The Shape of Meaning

One of the most widely read poets in the Western world hails from outside of it: Rumi, a Muslim poet who was born in present-day Tajikistan, and wrote in the 1200s AD. His couplets about love and the divine resonate with readers everywhere, regardless of their backgrounds. His words wash over people, and the emotions they evoke linger.

For many children of immigrants growing up in the West, who have not been taught to read or write their mother tongues, and often find that their verbal command of the language has slipped away over time, the only way to encounter Islamic poetry from these great writers is through translation or Romanized script — a form of using English letters to spell out the foreign words.

Translating poetry is an artistic endeavor in its own right, because translating a piece of literature as deep and complex as a poem necessitates creating new meaning. When one translates a poem, the words, as well as the rhythm and context of certain symbols, cannot be preserved in their original form — something must be lost or gained in the process.

Maybe this is the beauty of footnotes — to explain all of the nuances and double meanings behind the power of the original words. But even if all of this depth could be communicated, the larger issue is the script itself. What about the visual representation? Does the saying about a picture being worth a million words apply to scripts that are like images? Can all the beauty the poet intended to communicate be translated across contexts, languages, and visions?

Islamic poetry is known for blending earthly and divine love. Yet, the extent to which people recognize the divine love present in Islamic poetry — Rumi’s poetry for example — is influenced by their backgrounds. This factor has led people with a lack of exposure to Islam, particularly in the West, to idealize a version of Rumi and his poetry that is stripped of his Islamic identity.

The visual form of the script is central to the art itself. Nastaliq is a calligraphic script that flows diagonally rather than laterally and was developed in Iran in the 1400s. Though it was initially used primarily to transcribe Persian poetry, it soon became entwined with written Urdu. While the rise of printing technologies has challenged this use because of the script’s complexity — for example, letters changing shape based on their position in a word — much Urdu poetry is still written in Nastaliq.

Growing up, my primary interaction with Urdu poetry was through translated versions or explanations from my parents. I was always awestruck by its beauty, and thought that was the extent of the poems’ brilliance. This year, however, I am taking Hindu-Urdu 101A/101B. Now, having finally reached the point where I can read basic Urdu, I realized that the weight of the words is different when you read the script. Instead of just being struck by the beauty of the meaning, I am now arrested by the weight of each word. I see how the swoops and slopes of each line melt into the meanings. The overlapping letters symbolize and represent the overlapping concepts of love described in the poetry.

This is why some people, especially in the West, separate Islamic poets from their religion; without reading the poetry as it was written, they miss the visual clues of transcendability and the divine. The Nastaliq script is notorious for being difficult to read, but without struggling to read the beautiful script, the answers come too easily. The journey of reading the poems is a pilgrimage in and of itself, so when the answers are finally revealed, the reward is that much sweeter and revelatory.

Without access to the script, the Islamic connection can be easily forgotten. It becomes easier to read the poetry as abstract and reference it in ways completely antithetical to the artist’s original intention. This mistake is not intentional, but a byproduct of distance — linguistic, cultural, and generational.

Yet, its effects are significant. Some people view art as a way to understand different people’s experiences, so to walk away with only a half-meaning is a detriment to human connection and the purpose of art. On the other hand, in the diasporic context, people are searching for a connection to their heritage, yet without knowledge of the script, there will always be something that remains just out of reach.

Seeing the letters evolve as you read the poem is tied to its artistic spirit. Modern ways of reading and engaging with various forms of Islamic poetry, and especially Urdu poetry, flatten the original meanings. The many debates around the politicization of language, fonts, and origins in the Islamic world all point to one truth: The choice of font carries meaning, purpose, and a message — thus, to read poetry in the absence of its script not only changes how it’s read, but the meaning itself. If reading the translation can make you completely change your perspective on life, imagine the power the original holds.