this makes sense for a religious culture in which the divine is not embodied, the ostensibly gender-neutral ‘he’ of rekhta works out to be less than benign for the expression of feminine desire. Indeed ‘he’ effectively excludes any potential feminine, because ‘she’ can never serve as a neutral marker.

       The point has been made that, conventionally and in material fact, Urdu poetry has been the provenance of men and its domain masculine: the poets are men, the narrator-Lover/hero speaks in the masculine, and the beloved is referred to in the masculine gender as well. Even when physical attributes are described, and strongly suggest a female person, the beloved is referred to in Urdu as ‘he’.27 This is the opposite of conventions for reading the ghazal in English translation, as we have said, where the ambiguous beloved will be referred to as ‘she’ even though her attributes be masculine. Here are two examples of ambiguous desire commonly expressed in rekhta, one more abstract and one less so. Both were written, again, by Ghalib:

Nind us ki hai dimagh us ka hai raten us ki hain Teri zulfen jis ke bazu par pareshan ho ga’in Sleep is [his], peace of mind is [his], the very nights are [his] Upon whose shoulder lie strewn your scattered tresses [rumpled locks?]. Zikr us pari-vash ka aur phir bayan apna Ban gaya raqib akhir tha jo razdan apna Mention of that fairy-faced one— and my elaborations— have made a rival of my confidant.

       In neither of these verses do we see compromised the ambiguity of gender or humanity/ divinity in either the lover or the beloved. Anyone can claim them and identify with the desire they both express, be the lover male or female, human or divine.

       With (masculine) humans in search of the divine (probably conceived of as genderless but referred to in the masculine) there is little place left for female humans, or even for the feminine principle. Rekhta has served for centuries as a central icon of cultural identity and self-esteem among South Asian Muslims. Its elevated value hinges on the aesthetic of ‘ishq as the most noble of human endeavors, and this aesthetic was developed over several centuries in the context of a rich mystical tradition, that of Sufism. Perfecting oneself as an ‘ashiq is seen as the only true path toward unity with the divine; and the presumption that the ultimate beloved is the Divine has been Urdu love poetry’s best defense against the austere and conservative forces of religious authority which might otherwise have tried to squelch it, along with other arts manifesting an extravagance of passion. Such a defense has been augmented by conventions which insist that the physical aspects of passion remain sublimated. Claiming the human-divine divide as its ultimate subject, its ultimate reality, rekhta is a poetry of love in exquisite separation.

       Not so rekhti. Neither sublimated passion nor love in separation—let alone gender ambiguity—are its forte. The emotions expressed are understood to result from the social reality of women being thrown together, which is exactly the opposite of the separation on which ‘true love’(‘ishq-i haqiqi) is predicated. The following rekhti poem by Rangin may serve as an illustration of that which the critics condemn. It takes the form of sarapa (lit. ‘head-to-foot’), in which the beloved’s beauty is enumerated by the ‘ashiq; and while it conforms otherwise to normative ghazal poetics, both the ‘ashiq and the beloved are of feminine gender:

	Hai gi meri dogana ki sajavat khasi Chunpa’i rang ghazab tis pe khichavat khasi	All decked out, my other half is something special: Her complexion’s golden, her figure splendid to match!
	Sar ke ta’viz sitam aur fateh pech ‘ajib Bal mehke hu’e choti ki gandhavat khasi	That forehad gem’s a killer! the braided coiff a wonder:  Her perfumed hair and fragrant forelock choice.
	Sab se guftar khudi sab se nirali nik-suk  Dant tasvir hain missi ki jamavat khasi	In speech she’s like no other, from toenails to hair-plait unique:  Those powedered-black teeth complete the picture!
	Kurti jali ki pari sar pe dupattah achha Qahr pajama aur angiya ki kasavat khasi	How lovely on her body lies her lace chemise! Her head-scarf’s really super— Those tight pajamas and bodice torment me!
	Naz zebindah haya afat-o ‘ishvah jadu Ghamza voh zulm-ada aur rukhavat khasi	Even her blandishments enchant me; her side-glances cast calamity The winks are cruel, her coolness private torture.
	Kyun na aise se phanse dil Aji insaf karo Guftagu sahr kamar khub lagavat khasi	How could the heart not be ensnared? Dear One, have mercy! Yor discourse casts a spell, your waist is gorgeous, Our intimacy exquisite.
	Pa’on men kafish bhabhuka voh magharraq nadir Sar-o qad aur hai raanon ki dhulavat khasi	Those foot slippers are gilded a rare, brilliant red;  Tall and willowy is her build but deliciously curvy her thighs!
	Sab se sab bat khudi sab se anokhi guftar Sab se poshak alag sab se sajavat khasi	She’s unlike all others in all things, Her speech strange and marvelous! Her costume distinct from all others, her adornments exquisite.
	Is ka azhar karun tujh se main kya kya Rangin? Dast-o pa zor men mehndi ki rachavat khasi	How might I ever convey her to you, Rangin? From hand to foot she’s formidable, hued in henna!

       Consistent with critical remarks above, this poem in ‘women’s idiom’ (auraton ki boli) is generally light and racy in tone, often suggestive, occasionally salacious—some might even consider it obscene.29 All these characteristics seem to be understood as part and parcel of what it means for women to express themselves, and here is where gender analysis is illuminating. Whether or not the critics are correct that this is what rekhti is all about, raciness and salaciousness would seem to compromise the idealised and ennobled construction of the Urdu lyric’s standard diction as it is thought to be embodied in rekhta. Of course, suggestiveness is no stranger to rekhta (nor, to be perfectly candid, is occasional lewdness)—it is more that lewdness and off-colour suggestion do not reflect the ideals with which the ghazal is imbued, and therefore do not get presented as good representations of rekhta. The condition of rekhti being narrated in the feminine voice both is and is not, simply, what distinguishes rekhti from rekhta. Explicitly that may be the case; but implicitly they are separated by the bundle of associations arising from the very presence of ‘her’ voice. What is it that the feminine voice gives rise to?

       It is possible that critical characterizations of rekhti as decadent may be based on its generally informal/immodest speech; or on its allusions to flirtations with servant boys; or to fantasies about males from outside the household espied across the rooftops—all of which do find a place in this corpus. But even more than its casual tone and (heterosexual) naughtiness, a huge ‘problem’ with rekhti surely lies in its loss of gender ambiguity. The logical extension of this absence of ambiguity in both the ‘ashiq’s identity and that of the ma’ashuq leads us to the fact that rekhti’s erotic expression is often female-to-female. The previously-quoted ‘particular emotions’ and ‘decadent pleasure’ of ‘venturing into social taboos’ must surely be allusions to the obvious but implicitly indicated erotic relationship between rekhti’s feminine ‘ashiq and ‘her’ beloved such as is manifest in this sarapa. Is this the logical extension of women expressing emotion? Certainly it would seem to dismiss rekhta’s fiction of non-gender specific lovers as heterosexual. And how are the custodians of Urdu culture to deal with ‘lesbian’ poetry?

       My reading is that the critics draw no meaningful distinction between ‘lesbianism’ and the ‘particular emotions of women’; to them, these emotions—and the ‘particular concerns’ of women—constitute decadent pleasure and are necessarily socially taboo, rendering rekhti illegitimate poetry. Though he makes no explicit mention of lesbian eroticism, one distinguished critic offers perfect illustration in the following remarks:

       As a general rule, wherever the female body or dress or manners are described in specifically female terms...the level of poetry is low and the tone is devoid of the true tension of experience. ( S.R.Faruqi ‘Expression of the Indo-Muslim Mind in the Urdu Ghazal’)

Poetic Parda
       Deductive reasoning leads us back to a truth that is patently obvious anyway, which is that polite discourse and legitimate poetry are male domain. In Urdu’s pre-modern literary world, gender segregation (parda) was so widespread a social phenomenon that it might not seem particularly remarkable. But it is worth remarking that the institution of parda removes women not only from public space but also from expressive space, from the sphere of literature and the expression of ideas. In other words, (in addition to the obsessions with honour that continue to symbolically rationalise the practice of gender segregation), actual physical segregation of women from the public sphere has worked to remove them from the imagined community of Urdu speakers, a community arguably created and reiterated through recitation of ghazal poetry. When ‘women’ speak, as in rekhti, they do not express ‘ishq so much as mundane, even trivial, concerns. This renders rekhti of some sociological interest, as the critics note, but that interest is quite distinct from the realm of universal human striving toward transcendence that makes rekhta such a prestigious vehicle of cultural expression.

       Pre-modern Urdu poetry is remarkable for its absence of female authorship. It has canonised no female poets. Indeed, there have been no women writers of repute until well into the twentieth century. Even these authors tend overwhelmingly to write prose31 in a tradition which favours poetry over any other form of literature, and over most other art forms as well.32 There are fewer than a handful of reputed women scholars of Urdu even today. Thus, any poetry authored by ‘women’, speaking in ‘women’s language’, or purporting to be about women, is necessarily ‘of a low level’ and represents an anomaly; it must necessarily be segregated from the more public, normative world of rekhta. No wonder that, in our time, rekhti is a thoroughly marginalised body of literature.

       Among the reasons why poetry as an expressive medium is valued over just about all others in Islamicate cultures is that it represents a bridge between the private and the public. The ghazal legitimises the public expression of intimate emotions, an act that would otherwise be socially unacceptable. ‘Neutral’ gender conventions deflect what might otherwise be highly personal experience, protecting (whose?) particular privacy and metaphorically reiterating the social practice of parda.

       One of the great ironies in all this is that, though narrated by one ‘woman’ who usually addresses another in intimate terms, our only existing records indicate that rekhti was recited by male poets (sometimes in female dress) to a male audience.33 Women were, as one writer has observed, quite incidental to this ‘women’s poetry’.34 Yet it does seem remarkable that two centuries ago, during an expansive period in Urdu culture, men were open to exploring the notion of a distinct female experience; while during the past century that openness has been replaced by an anxiety so deep as to lead Urdu’s (male) elite to condemn all poetic expression at all—real or imagined—of women’s experience in the feminine voice as delusional, decadent, or ‘of a low level’, to be swept under the carpet. Unhappily, what men could imagine about the experience of being a woman was limited to the petty quotidian concerns of the zenana or the mischief to which they felt seclusion inevitably gave rise. But the insaniyat of women is not explored in rekhti though it is, as we have said, the cornerstone of rekhta.

       The anxiety to which we draw attention here is doubtless felt much more acutely by today’s literati than by the rekhti poets of yesteryear, because they were not obliged to face the onslaught against Muslims from the Hindu right which is so prevalent in our times. Simultaneously, the Muslim right, the world over, increases its regulation of feminine expression, understanding such expression to be a point of marked vulnerability for the community as a whole. Surely the diminished availability of rekhti publications in bookstores, libraries and even university syllabi reflects this anxiety. And while battening down the hatches may be understandable, its intellectual viability is questionable.

The Gender Politics of Male vs. Female Homoeroticism
       The ghazal’s gender-ambiguous normative conditions create an expressive environment quite receptive to male homoeroticism, as some scholars have discussed,35 but they tend to close the door to expression of female homoeroticism. Without rehearsing the growing literature on the subject, let us say that during the past century or so reformists and colonialists have been concerned with the extent of homoeroticism in the ghazal and how poorly that reflects on Indo-Muslim culture as a whole. More recently voices have been raised to confirm its existence in the face of prudish denials; other voices have risen up in celebration; and still others to put homoeroticism in a strictly literary context incidental to social practice.36 Insofar as this topic has been taken up by critics, they have confined themselves to discussions of male homoeroticism and to rekhta; as far as I can tell, neither the theoretical possibility of a feminine ‘ashiq nor the genre of rekhti has ever entered into these discussions. This is the case even though two of the most distinguished critics to have written on the subject are clearly aware of rekhti’s existence.

       All disclaimers aside, the gender-ambiguity achieved through the ghazal’s conventionalised masculinity lends itself easily to the ’safe’ expression of male homoeroticism. No subversion of convention is necessary, and there is ample documentation of these conventional possibilities having been exploited by male poets who were, to varying degrees, homoerotically inclined.38 But to express female homoeroticism, by contrast, is to abandon gender neutrality, to entirely subvert the ghazal’s central conventions and, by extension, its aesthetics. Rekhti makes it possible to give voice to such emotions, but does so on pain of ostracism from the entire universe of ideas associated with rekhta, that most privileged idiom of Indo-Muslim expression. Whereas the possibility of expressing male homoeroticism has enriched the connotative realm of rekhta, the mere possibility of expressing female homoeroticism has already effected rekhti’s ostracism, denigration and suppression.

       Some readers will willingly forego this universe in exchange for a promised lesbian utopia. It is tempting for the feminist reader to see in rekhti a private world where women, obliged to live in seclusion, resist the misery of gender oppression by discovering rich emotional and erotic possibilities with one another, and to celebrate them in Urdu, that iconic language of love. Rekhti and the zenana have been posited as such a site of resistance by at least two authors.39 And if rekhti poets were indeed secluded women, such an interpretation would be far more persuasive. But alas, it is not. We can’t look to rekhti for insight into what it means for women, living together, to develop a literature of same-sex eroticism. Intellectual honesty requires that we look there instead for insight into what it means for men, who keep women secluded and socialise with other men, to invent a parody of their own idealised love literature, and to perform it for other men while impersonating women, for laughs.

       Only rarely do we see the pleasure of melancholy expressed in this male-authored poetry in the feminine voice, although the following she’rs represent a welcome exception, and could be said to approach the idealized aesthetics of the ghazal:

			Rishta-i ulfat ko torun kis tarah ‘Ishq se main munh ko morun kis tarah How shall I break this intimate bond? How can I turn my face away from love? Pochhne se ashk ke fursat nahin Aasatin ko main na chhorun kis tarah There’s no respite from wiping away the tears: The cuffs of my sleeves need to be wrung out—but how? Sheeshah-i dil tor kar Rangin mira Ab tu kahta hai main jorun kis tarah Rangin, having shattered my fragile heart now asks, “how shall I piece it back together?”
				(Rangin)
		Far more common are poems like this:
			Mere ghar men Zanakhi ayi kab? Main nagori bhala nahayi kab? When did my Zanakhi last come to my house? Poor me, when’s the last time I had a bath? Larki muddat se voh gayi hai ruth Meri us ki hu’i safa’i kab That girl’s been angry for a long time: When have we ever cleared up matters between us? Voh na-bakhti to apne ghar men na thi Pas us ke gayi thi dayi kab When I sent the nurse round to her place The wretch wasn’t at home. Hargiz ati nahin hai sanch ko anch Pesh javegi yih barayi kab Truth is never scorched by fire: When will this great truth make its impact? Gundh kar hath pa’un men Rangin Us ne mehndi mire lagayi kab When did she last apply henna, Rangin, kneading my hands and feet?

Zanakhi and Dogana 
        The relationship depicted above (though currently on the outs) is clearly one of intimacy, perhaps—but not explicitly—sexual. Its ‘lesbianism’ is marked by the term ‘zanakhi’, which was employed in the first verse to indicate the absent friend who is longed for. This, and ‘dogana’ are terms particular to rekhti and indicate an intimate, even erotic relationship between two women. While there is little explicit lesbian content in rekhti, erotic relationships between the narrator and her beloved ‘other’ are overwhelmingly alluded to by employing these terms. They are generally not found in dictionaries40 and are nearly untranslatable. Here is how Rangin is said to have explained the terms, in the glossary he provided by way of introducing his rekhti collection (Divan-i Angekhta):

Dogana—having ordered almonds from the bazaar, they (f.pl.) shell them. Those almonds from which twin, or double, nuts are extracted, usually are formed in such a way that one is implanted within the other. This implanted nut is called ‘masculine’ (nar) and the one in which it is embedded is called ‘feminine’ (maadah). Then an unknown person (shakhs) is summoned and, giving [him] the two almond fruits, one of them tells [him], ‘Give me one of the fruits and give her the other.’ The one in whose hand [he] places the nar fruit then thinks of herself as the ‘man’ (mard) and the one in whose hand the ‘feminine’ fruit is placed becomes the ‘feminine’ and they call each other ‘dogana’ or ‘twin.’

Zanakhi—After slaughtering a chicken or pigeon and having it cooked, they (f.pl.) sit down to eat together. In this bird’s breast is a bifurcated bone (the wishbone) which they refer to as the “zanakh.” Simultaneously each of them takes one branch of the bone and pulls it toward herself. The one whose end snaps is the feminine and the one whose end remains whole is called the masculine, and if the wishbone snaps in the middle, then they order another bird to be slaughtered and repeat the exercise so that it may be fully determined who is masculine and who feminine.” (emphasis added)

       Ironically, Rangin and Sabir Ali Khan, who reproduced these definitions, confirm stereotyped views about men viewing lesbian acts (or purporting to) insofar as their voyeurism concerns itself with how to gender the interactions. It does not seem to occur to them that neither the erotic, nor sexual acts, are inherently gender-marked. How else to understand the explained principle behind the definitions above, viz. ‘to fully determine who is masculine and who feminine’, when the terms ‘dogana’ and ‘zanakhi’ themselves don’t imply gender differentiation within the relationship? As it happens, this aspect of the terms is absent from the one other gloss apparently available for dogana and zanakhi. The Muhazzab ul-Lughat, a reference dictionary from the second half of the twentieth century, offers similar definitions but gender ascription is absent from them. The woman who holds the shorter end of the zanakh is deemed ‘little sister’ while the one with the longer end is ‘big sister’. Muhazzab ul-Lughat notes that the terms are no longer in use, and offers contradictory testimony as to whether they represented the parlance of secluded women (begumat-i qila’) or debauched women (aubash).43 So it is difficult to tell whether the Lughat (dating back 30-40 years) is doing the sanitising itself, or whether the process has been going on even longer.

       Some of the raciest rekhti was written not by its ‘inventor’, Rangin, but by two other poets, Qalandar Bakhsh Jur’at (‘the Audacious’) and Insha. The musaddas44 below is the opening stanza of one of Jur’at’s two Chapti Namas (‘Tribad Testimonials’):

	There’s no love lost between women Apas men zen-o mard ke hargiz na and men these days:	Apas men zen-o mard ke hargiz na  raha pyar
	New ways of being intimate are seen sohbat ke nazar aate hain kucch ourall around:	sohbat ke nazar aate hain kucch our hi atwar
	Everyone knows about women who chapti se jo rahta hai ab har ik ko love women -	chapti se jo rahta hai ab har ik ko sarokar
	At night these words are always to Ati hai sada shab ko yahi kan men be heard:	Ati hai sada shab ko yahi kan men har bar
	“The way you rub me, ah! it drives Ghisson pe tere ha’e mira dil hai my heart wild -	Ghisson pe tere ha’e mira dil hai  divana
	Stroke me a little more, my sweet Ragra de zari aur miri acchi other:	Ragra de zari aur miri acchi  dogana