PART 2 - Gold and Bracelet, Water and Wave': Signature and Translation in the Indian Poetry of Adela Cory Nicolson
Anindyo RoyTake, for example, Alicia Simpson's Bhakti Marga or the Religion of Divine
Love, published in London at the turn of the century. In this work, Simpson
provides an overview of local Indian Vedantic traditions to explain the rise of
the poetic and religious movement called 'bhakti', including the dualistic
Hindu philosophy of Narada and the Islamic tradition of 'tesawuf' or
regeneration through multiple births. She self-consciously places herself as
a translator whose antecedents, she claims, are the 'Cup-bearers . . .
Fitzgerald and Le Gallienne, who have poured English wine into the Persian
cup, and thus made it palatable for the English drinkers' (Simpson 1919:66). (8-Notes)
In Indian Poetry, Edwin Arnold, the translator of the sixteenth-century
mystic poet Jayadeva's most important work Gita Govinda, offers what
appears to be one of the most influential Indian sources for Nicolson, 'The
Longings of Krishna' (Arnold 1881:44). Based on the 'rasa' theory of Indian
aesthetics, Jayadeva7s work combines the sacred and profane in its celebration
of the divine Krishna's love:
Of his secret House, the gates
Of that bright paradise which waits
The wise in love. Ah, human creatures!
Even your phantasies are teachers.
Mighty Love makes sweet in seeming
Even Krishna's woodland dreaming;
Mighty Love sways all alike (Arnold 1881:19).
The discourse about the sacred and the profane finds a new language in this
translation of Jayadeva, which finds a place in Nicolson's poetry. Furthermore,
translation also allows traditions to be linked through specifically
constructed cultural genealogies. For example, Alicia Simpson contends that
the influence of Vedantic philosophy can be discerned among the Greeks and
even English writers such as Spenser and Milton (Simpson 1919:88-90). (9- Notes) Her
work also shows clearly that the discursive terrain within which one seeks to
place Nicolson was part of a larger effort to define the local in an attempt to
create a cross-cultural understanding of national identity, making available a
language in which, for example, it was now possible to speak about 'fantasies'
in relation to the sacred and the profane. I contend that this understanding
had significant political implications: in her opening pages, Simpson observes
that her efforts at translation were justified because men 'who govern India'
must 'understand Hindu thought' (Simpson 1919:5-6). It is worth observing
that there exists a close association between the 'religious' and the 'civil' in
this type of discourse, which is evident when Simpson compares Hinduism
with the English Constitution, observing that the former's 'power of
accommodation is much greater than that of the very elastic English
Constitution' (Simpson 1919:8, emphasis added). In other words, the
translator's keen awareness and acknowledgement of the power of accommodation
or 'elasticity' inherent in the practice of translation make possible
a new discourse about re-imagining the civil modes that constitute government
and culture. Criticizing the simple proselytizing of Christian missionaries,
Simpson says: 'the stupendous systems of Hindu philosophy are
far too subtle for the ordinary Christian Missionary, who does not even
comprehend the mysteries of his own Faith, and therefore cannot wrestle
with the secrets of a subtle race' (Simpson 1919:65-6). It is clear then that
Simpson's work was part of a vocabulary of translation that was familiar to
the Victorian reading public since the mid-Victorian era when, for example,
Ella Haggard published her Myra: Or the Rose of the East (1857). Written right
after the Mutiny, an event that had triggered an entire range of fiction about
Victorian heroism, Haggard's oriental poetry was-as she herself claimed-a
'record of the association of early years', before 'the drama now enacting in
our Eastern possessions' disrupted the prevailing sense of order. There is an
acute awareness in Haggard that the success of her work depended on its
ability to evoke a pastoral and exotic world that had already been made
familiar through previous constructions of the Orient: as she observes in the
Introduction, the 'truth' of her poetic tale rested both on 'the fidelity in
reflecting Eastern scenes and ideas' (Haggard 1857:2) as well as on the
public's own sense of 'reality' drawn from its own affective position on the
empire. In Flowers of the East, Ebenezer Pocock claimed that the purpose of
his work on oriental poetry and music was 'to present to the European
imagination a few latent beauties, which have either remained unculled, or
have bloomed in obscurity' (Pocock 1833:iii), suggesting that the resources
available for translation into English were almost inexhaustible, given the
variety of sources to which the colonial authorities had access.
For Pocock, one such source was the 'ghuzul', a form of mediaeval
Persian romantic lyric, and the 'quseeduh' or idyllium. (10- Notes) Discussing these
poetic forms, Pocock explains how ideas of romantic love in Persian poetry
are embodied in the form of divine yearning:
The similarity between Persian Sufi and Indian 'bhakti' traditions lay in this
co-presence or simultaneity of divine and secular, a point emphasized in G. S.
Davie's translation of Bostin of Sidi, The Garden of Fragrance (1882). Pocock
had observed that, while the Persian style 'might appear inflated or
hyberbolic' to a European, to the 'Asiatic' that very style is 'strictly
appropriate and even beautiful'. Like Pocock, Davie defends the conflation
of the divine and profane elements in Sidi: 'Judging by modern European
ideas of propriety, he [Sidi] sometimes borders on the obscene . . . but
orientals do not gauge their morality by European standards' (Davie
1882:xviii). While Davie posits a differential understanding of culture for
the appreciation of poetry, Pocock draws on similarities between incommensurable
cultures, observing that the closest parallel to Sufi poetry was 'some of the most beautiful compositions' known to the West, the 'Psalms of the Royal David' (Davie 1882:32).
Translating some of the most popular romantic folk tales often rendered in poetry, such as 'Laila Majnu' (the Persian counterpart of the story of Romeo and Juliet) and the 'flute player', Davie once again makes available a language of love, separation, yearning and even death, all of which the critic Harold Williams discerned in Nicolson's
poetry but dismissed as reflecting the 'neurosis of sex' (Williams 1918:142).
William Cleaver Wilkinson's allegations that the translator Edwin Arnold
was no more than a mere 'poetizer' and 'paganizer' and that the 'public has
been taken by storm' (Wilkinson 1884:14) can be understood as symptomatic
of a particular response to translation as cultural practice, conducted within a
mechanism of appropriation and consumption that alternately reinforced and
destabilized the relationship between consumer and consumed object. The
uniqueness of Nicolson's work lies in the fact that, although it grows out of
this contested discursive terrain, it pushes the boundaries of translation as a
cultural practice to new edges. Her attempt to incorporate the 'bhakti'
tradition intersects with her efforts to imagine new possibilities for articulating
gender and voice in late Victorian colonial culture. Perhaps the most
influential strands of this 'bhakti' tradition comes from the work of the
sixteenth-century blind mystic poet, Sur-das. In his songs, Sur-das captured
the 'lila', or divine play, following the tradition of the Krishna cult
popularized by other mystic poets in sixteenth-century India, such as
Jaidev, Chaitanya, Chandidas and Mirabai. According to this tradition, it
was the poet's power of vision that gave him/her access to the divine play of
Krishna: participation in the 'lila' involves not some ineffable mystic
communion, but the acceptance of an active role in the day-to-day activities
of that dusty, rustic world that Nicolson often evokes in her own poetry. This
erotic/mystic poetry, founded on the 'rasa' theory of Sanskrit poetics, also
works through the reverie-epiphany inspired by the vision of Krishna's dual
role-human and divine-that, as Kenneth Bryant argues, is always revealed
against the 'background of the human' (Bryant 1978:21). In other words, this
form of poetic utterance gave Nicolson a way to articulate the human aspects
of the colonial encounter and to present an awareness of the complex and
multidimensional psychic effects it had introduced for western subjects.
Central to this play of 'lila' is the idea of 'viraha', or 'longing caused by
separation' (Hawley 1984:93), a force that 'deepens love and forces it to
expression' (Hawley 1984:96). The idea of 'viraha' is indeed a constitutive
structural and thematic element in most of Nicolson's poems. For example,
in the poem 'Reverie of Mahomed Akram at the Tamarind Tank', the
emotion is communicated by the idea that 'Possession lessens a lover's
delight' (10). The idea is elaborated in different ways in much of Nicolson's
poetry, particularly where feminine 'viraha' is set against the idea of
masculine, self-disciplining 'yoga'. In 'bhakti' poetry 'viraha' was seen to be
part of 'viyoga': an affect-laden mode suggesting a situation of separation that
is set in direct opposition to the more self-disciplining 'yoga' that emphasized masculine knowledge and transcendence through practice. As John Hawley notes: 'Grammatically the opposite of "yoga," viyoga literally is an unyoking/disjunction; it is devotion to the Lord in separation from him, as viyoga.' Sur-das, the poet, often described the 'gopis' (female companions) of Krishna as 'viyogis', individuals who knew only what they felt and entirely resistant to any talk of yogic self-discipline and asceticism (Hawley
1984:lOl). In fact, the poet Sur-das saw 'virahanis', the women separated
from Krishna, as the true yogis of this world who had mastered 'Birah jur
jog', the yoga of yearning (Hawley 1984:103). If masculine imperialism
signified the spirit of transcendence through practice, the viraha/voyoga
element was a reminder of the disjunction caused within the psychic sphere
by this form of engagement, and of the possibility of moving beyond that
disjunction. And this is precisely how Nicolson translates 'viraha' in her poetry.
Based on 'viraha', or the longing from separation, many of Nicolson's
poems address the condition of loss by locating the 'I' as already detached
from an original plenitude. In 'From behind the Lattice', the 'I' appears as a
voice behind the lattice, literally shielded from the object of desire, and its
'longing' is described as 'ebb[inglY and 'flow[inglY (395). 'VirahaY-or separation
as the condition of desire-provides the prominent topos in 'Golden Eyes':
This longing I have for you
Eternally survives,
May I not sometimes dare to dream
In some far time to be
Your soft softly golden eyes must gleam
Responsively on me? (44).
Reciprocity is imagined as a state of anticipation, evoking the space of a call
that lies outside the objectifying view of the Other. In 'Verses', that yearning
is expressed as a form of divine devotion enacted as ritual worship. The opening lines,
You are my God, and I would fain adore You
With sweet and secret rites of other days
Burn scented oil in silver lamps before You,
Pour perfume on Your feet with prayer and praise (12)
lead to the affirmation of unity between the self and the other:
Yet we are one. Your gracious condescension
Granted, and grants, the loveliness I crave.
One, in the perfect sense of Eastern mention,
'Gold and Bracelet, Water and Wave' (12).
This evocation of unity is, however, rare in Nicolson's poems. In 'Mahomed
Akram's Appeal to the Stars', the 'I' is imagined as the 'abject': 'Broken,
forlorn, upon the Desert sand', the speaker describes itself as 'I, the cast out,
dismissed and dispossessed' (27). Following the tradition of the song found
in Sur-das's poetry about the female'gopis' of Krishna waiting for his return,
the poetic persona in the poem 'The Masters' (347) asks the 'Masters, you
who rule the world . . .' to 'see in my songs how women love' (347).
Following the tradition of 'Krishna lila' often performed at local sites in
Northern India, Nicolson deftly uses this theme of 'viraha' in the poem
'Khristna and His Flute' (371) to describe the effect of the god's 'wistful
music' on the hearer: separated from the divine presence, the hearer cannot
resist its 'charms'. Reminiscent of Edwin Arnold's translation of Gita
Govinda, the poem evokes the idea of 'viraha' by describing the elusive
source of Krishna's music through the evocation of the call. In this poem, the
'blue God'of the poet Sur-das is transfigured in the very image of separation:
the 'blueness'of distance marks the very space where that desire for the lost
object is realized in the poem. (11- Notes)
The 'viraha' also becomes a kind of poetic trope in Nicolson that allows
her to recodify and transform Kipling's imperial motif of 'East is East' by
relocating its oppositional structure within the field of desire. In 'On the
City Wall', the sense of 'viraha' is enacted 'Upon the City Ramparts, lit up by
sunset gleam', by describing 'Blue eyes that conquer, meet the Darker eyes
that dream' (151). In the course of the poem, this opposition between active
'conquering' and inert 'dreaming' is subtly disrupted. Although the poem
closes with the lines,
But time 0' love is overpast, East and West must part,
Blue eyes so clear and brilliant! Brown eyes so dark and deep!
Those are dim, and ride away, these cry themselves to sleep (152)
it also evokes the emotion of 'viraha' through the act of 'lingering, looking,
smiling', when 'Time and distance [is] all forgotten, for a little while'. This
moment of 'arrest' allows the speaker to see 'East and West so gaily blending'
with 'All the force of Nature's laws, drawing them together' (151), creating an
alternate temporality that questions the very basis of time and progressive
history inaugurated by Kipling's stridently muscular imperialism. One is
aware that on the edges of this gendered allegorical poem is an understanding
of the psychic disruptions caused by the colonizing impulse. Significantly,
the poem ends with the words of the speaker of the 'dark eyes':
Oh, since Love is all so short, the sob so near the smile,
Blue eyes that always conquer us, is it worth your while? (152).
Perhaps most compelling for my purpose is the way in which the 'bhakti'
tradition allows for a particular form of play involving the relationship
between poetic signature, gender and the vision of 'lila'. In the devotional
poetry of Sur-das, for example, there are three forms of poetic persona
written into verse: the first, in which the poet sees himself as one who herded
cattle with Krishna under the name 'krishna sakha' (or companion of
Krishna); the second, as one with an indeterminate gender who spends
nights enjoying Krishna's love under the name 'champak lata' (or the vine of
the champak flower); and the third-again of indeterminate gender-as one
who returns to tell the tale in a thousand poems, signed at the end of each
offering with a third name 'Sur-das'.
I earlier indicated that the 'transitive move into signature' is designated
by the use of 'of' or 'by' in the title of the poems, such as 'Reminiscence of
Mahomed Akram' (29), 'Song of Faiz Ulla' (77), 'Protest: By Zahir-u-Din'
(116), 'Song of the Devoted Slave' (171), 'To Aziz: Song of Mahomed Akram'
(185), 'The Island of Desolation: Song of Mahomed Akram' (250), and
'Devotion of Aziz to Mir Khan' (287). Some poems foreground the very act
of naming, as in 'Golden Eyes' (42-4):
Oh, you whom I name 'Golden Eyes,'
Perhaps I used to know
Your beauty under other skies
In lives lived long ago.
This act of naming the addressee occurs as the addresser 'I' folds
metonymically into a persona, revealing a new discursive plane on which
gender and desire are played out in particular ways. For example, along with
the nominal gendering (giving or ascribing generic names-man or woman)
and specific names (those given to men or women) exist cursive positions
(pronouns such as 'I: 'she' and 'heJ) as well as those practices of gendering
that are not marked as such. In Gender Trouble, Judith Butler has argued that
'the gendered body is performative', suggesting that such a body 'has no
ontological status apart from the various acts which constitute its reality'
(Butler 1990:136). Nicolson's language manifests those 'words, acts, and
gestures, articulated and enacted desires' (Butler 1990:136) whose possibilities
belong to the grammatical order instituted by language in translation.
This language works through the continuum (Urdu/Hindi/English) and,
within these gendered structural possibilities, Nicolson places poetic voices
that translate, and are themselves translated through, gender to recall
lineages of desiring subjects. It is through such performance that desire is
angled and given a particular profile. Nicolson's complex enactment of these
possibilities is significant; using the Indian idea of multiple 'births' embodied
in the theory of incarnation, 'In lives lived long ago', the poet in 'Golden
Eyes' switches the gender identities of 'I' and 'you' throughout the poem,
creating a temporality that plays with the very idea of 'origin'. In the first
instance, the 'I' is imagined as a merchant who 'rows with galley slaves'
bringing the addressee 'YOU' 'Your treasures from the East'; in the next the - -
addressee is imagined as the emperor and the 'I' a 'favourite slave': 'Some
youth, whom from the lion's den/ You vainly tried to save' (43); in the next,
the 'I' assumes the person of 'a mighty King' and the addressee becomes
'some slight captive thing,/ Some maiden whom I slew'; and in the final
instance, the '1'i.s the sacrificial victim and the addressee the sacrificer. In
'Reminiscence of Mahomed Akram' (29), the speaker is male and the
unnamed addressee is female: 'The sudden Thought of your face is like a
Wound/ When it comes unsought,' and the scene of farewell described as
Fad[ing] away from the failing sense in a haze,
And the music sways
far away in unmeasured distance . . .
I cannot forget- (30).
'To Aziz: Song of Mahomed Akram' (185) is ascribed to a male Akram and
addressed to a male 'Aziz' (in Arabic, 'Aziz' literally means the beloved of
God); the male Akram addresses Aziz as 'You are so fair and I desire you so' (185).
Akram addresses Aziz in the following manner:
Even as always you torment me near.
Yet is your beauty so divine a thing,
So irreplaceable, so haunting sweet
Against all reason, I am fain to fling
My life, my youth, myself, beneath your feet.
The way in which this transitive move to 'I' occurs in the poem also
creates an uncertainty regarding the gender identity of the speaker: Is this
a poem addressed by an unnamed woman to Aziz, now ascribed to
Mahomed Akram because he is its singer? Another poem addressed to
Aziz is simply called 'Farewell', the signature withheld, and starts with
'Farewell, Aziz, it was not mine to fold you/ Against my heart for any
length of days' (47). Similarly in another poem simply titled 'Memory', the
addressee is a female 'Aziza whom I adore' (63), but the identity of the 'I'
is never specified:
Every curve of that beauty is known to me,
Every tint of that delicate roseleaf skin,
And these are printed on every atom of me,
Burnt in on every fibre until I die.
And for this, my sin,
I doubt if ever, though dust I be,
The dust will lose the desire,
The torment and hidden fire,
Of my passionate love for you (63-4).
In 'Stars of the Desert: [Mahomed Akram's Night Watch]' (239-40)' the
speaker is the night watchman who watches over the sleeping male Akram
who is separated from him by 'Only the walls of one thin tent of canvas'. The
information offered in parenthesis about the gender of the speaker is
significant. As a poem about 'unrequited love' (240), it links the 'I' and
'you' spectrally through the description of the play of shadows in the night:
Here, at the doorway of my tent, I linger
To watch in yours the shadow and the light,
The hungry soul within me burning burning,
As stars burn throughout the Eastern night (239).
The male speaker describes the male sleeping body of Mahomed Akram in
intimate terms, follows its 'cadenced breathing/ From the soft curve of
parted lips set free' (239), creating an affect that registers itself only through
the shadows behind the tent. The 'viraha' motif is recalled in the lines: 'And
know the Desert's self is not more boundless/ Than is the distance 'twixt
yourself and me' (240). In another poem, 'Devotion of Aziz to Mir Khan'
(287-94), Aziz becomes the 'slave' who prepares himself for the eventual
departure of his master Mir Khan who has to escape without his slave in
order to preserve his own life. Aziz knows that Mir Khan is 'Beloved of
women' (290) and, although he claims that 'Women have loved me, even me'
(293), he admits that 'this devotion I have for thee,/ This another thing: I
have no words/ To tell thee what thou knewest and did not heed' (293). The
slave is finally captured by Mir Khan's enemies; as he is led away, Aziz says:
Ah, when they lead me out, beyond the walls,
I shall look forth, across the rosy hills
Knowing that far beyond their lilac rims
Thou wilt awake, in all thy beauty's pride,
Safe and beloved, already forgetful of me,
Whose lonely and smoldering life has broken at last
Into this passionate flame of death. Mir-Khan- (294).
To conclude, a reassessment of Nicolson's poetry in the light of translation -
conceived as a revisionist cultural practice - has to take into account
the specific ways in she deploys the signature in relation to poetic voice.
Translating the Orient has historically played a crucial role in consolidating
those dominant ideologies of colonial culture that have always seen the
metropolis as the privileged site in relation to the colony. This particular
arrangement ensured that knowledge of the Other could be transacted in a
manner that upheld the supremacy of metropolitan power. However, as the
work of Richard Burton demonstrates, translation has always been a site of
contestation between languages, allowing for new structural possibilities to
emerge whereby fixed notions about identity can be reimagined. To that
extent, Nicolson's poetry offers an alternative to the purely anthropological
impulse inherent in colonial translation by reworking the subject/object
relationship and the forms of structured gaze that underline that relationship.
By incorporating Indian traditions into the body of her verse and
animating other languages that may work in the interstices of received
Victorian poetic tradition, Nicolson's poetry marks a significant moment in
the historical production of India, making it a site for both appropriation and
resistance.
NOTES
1 For a discussion of writings by women travellers in nineteenth-century India, see Buckland 1906, Dyson 1978, and Robinson 1990.
2 By the mid-nineteenth century, G. S. Davie's translation from Persian of Bostin of Sidi was used in India as a textbook in the government schools and colleges and for the examination of officers, civil and military.
3 Edwin Arnold was the translator of Jayadeva, the sixteenth-century Indian mystic poet, and member of the Royal Asiatic and Royal Geographical Societies. His Indian Poetry (1881) offers a translation of the eleven 'sargas' of Jayadeva's principal poetic work, Gzta Govinda, including the 'Longings of Krishna' (Arnold 1881:46). Arnold was also the principal of Deccan College in Central India and established his reputation as a translator through the publication of The Light of Asia, a poeticphilosophical work on the life and teachings of Buddha. Critics of Arnold asserted that The Light of Asia was 'well adapted to hit this transient whim of Occidental taste' (Wilkinson 1884:1), stating that 'whether as literature . . . or as exposition of Buddhist doctrine and life, the "Light of Asia" mustbe pronouncedunworthy to survive' (Wilkinson 1884:177).
4 For details, see Clive 1987:346-99.
5 See MacKenzie 1984.
6 (unknown)
7 All further references to Nicolson's poetry are indicated by page numbers from Hope 1940.
8 It is worth noting here that Simpson's language itself incorporates a vocabulary that had already been established by a translator like FitzGerald who, in the introduction to the third edition of the Rabkiyat of Omar Khayyam, referred to the poet and his work as 'his Wine and Cupbearer' (FitzGerald 2001:64).
9 Like Simpson, Ebenezer Pocock attributes similarities between Sufi and European authors such as Shaftsbury, Madame de Guion and Akenside (Pocock 1833:16).
10 For a discussion of these (Persian) poetic forms, see Naim 1978.
11 The lines in Edwin Arnold read: 'Though it seemeth of the earth,/ Heavenly is
the music's birth;/ Telling darkly of delights/ In the wood, of wasted nights,/ Of
witless days, and fruitless love' (Arnold 1881:13).
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