Wrestling with Shah

Can English Capture the Soul of his Sindhi Poetry?

Translating Shah Latif is no easy task—meter, meaning, and mysticism collide. Can English do justice to Sindhi’s greatest poet?

Reading Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai is not a task one completes; it is a journey one surrenders to. I have not read all the Surs, Baits, and Vayes, but I am on the path, drawn deeper with every verse. As a student of English literature, I turned to translations alongside the original Sindhi texts, only to find myself lost in the chasm between the two languages. Six translators—Elsa Kazi, Muhammad Yakoob Agha, Ameena Khamesani, Agha Saleem, Faiz Muhammad Khoso, and Amar Fayaz Buriro—have made admirable attempts, yet something vital remains elusive. Their works feel like carefully constructed bridges that do not quite touch the other side. The words are there, but the spirit slips through.

This is not a matter of skill but of essence. Translation is not merely about replacing one word with another; it is about carrying the soul of the original into a new form. It’s about standing in the desert with Sassui, feeling the burning sand under your feet. It’s about longing so fierce that it shatters the self. While Elsa Kazi and Ameena Khamesani come closest to achieving this, even their works make me question: Can Shah truly be translated?

Prior to this, I had no particular connection to Latif. My children don’t know him. I suspect many others’ children don’t either. And if we are honest, much of our engagement with his poetry is superficial. Most of us are pretending. We talk about Latif to prove our own greatness rather than to understand his. We quote him at gatherings, post his verses on social media, and nod sagely at his philosophy—only to return to our routines, untouched by the vastness of his wisdom.

But Shah’s poetry is not meant to be merely quoted; it is meant to be lived. This realization has led me to an inevitable conclusion: if he is to be translated, it must be done with a soul as much as with words. The challenge now is not just how to translate him—but whether it can be done without losing the very essence that makes his poetry timeless.

Now, if I am to take on the task of translating Shah into English, I must confront two critical questions: 1) Should each Bait be given a unique number, something that has never been done before? 2) And what form of English poetry must I use to translate Shah’s verses? Should it be free verse, prose poetry, or an attempt at structured rhythm? Should it mimic the way Shah’s words echo across the Sindhi landscape, or should it shape itself to the modern reader?

Let’s begin with the first dilemma. The first and most pressing issue is numbering each Bait so it can be universally referenced—no more scrambling through different versions, no more debates over “which line comes where.” From Ganj to the modern AMBILE version, the differences in diction are staggering. But that’s how languages breathe and evolve—like an old house, patched up and remodeled over centuries, yet still standing firm in its essence.

Here is the actual problem where things really start to spiral. No single version—be it a translation or a so-called definitive compilation—matches another. The sequence of Surs? Different. The arrangement of Baits? Different. Some Baits are mysteriously omitted in one version and grandly included in another.

At this point, one feels like an archaeologist trying to reconstruct an ancient city—except half the bricks have been rearranged by well-meaning scholars who left no map behind. It’s clear: we need to establish a single, authoritative version before we move forward.

The ideal method? Numbering Shah’s verses like Ayahs—something clean and precise like 1:1:1 (Sur:Dastan:Bait). But which version of the Risalo do we follow? The Ganj, untouched and raw? Dr. Nabi Bakhsh Baloch’s magnum opus, 40 years in the making? Or some other version hiding in the dusty shelves of forgotten libraries?

I can’t answer this alone. It requires the wisdom of true scholars and, more importantly, unorthodox thinkers—the ones who aren’t afraid to shake the foundations of tradition if it means uncovering the real Shah. But one thing is certain: before a single word of translation begins, every Bait and Vaye must be meticulously numbered, anchored to an authoritative version of Shah Jo Risalo.

The second dilemma is even more profound. If Shah is to step into the English world, which poetic form should he wear? Which meter should carry his voice? Which iamb should echo his rhythms? This isn’t just a linguistic puzzle; it’s a poetic identity crisis.

I still vividly recall my prosody classes in 1991-92, where Professor Ghulam Haider Baloch stood before us—his smile calm yet knowing, his voice low yet intense—guiding us through the vast landscape of English verse. He made us memorize the forms, drilling into us the difference between a sonnet and a ballad, an ode and a villanelle, a haiku and a limerick, an epic and an elegy, a sestina and a pastoral, a terza rima and a dramatic monologue, a blank verse and a free verse—each with its own rhythm, each with its own soul.

Then came the great revelation: the structure of verse. Stressed and unstressed syllables, dancing before us like a poetic ballet. And then, the grand ruler of English verse—iambs.

Ah, the iamb. That little two-syllable foot—unstressed followed by stressed—marching rhythmically through poetry. If you’ve ever unconsciously tapped your foot to “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” then congratulations, you’ve waltzed with iambic pentameter.

English poetry relies on meter, which is the pattern of stressed (´) and unstressed (˘) syllables. The basic unit of meter is called a foot, and different types of feet create different rhythms:

1. Iamb (˘ ´) – unstressed followed by stressed (to-DAY, be-CAUSE).

2. Trochee (´ ˘) – stressed followed by unstressed (TIG-er, HAP-py).

3. Anapest (˘ ˘ ´) – two unstressed followed by a stressed (in the NIGHT, at the DOOR).

4. Dactyl (´ ˘ ˘) – one stressed followed by two unstressed (EL-e-phant, JUMP-ing in).

5. Spondee (´ ´) – two stressed (HEART-BREAK, DEAD END).

Iambic Pentameter: The heartbeat of Shakespeare and Milton. Five feet of iambs per line, like:(˘ ´ ˘ ´ ˘ ´ ˘ ´ ˘ ´). For example (Shakespeare):

Shall I | com-pare | thee to | a sum | mer’s day?

˘ ´ | ˘ ´ | ˘ ´ | ˘ ´ | ˘ ´

Blank Verse: Like iambic pentameter, but without rhyme. This is what Milton used in Paradise Lost, making poetry grand yet flexible.

Of Man’s | first dis | o-be | dience, and | the fruit

˘ ´ | ˘ ´ | ˘ ´ | ˘ ´ | ˘ ´

Free Verse: Where structure takes a vacation, and rhythm emerges organically—think Walt Whitman, think modern poetry, think a river flowing without a rigid bank.

Rhymed Verse: Where sound is king. Couplets, quatrains, or any pattern where words embrace in harmony—Shakespeare’s sonnets, Chaucer’s tales, Pope’s satires.

Ballad Meter: The common folk’s rhythm, alternating iambic tetrameter and trimeter—like: Because I could not stop for Death / He kindly stopped for me. (Emily Dickinson)

But here’s the real catch: If we drape Shah’s poetry in any of these forms, will he still be Shah?

Shah’s poetry isn’t just about syllables and rhymes; it carries the soul of Sindh, its oral traditions, its cadence that echoes the deserts, rivers, and Sufi mysticism. If I shape his words into English iambs, he might gain a new audience, but he might also lose his Sindhi essence—becoming Westernized for English readers.

On the other hand, Sindhi Bait and Vaye are unique forms of Sindhi poetry, found only in this region. They have their own meter, rhythm, and rhyme—a perfect form with firm footing, fully capable of incorporating any masterpiece in its wings. If we translate Milton’s Paradise Lost into Sindhi Bait, it won’t be Miltonic anymore. The same is the case with Shah. If we translate it into true English verse, say Iambic Pentameter, it won’t be Latific anymore.

Dr. H.T. Sorley did a remarkable job translating select verses of Shah into English using these very techniques. According to him, he took “the greatest care to ensure that the translation, while remaining close enough to the text to satisfy scholars of language, shall be a literary and not a literal translation, so as to be capable of being read for its own sake without reference to the Sindhi original.” But will our orthodox Sindhi scholars accept this approach? Or will they, like guardians of a sacred temple, reject anything that smells of foreign influence?

This is the storm one must navigate. To translate is to betray, they say. But to not translate is to let Shah remain locked in a language confined to fifty-thousand square miles—Sindh.

And so, the question remains:

How do we make Shah speak English—without making him English?