By David Paquiot, edited by Jim Luce.
It was the question implicit to the title of Maasoom’s debut book The Sufi’s Garland that readied my entry into a fascinating world of words and images.
Simply put, is the Garland gathered by the Sufi for the reader, or is the Sufi, this mystical being, something to be lauded with a garland of flowers? Are the flowers in the garland, with their ephemeral and lingering fragrance, representing the symbol of a true human existence? Are the sufis themselves the flowers?
With each turn of the page I was assailed by this question, until haphazardly I came to these words from the famous Sufi Jelaluddin Rumi and was subsequently able to determine that only by diving deeply into Maasoom's poetry, to the point where the oceans of worldly experience, inspiration and poetic technique came together would I be able find my answer:
Seek only that of which you have no clue.
Desire only that of which you have no hope. - Rumi
Further in, I was struck by the playfulness in Maasoom's work. I’m almost tempted to make a correlation between Manav Sachdeva's nom de plume Maasoom, and the word 'masoom' in Hindi which means innocent (and is also a movie title by acclaimed Indian movie director Shekhar Kapur).
I was reminded of children’s drawings where fantastic colors reign, where there is no distinction between the spiritual and the mundane, where nature, having never been exiled from our daily life, is a part of us. Life simply comes anew each moment.
There is a dear line that returns to me, a place of innocence:
I went outside to see
if God’s voice
was disturbing anyone
This playfulness was also found in the various styles of expressions employed throughout the book, which at no times felt like an experimentation with language. We can see the beautiful Porchia-like aphorisms artfully executed in the following lines:
a baby only hears sounds
of reassurance
Maasoom's unique style of bringing together seemingly disparate experiences of world life and spiritual, New York City and India, guarantees each reader a unique flower in this garland of poems.
an Indian rain fell in new york city today. and estranged
ny from me to my home. i feel my country in here
Many were the poems that paid tribute to the poets to whom this work is dedicated. In addition to the Porchia-like aphorisms, Shabad Shradanjali continues the conversation we find in the world-filling, eye-kissing, heart-sweetening light of Tagore’s Gitanjali. The suddenness of Death's arrival in poem XXXI conjures up Emily Dickinson in all her quiet glory.
In retrospect, I no longer have a need to answer the question that prompted me to dive into Maasoom’s fantastic world where each moment is a vibrant and lively interchange. Maybe that is the answer. I have noticed that while diving into the sea of fantastic images, of light and love. There is no longer Maasoom, there is no longer David, the reader there just is.
We may never know what it was about the rarefied air of Afghanistan that opened the door for Maasoom into inspiration. Instead of our eternal petty questions of who and where and what and why, we are left with its intoxicating essence that dissolves us into 'this' moment.
Manav Sachdeva Maasoom has been writing poetry since he was eleven. His first poem appeared in The Tribune when he was just twelve years old. He lived in Kabul, Afghanistan between 2004-2005 where he went with a dream to open a Poetry Cafe (a story about which appeared in the International Herald Tribune/NY Times). A Columbia University graduate, Maasoom now lives in New York and works with the United Nations. The Sufi's Garland is his debut book.
See Jim Luce on:
Afghanistan | China | India and Indian-American Culture |
New York | Literature
Also: The Sufi's Garland: Both Beautiful Book and Incredible Story
My Caravan of Dream: The Dog may bark, but the caravan moves on