Edited and Translated by Raza Mir

THE TASTE OF WORDS

An Introduction to Urdu Poetry

With a Foreword by Gulzar

Contents

About the Author

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

A Note on Poetic Form

POEMS

Amir Khusrau

Quli Qutub Shah

Wali Dakkani

Mirza Sauda

Khwaja Mir Dard

Mir Taqi Mir

Nazeer Akbarabadi

Insha

Mir Anees

Mirza Dabeer

Bahadur Shah Zafar

Zauq

Mirza Ghalib

Momin

Dagh Dehlavi

Maulana Hali

Akbar Allahabadi

Mohammed Iqbal

Brij Narain Chakbast

Jigar Moradabadi

Firaaq Gorakhpuri

Josh Malihabadi

Makhdoom Mohiuddin

Majaz

N.M. Rashid

Faiz

Miraji

Ali Sardar Jafri

Jan Nisar Akhtar

Majrooh Sultanpuri

Kaifi Azmi

Sahir Ludhianvi

Sulaiman Khateeb

Habib Jalib

Mustafa Zaidi

Ahmed Faraz

Gulzar

Shahryar

Asif Raza

Iftikhar Arif

S.M. Shahed

Javed Akhtar

Fahmida Riaz

Parveen Shakir

Jameela Nishat

Ishrat Afreen

Zeeshan Sahil

Notes

Copyright Acknowledgements

Follow Penguin

Copyright

PENGUIN BOOKS

THE TASTE OF WORDS

Raza Mir teaches management at William Paterson University, USA. He is the co-author of Anthems of Resistance: A Celebration of Progressive Urdu Poetry. He can be reached at urduwallah@gmail.com.

Foreword

Urdu is a nation unto itself. Wherever it travels, it creates its own world. It was born in India, but does not belong to India alone. It is the official language of Pakistan, but does not belong to Pakistan alone. When it reached Oslo (Norway), it settled there. It went to Great Britain, and created its own home. It reached Canada, and a community emerged. It reached the United States, and became a native tongue. For it was embraced by Raza Mir.

The truth is that instead of ‘embraced’, if we could use a different metaphor, we would say ‘adopted by lips’. Wherever Urdu goes, it clasps people in a bear hug. It becomes a tradition unto itself. For Urdu is after all, the lingua franca of a culture.

Urdu

Ye kaisa ishq hai Urdu zaban ka

Maza ghulta ha lafzon ka zaban par

Ke jaise paan mein mehnga khimaam ghulta hai

Nasha aata hai Urdu bolne mein

Gilori ki tarah hain moonh lagi sab istelaahen

Lutf deti hain

Halaq chhooti hai Urdu to

Halaq se jaise mai ka ghoont utarta hai

Badi ‘aristocracy’ hai zaban mein

Faqeeri mein nawaabi ka maza deti hai Urdu

Agarche maani kam hote hain aur alfaaz ki ifraat hoti

hai

Magar phir bhi . . .

Buland aawaaz padhiye to bahut hi motabar lagti

hain baatein

Kahin kuchh door se kaanon mein padhti hai agar Urdu

To lagta hai

Ke din jaadon ke hain, khidki khuli hai, dhoop andar

aa rahi hai

Ajab hai ye zaban Urdu

Kabhi yoonhi safar karte

Agar koi musafir sher padh de Mir, Ghalib ka

Vo chaahe ajnabi ho

Yahi lagta hai vo mere vatan ka hai

Bade shaista lahje mein kisi se Urdu sun kar kya

nahin lagta

Ke ek tehzeeb ki aawaaz hai Urdu!!

Janaab Raza Mir, Urdu mein aap ka hissa yaad

rahega.

Urdu

What is this love of Urdu

That the taste of words dissolves on the tongue

Like expensive tobacco dissolves with a bite of paan?

Urdu speech produces a mellow high,

Like the many flavours of a delectable morsel of betel

That frolic in the mouth.

When Urdu touches the throat

It descends like a sip of wine.

A strange aristocracy it possesses

That, even in penury, Urdu yields a sense of immense

prestige.

Though, at times, there is a paucity of meaning

And a surfeit of words,

But even so . . .

When declaimed in a firm voice, words appear

weighty and solemn

When Urdu reaches the ears from a distance

It appears

As if on winter days, the window is open and

sunshine is pouring in.

Strange is this Urdu tongue

That, when on a journey,

Should a wayfarer declaim a couplet from Mir, from

Ghalib,

Be that a complete stranger

He still appears a compatriot.

Does it not feel

That the lingua franca of a culture is this Urdu!

Janaab Raza Mir, I will remember your role in Urdu.[1]

Gulzar

Preface

This is first and foremost a gift for my wife Farah. It was she who laid out the idea of this book for me in detail, as a volume that would not only help her dip her toe in the vast ocean that constituted Urdu poetry, but also provide her with an entry point into the language itself, with its occasionally intimidating metaphors and linguistic peculiarities.

Like Farah, I know a lot of people whose interest in Urdu poetry vastly exceeds their ability to engage with it, partly because of their unfamiliarity with the script, but also because of its often mystifying and outsider-unfriendly albeit tantalizing metaphorical conventions. Indeed, I am one of them. In school, I formally studied Hindi and Telugu, and despite Urdu being my putative mother tongue, I never engaged with it (except orally) till I was in my teens. It is only my unhealthy obsession with Urdu poetry that finally forced me to teach myself the Urdu script, and resolve the helplessness I felt when the joy of hearing a good poem was rendered ephemeral by my illiteracy. While my ineptitude with regard to Urdu poetry has been happily resolved, it obviously persists in other theatres—such as when I attend a Carnatic music concert, and watch the cognoscenti among the listeners keep beat with their palms and speak of kritis and adi-taalam, while all I can say is ‘That sounded nice!’ I would also love to read a good book on relatively alien cultural traditions, albeit one that is not too dense and impenetrable, with lines like: ‘One margam of Bharatanatyam consists of allaripu, jatiswaram, sabdam, varnam and tillana.’ I hope I will not bamboozle you in this book with unexplained references to radif, qafiya, musaddas or such technicalities. This book seeks to enhance your affective enjoyment of Urdu poetry, with as little interference from me as possible.

The intended readership of this book does not necessarily comprise Urdu experts or those who have read a lot of Urdu poetry in the original. Rather, I visualize an intelligent reader who, while interested in poetry as a genre, may not have a working knowledge of the Urdu script, and may not even be familiar with or fluent in Devanagri either. They would have read poetry in English and other languages to varying extents, but their exposure to Urdu might primarily be oral (Indian film songs, CDs of ghazals and poetry, the company of Urdu-literate friends). They do enjoy the spoken cadence of the language, but might have been deprived of the non-trivial pleasure that comes from a reflective reading of the poems.

In this anthology, I have attempted to provide an entry point to Urdu poetry for such interested non-insiders. To these readers, I offer a quasi-formal introduction to the canon and the contemporary landscape of Urdu poetry, with a highly arbitrary and subjective selection of around 150 poems from approximately fifty poets. Many of these poems have been abridged due to space considerations. I begin with a brief historical essay on Urdu and Urdu poetry (which is quirky, idiosyncratic, contingent and incomplete, but hopefully interesting) before laying out my selection of poems. I am also happy to offer a brief Internet roadmap of websites where one can read more about the poets and find more translated work. I have also identified websites in the public domain where these poems can be heard and viewed as performance. I have included biographical notes on the poets, which are not meant to be exhaustive, but just an attempt to render them human enough. The poets are ordered chronologically; and while I have chosen the list with care, there will obviously be omissions, of poems and poets, that some readers will consider unforgivable. If reviewers of this book express anger over the fact that I overlooked certain poets, poems or verses (or was foolish enough to include some ‘lightweight’ in this august company), I will be delighted. For in my wilder dreams, I envisage a series of sequel anthologies, like a good B-grade Hollywood horror film franchise, which people will disparage, but will be drawn to, as if to unhealthy street food. So do drum up the outrage. I briefly considered ignoring Ghalib in my selection to ensure such a backlash, but there is a line between quirkiness and insanity that even I am aware of!

I would also like to eschew any claims of genre-originality. This task of popularizing Urdu among its script-challenged enthusiasts is not new. As I have mentioned, I myself grew up without learning the Urdu script formally, and am indebted to a host of teachers.[1]

In this collection, I have tried to accomplish three inter-related tasks. First, readers can use this volume as a rudimentary dictionary, a source of learning Urdu, or a way of engaging more organically and contextually with the words in a poem. The Internet roadmap adds greater charm to the experience: for example, it is fun to read Amir Khusrau’s thirteenth-century qawwali (for instance, ‘Chhap tilak sab cheeni re . . .’ ) in translation, but the charm is infinitely multiplied if one can do so while listening to it being belted out by Abida Parveen!

The second task that I have set myself is that of translating in an idiom that is accessible to a relatively heterogeneous readership. It is here that I have had to make some difficult choices. Should one translate poetry as rhyme to reflect its potential ‘singability’ (and risk it degenerating occasionally into doggerel)? Or should one strive to preserve the verbal integrity of the poem and eschew rhyme and metre, in the hope that readers will understand the underlying poetics by themselves? Not only did I mentally agonize over this question, I actually wrote the entire first draft of this book as free verse, before deciding impulsively that, sometimes, ‘not to rhyme, was a cryme’ (indulge my puns, please!). Thus I chose to retranslate several—but by no means all—poems rhythmically. Even when I have tried my hand at rhyme, I have done my best to not inject myself, the translator, into the relationship between the poet and the reader. You will be the final arbiter of whether my choice has worked out.

I also want to raise the tricky issue of the transliteration scheme to be adopted. A number of formats have been proposed by academics dealing with Urdu, many of them highly precise and consistent. However, they tend to be themselves very arcane and intimidating to the eye. To maintain the popular flavour of the book, I have deliberately chosen to go with an unscientific, ‘vernacular’ format. My schema (if I may call it one) is derived from the way in which Hindustani words have been portrayed in movie posters in India over the years. For instance, a standard transliteration scheme deployed by the Annual of Urdu Studies, a respected journal, would represent a line from a song in the film Hum Dono as: ‘Har fikr kō dhûēN mēN urādā ĉalā gayā’. I would have instead gone in this book with: ‘Har fikr ko dhuen mein udaata chalaa gayaa’. Readers from the subcontinent, who are in the habit of reading transliterated movie posters and advertisements, will be familiar with this format. I beg the indulgence of others, on the plea that those who are finicky about transliteration are usually familiar with the original script, and can therefore make do with the originals.

I would like to acknowledge gratefully the following for giving me permission to reproduce some of the poems in this book. Gulzar, Javed Akhtar, Jameela Nishat, Ishrat Afreen, Fahmida Riaz, Iftikhar Arif, Asif Raza and S.M. Shahed permitted me to use their own work. In addition, I obtained permission from Fariha and Sambreen Rashed (for N.M. Rashid’s poem); Saba Zaidi (for Mustafa Zaidi’s poems); Tamkeen Khateeb (for Sulaiman Khateeb’s poem); Shabana Azmi (for Kaifi Azmi’s poems); Javed Akhtar (for Jan Nisar Akhtar’s and Majaz’s poems); Ali Nazim Jafri (for Ali Sardar Jafri’s poems); Faridoon Shahryar (for Shahryar’s poems); Ali Madeeh Hashmi and the Faiz Foundation (for Faiz’s poems); Syed Abid Raza (for Zeeshan Sahil’s poems); Parveen Qadir Agha, the Perveen Shakir Trust and Murad Publications (for Parveen Shakir’s poem); Shibli and Saadi Faraz (for Ahmed Faraz’s poems); and Andalib Sultanpuri (for Majrooh’s poems). While every possible effort was made to contact the heirs of deceased poets, I would be happy to include and acknowledge the heirs of any missed poets in future editions.

Finally, this book is an attempt to build another tiny bridge between the modern subcontinent and a language that is currently under siege on a variety of fronts. In the recent past, Urdu has struggled to gain acceptance from elitist rulers, dismissive linguists and political conservatives who have either sought to belittle it as a crude indistinct dialect or tainted it by association with putatively traitorous minorities. What has led to its survival in the South Asian landscape is the fact that it was embraced by the masses, and has remained alive as a spoken tongue. Perhaps reflecting this public-oriented ethos, its literary tradition, especially its poetic tradition, is simultaneously erudite and accessible, with a rhythm that can be intoned by a theologian and also sung by a street beggar. From culturally mobile ambiguities in words like sanam (simultaneously meaning ‘beloved’ and ‘stone’) to geographically ubiquitous slogans like ‘Inquilab Zindabad’ (‘Long Live the Revolution’), Urdu is a part of the lived experience of the Indian subcontinent, even among those who seek to deny and denigrate it. This book is my attempt to keep the language alive among its westernized friends as well. I hope you like it.

Introduction

The Flutter of Angel Wings

Naddi ka mod, chashma-e shireen ka zer-o-bam

Chaadar shab-e nujoom ki, shabnam ka rakht-e nam

Moti ki aab, gul ki mehak, maah-e nau ka kham

In sab ke imtezaaj se paida hui hai tu

Kitne haseen ufaq se huvaida hui hai tu

Lehja maleeh hai ke namak-khwaar hoon tera

Sehat zaban mein hai ke beemar hoon tera

Aazad-e sher hoon ke giraftar hoon tera

Tere karam se sher-o-sukhan ka imam hoon

Shahon pe khandazan hoon ke tera ghulam hoon

The bend of the river, and the stream’s bubbly path

The veil of the starry night, and the moist dew of the morn

The pearl’s clarity, rose’s fragrance and the new moon’s swathe

All came together harmoniously and you were born

What a beauteous horizon have you arisen from!

Sweet is my speech for having tasted of your salt[1]

Healthy my tongue that I am ill with love for you

My verse flies free, for I am entombed in your vault

It is your boon that I rule the realm of poetry too

I mock the kings now that I am your slave.

This beautiful ode to Urdu, written by Josh Malihabadi, was never published, but has found its way to Urdu lovers over time through a rich oral tradition.[2]

Contrast this verse with the playful comedy of Dilawar Figaar, a Pakistani poet who laments the replacement of Urdu by English in common usage. Here are two shers (couplets) from his poem ‘Pure Ghazal in Urdu’ that exemplify how English has been incorporated into daily speech alongside colloquial Urdu:

Na ho jab heart in the chest, phir tongue in the mouth kyon?

To beautify this line, throw some light in Urdu

There should be yaqeenan no milawat in the literature

Therefore I never call shab ko[3] night in Urdu.

Urdu has prided itself on its mongrel roots and cosmopolitan ethos. It was never a language of kings and courts (though a surprising number of rulers tried their hand at Urdu poetry), nor did it confine itself to any religion (despite its deployment by communalists and divisive rulers to drive a wedge between communities). It is a quintessentially modern language, with neither a distinct writing style (no formalized diacritics, and a borrowed script) nor any claim to a direct link with a root language. To chart the emergence of Urdu is itself a fraught task, full of political pitfalls and contradictions. The progression between Hindavi, Rekhti and Urdu is a continuous one, and to break that continuity into a linguistic taxonomy is an act of social construction that is neither helpful nor productive. In this anthology, for instance, I have included Amir Khusrau, who lived in the thirteenth century, as an Urdu poet. Others may choose the sixteenth-century Deccan king Quli Qutub Shah as an originary Urdu poet, while some may play safer and commence with the seventeenth-century poet Wali Dakkani. At any rate, it is correct to say that the language has primarily thrived through an oral tradition, much of which is predicated on its poetry. That tradition has always been engaged with the direct reality of its purveyors, and I would venture to say that the best Urdu poetry is rarely the kind that is steeped in metaphysics, but one which talks of real issues: love and other relationships, jobs and occupations, bazaar scenes, feelings of marginality and oppression, revolution, the yearning of enslaved people to be free, and matters of religion (not metaphysical exegeses but rather matters of practice, celebrations of martyrs and making fun of hypocritical proselytizers).

In this introductory essay, I make no claims to comprehensiveness or neutrality. I just offer you a contingent and partisan analysis of what I consider to be important milestones in the dynamic trajectories of Urdu poetry.

The period between the thirteenth and the sixteenth centuries CE can be said to mark Urdu’s prehistory, where the language existed primarily as consciousness rather than category. Much like Molière’s bourgeois gentleman who, when told about the distinction between prose and poetry, exclaimed ‘Par ma foi, il y a plus de quarante ans que je dis de la prose, sans que j’en susse rien’ (‘Good lord, for over forty years I have been speaking prose and I did not know it’), the exponents of the new tongue in that era would be shocked to hear that they were speaking a different language, one whose name would eventually be linked to military barracks (orda in Turkish).

Like all languages, Urdu emerged into consciousness primarily as speech and song, and did not detach itself from its roots in Hindavi grammar, Turkish/Pali vocabularies and plebeian deployment (as opposed to scriptural Sanskrit or courtly Persian) until the taxonomies of colonialism ripped it apart from Devanagri. If one is looking for a definite date when Urdu was born, one should consider the year 1900, in which Anthony MacDonnell’s infamous ‘Nagri resolution’ postulated that Hindi and Urdu were separate languages. But to do that would get us ahead of our story. For the moment, imagine if you will, a new way of speaking, that emerged as a fad and began spreading like wildfire across northern and western India, adopted by Sufi mendicants, bhakti singers, street balladeers and regular working folk who did not have access to more courtly languages. Imagine tradespeople, holy men and other travellers who seeded the countryside with its common metaphors, turns of phrase and grammatical peculiarities. The argot grew in usage and popularity, flying under the radar of Persian court records, classical poems in Sanskrit, and florid Turkish tracts.

Then came Mir.

It is difficult to understate the role played by Mir Taqi Mir in legitimizing Urdu as a language of culture as well as popular communication in the eighteenth century. I do not intend to offer biographical sketches of any poets in this introduction; I do that when I introduce their poems. But Mir was not just a person; he was also a phenomenon, a force of Urdu nature. It was he who provided innovative rhyme schemes, metaphoric codes and subject matter—a roadmap that future poets could adopt. His contemporaries like Mirza Sauda and Khwaja Dard in Delhi were able to leverage that insight into the building blocks of a tradition. Parallel movements in other parts of north India contributed to the emergence of a relatively unselfconscious mode of poetic and literary expression in the new argot. The Mir era may have been the moment when Urdu began to achieve legitimacy, when the stuffed Farsi-daans of the Mughal court realized that this argot that had become the lingua franca of the subaltern class actually had poetic potential that far exceeded the derivative Persian of the court tracts, the ghostwritten princely memoirs or even the classical mushairas (social gatherings where poets gathered to recite poetry, often in the form of a contest). The ghazal in the hands of Mir became a rapier, touching the vulnerable part of the listener’s heart in a way Hafiz may have touched the Persian heart, but which no Indian had replicated in Farsi. Mind you, the language was still known primarily as Rekhti, though ‘Urdu’ was now becoming an accepted word as well. Mir’s acolytes adhered faithfully to the guidelines set by his creative genius, producing what we now refer to as the ‘Delhi school’ of Urdu poetry. Outside of Delhi, there were stalwarts like Nazeer Akbarabadi writing the era’s equivalent of top hits in the nazm tradition, and parallel developments in the prose world led to the emergence of a loose consensus around how the language would be scripted.

A brief but vital digression into the Urdu prose tradition is necessary here. Until the eighteenth century, traditions of Urdu prose had been overwhelmingly oral, relying on the narrative powers of dastans (epics) such as Char Darvesh, Hatim Tai, Betal Pachchisi, Gul-e Bakawali, Laila Majnun, Panchatantra and others. Also influential were the traditions that were derived from the folklore associated with the Islamic Empire, such as the dastan of Amir Hamza. Enter the famous press started by Munshi Nawal Kishore in Lucknow in 1858. This press began to tap into a vast market, which had been starved of popular fiction. One of the best-known offerings of Nawal Kishore Press, Pandit Ratan Nath Sarshar’s Fasana-e Aazad (The Legend of Aazad), is often spoken of as Urdu’s first novel. Somewhat similar in structure to Don Quixote, Fasana-e Aazad chronicles the travels of a modernist nobleman Azad, and his reluctant rustic companion, Khoji, who embarks on a series of adventures to win the hand of a beautiful woman named Husn-Ara. The journey of Urdu fiction from Fasana-e Aazad to Mirza Rusva’s Umrao Jaan Ada, and then on to Premchand’s Godaan, and eventually Qurratulain Hyder’s Aag ka Darya is fascinating, which we shall reluctantly set aside in order to return to poetry.

A parallel movement in the eighteenth century was the maturing of the marsiya tradition, especially in Lucknow. The religious observances of Shia Muslims during the month of Mohurrum have always involved poetic representations of the events surrounding the battle of Karbala where Imam Husain, the grandson of Prophet Mohammed, was martyred. The Karbala passion play has provided a fertile ground for poets in a variety of languages. Urdu was no exception, but thanks to the extraordinary literary ability of the eighteenth-century marsiya poets, in particular Mir Anees and Mirza Dabeer, the marsiya or elegy emerged as a robust literary form in its own right, a tradition that endures till today.

After Mir, came Ghalib.

Like Mir, Ghalib is not just a personage in the history of Urdu poetry but an era. The Ghalib stage in the nineteenth century arguably represented an apotheosis of sorts for Urdu sukhan, or the poetic aesthetic. Asadullah Khan Ghalib (known lovingly among Urduwalas as chacha Ghalib, and to Hyderabadis simply as chicha) took the poets of his era who were still recycling Mir’s tropes to school with his incredible riffs on philosophy and love and politics, making it clear who the real inheritor of Mir’s mantle was. Despite his poverty, cantankerous nature and needless obsession with Persian (which led him to devalue his own Urdu poetry and waste time on inferior Farsi efforts), he was recognized as a genius in his own time (at least by the cognoscenti), and in the 150 years since his death he has acquired the status of a colossus in the poetic landscape of Urdu. The Deevan-e Ghalib may be the most highly printed book in the history of Urdu literature, and Ghalib’s verse may be the most translated.

While Ghalib was producing his magic in Delhi, the Deccan was displaying its own brand of renaissance. The rulers of Hyderabad were courting artistes like Zauq in much the same way a current IPL franchise may court an upcoming player. Zauq’s regretful rejection was communicated to the Hyderabadis poetically, and gave the Delhi-ites a sher with which to gloat forever:

In dinon gar-che Dakkan mein hai badi qadr-e sukhan

Kaun jaaye Zauq par Dilli ki galiyaan chhod kar

Although in the Deccan they value poetry these days

O Zauq, who can forsake Delhi’s wondrous lanes and byways?

Dagh Dehlavi, a future exponent of the Zauq–Ghalib style of poetry, would eventually move to Hyderabad, where mushairas in the nineteenth century occupied the cultural space that an A.R. Rahman concert might in the early twenty-first century. Poetry began to be published in journals and magazines, newspapers regularly carried ghazals, nazms and literary criticism, and an indigenous movement produced what would become the foundation of an Urdu literary tradition.

Moreover, the Fort William College was founded in Calcutta in the early nineteenth century. Admittedly a colonial institution designed to help the British rule India better, the college (along with its counterpart, the Delhi College) produced a variety of translations of Urdu tracts, exposed Urdu to Western literature through commissioned translations, and produced a corpus of knowledge that, despite its imperial motivations, helped the language immeasurably in broadening its offerings.

The momentum gained by Urdu in the nineteenth century was however to be rudely interrupted by the 1857 war of independence. The savagery with which the British put down the ‘mutiny’ as they called it was unparalleled. In northern India, the entire princely system was dismantled; court patronage shrivelled for those who depended on the nawabs and rajas for their stipends. While Urdu flourished a bit more in the southern parts of the country where the effects of the post-1857 repression were less overt, the renaissance of Urdu suffered a body blow in the late nineteenth century.

As officialized Urdu began to be viewed with great suspicion, it generated an interesting phase of introspection and, in my opinion, defensiveness. The Urdu intellectuals of that time were forced to evaluate—and at times even benchmark—their work against that of their new masters, and Urdu poetry and literary criticism of the late nineteenth century reflects this artificial and stylized engagement with Western poetic and literary convention. Critics such as Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, Mohammad Husain Azad, Altaf Husain Hali and Shibli Nomani wrote defensively about their language, vacillating between advocations of modernity and a retreat into religiosity. Sir Sayyid of course is best known for the foundation of the Muhammadan Anglo-Oriental College in 1875, which later became the Aligarh Muslim University, the bastion of modernist pedagogy in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Mohammad Husain Azad wrote Aab-e Hayaat (Water of Life) in 1880, arguably the first comprehensive work of Urdu literary criticism, in which he made evocative pleas for Urdu poets to embrace natural themes, in keeping with the Western (British) literary mores of his time. In effect he was asking them to dial down the metaphysics. Altaf Husain Hali had made a similar invocation in 1893 when, in his Muqaddama-e Sher-o-Shairi (Exegesis on Poems and Poetry), he decried the Urdu poetry of his time as excessively metaphor-driven, and argued for a more naturalistic approach. Ironically, he had himself not shied from the use of florid metaphors while composing his famous musaddas, a long epic poem lamenting the decay of morals in the Islamic world.

By the early twentieth century, the aforementioned Anthony MacDonnell—who enacted the implicit British policy of intensifying existing Hindu–Muslim tensions to help them govern the colony with greater ease—injected language into the communal debate. In 1900, he passed the ‘Nagri Resolution’, which produced an artificial taxonomic schism between Urdu and Hindi, thereby separating the languages according to religious affiliation. Communalists on both sides of the religious divide rejoiced, but others were less sanguine. Mohsin-ul Mulk, a prominent poet-politician of the time, saw it as the beginning of the demise of Urdu, and wrote an elegy to it in the form of a couplet:

Chal saath, ke hasrat dil-e mahroom se nikle

Aashiq ka janaaza hai, zara dhoom se nikle

Walk along with that heartbroken procession awhile

It’s the funeral of a lover, bury him in style.

In the post–World War I era, Urdu seemed destined to be seen as a language of Muslims, a mantle that was almost comically at odds with its multi-religious origins. It is in this era of ambivalence that we must place Allama Mohammed Iqbal, a genius who straddled the divide between the traditions of the East and the modernist renaissance of the West. Iqbal it was who first spoke of modernist notions like selfhood (khudi), hitherto absent in Urdu poetry. The battle between free will and determinism, according to Iqbal, was really one the human could control:

Khudi ko kar buland itna, ke har taqdeer se pehle

Khuda bande se khud poochhe, bataa teri raza kya hai?

Exalt your Self thus, that before every twist of fate

God should say, ‘My creation, on your desire I wait.’

Iqbal flirted with the ultimate act of iconoclasm, casting Lucifer (Iblees) as a tragic hero. He produced imaginary conversations between God and Lenin. And it was he who, in his epic 1909 poem Shikva (Complaint), elevated the human being to the status of a petitioner who commented critically on God’s act of creation. While Iqbal’s poetry can be seen as a reflection on the state of Islam and of Muslims as they prepared to engage with modernity, it carried (in my opinion) less of the conservative angst of Hali and more of a globalized sentiment, as he strove to connect the experiences of South Asians with their counterparts in Central Asia, Europe and the Middle East, and envisioned a more creative engagement between ‘religions’, be they Islam, Hinduism, Christianity, modernism, or Marxism.

In the mid-twentieth century, Urdu was to receive a gift that would revive it in spectacular fashion as a language of revolution and hope, of social change and religious heresy, as a symbol of the human will to be free and as the defiant enemy of divisiveness. I am referring to the ‘progressive phase’ in which Urdu writers (and especially Urdu poets) became the vanguard of a literary movement that combined socialism, anti-colonial sentiment, inter-religious harmony, the foundation of a new nationalism, gender equality, and an ethos of a shared literary and political heritage across all Indian languages and indeed across the globe.[4] The broader community of progressive poets included non-Urdu stalwarts such as Sumitranandan Pant and Maithilisharan Gupt (Hindi), Rabindranath Tagore (Bengali), Sri Sri (Telugu), Umashankar Joshi (Gujarati), Gurbaksh Singh (Punjabi) and Anna Bhau Sathe (Marathi). Hasrat Mohani, Josh Malihabadi, Firaaq Gorakhpuri, Makhdoom Mohiuddin, Sahir Ludhianvi, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Asrar-ul Haq Majaz, Ali Sardar Jafri, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Kaifi Azmi and others commandeered Urdu poetry for well over four decades, producing works that drastically altered the conventions of poetic content, while hewing true (for the most part) to the classical form. Josh summed up their agenda pithily:

Kaam hai mera taghayyur, naam mera hai shabaab

Mera naara inquilaab-o inquilaab-o inquilaab

My name is youth, and upheaval is my mission

My slogan: Revolution. Revolution. Revolution.

The Progressive Writers’ Association, which was formed in 1936, became the conduit through which a variety of poets expressed ideas that challenged the socio-cultural status quo and provided the real possibility of taking the freedom movement in the subcontinent in the direction of social justice.

Contemporary with the progressive movement (taraqqi pasand tehreek) were the purveyors of modernism (jadeediyat) who preferred to experiment with form more than content. The mutual contempt that the progressives and modernists had for each other was perhaps unfortunate, for it precluded interesting conversational possibilities between them. However, the work of modernist poets like Noon Meem Rashid, Miraji and the members of the Halqa-e Arbaab-e Zauq (circle of connoisseurs) has stood the test of time. Perhaps their greater contribution has been to rescue Urdu poetry from the prison of metre (zameen) that it had always found itself in. Jazz-like improvisations abound in the poetry of Rashid in particular, where non-linear narratives mix with layered thoughts, with the poet gleefully ‘contaminating’ conscious feelings and unconscious desires in a palimpsest of literary production.

The freedom movement also produced a frenzy of activity among the Urdu poets in the 1930s and 1940s. I remember my late father, who was nineteen when India achieved its freedom, declaim poems from memory that I have never seen in print (and for all I know, he never read either, but rather imbibed orally). One of them bears repeating, for it demonstrates simplicity and songlike rhythm. It was a taunt directed at a well-dressed Englishman, invoking an old Urdu term that referred to disloyal people as ‘white-blooded’:

Ye coat bhi sufaid, ye patloon bhi sufaid

Teri sufaid hat ka hai oon bhi sufaid

Khud jism bhi sufaid hai, aur is ke saath saath

Main to ye jaanta hoon, tera khoon bhi sufaid

White is your coat and white your pants flat

As is the white wool on your white hat

Your body is white and I do know that

Your blood is white, you betrayer rat.

Literary critics might think such verse doggerel, but when situated in its milieu, it carries the resonance, meaning and anger of a population that was ready to set itself free from the yoke of foreigners. As the mid 1940s appeared, the Urdu poets of that generation sharpened their quills and began to ready themselves to write panegyrics to the newborn nation.

However, just as 1857 had once snuffed out the renaissance of Urdu poetry, 1947 was another catastrophic moment. The dawn of independence brought with it not the red horizon of a new day, but a horizon reddened with the blood of Partition. Like the last gasp of a dying taper, poets wrote expressive poems about their grief at the moment their hopes were betrayed. In Faiz’s words: ‘Vo intezaar tha jis ka, ye vo sahar to nahin’ (‘This is not the dawn that we had awaited’). Or in Josh’s grieving hyperbole: ‘Apna gala kharosh-e tarannum se phat gayaa / Talvaar se bachaa, to rag-e gul se kat gayaa’ (‘Our throat was torn by a song sharp as a stinging nettle / It evaded the sword, but was slit by a rose petal’).

The Partition geographically divided a poetic fraternity, and produced different tensions on both sides of the border. While the Urduwalas on the Indian side had to contend with a new regime of suspicion and intolerance, the Pakistani poets (especially the progressives) faced persecution by the elite class for advocating social change and wealth redistribution. The wars between India and Pakistan, the decline of social patronage, the inability to replicate the critical mass of readers and enthusiasts, combined with the general disappointment of the failed promise of decolonization, freedom and nationalism, led to another wasted opportunity for Urdu.

But like the survivor it always was, Urdu found itself a new champion in India—in the film industry.[5] The language of what is popularly known as Hindi cinema has always been friendly to Urdu expression. The producers of Indian cinema commissioned songs by Urdu poets, thereby not only providing them with livelihood opportunities, but also serving to keep Urdu idioms alive in popular usage. When Javed Akhtar uses Persianized phrases like ‘Aql-o-hosh nameedanam’ (‘Wisdom and consciousness are lost’) before exhorting the ‘hot girls’ to put their hands up and the ‘cool boys’ to make some noise in the 2007 film Om Shanti Om, he is participating in a longer tradition, where the rhythms of popular culture have been infiltrated by Urdu. This tradition of course dates back well over fifty years. For instance, while Sahir Ludhianvi was composing urgent political poems like his anti-war opus Parchhaiyan (Silhouettes) in the 1950s, he was also getting Johnny Walker in the 1957 film Pyaasa to suggest:

Sar jo tera chakraaye, ya dil dooba jaaye,

Aaja pyare paas hamaare, kaahe ghabraae, kaahe ghabraae

If your head spins, or your heart sinks, my dear

Come to me [have a massage], why fear, why fear?

Hindi movies have used classical Urdu poems in set situations; we may remember Deepak Parashar pining for Salma Agha in the 1982 film Nikaah while Ghulam Ali belted out ‘Chupke chupke raat din aansoo bahaana yaad hai’ (‘Nights and days of quiet tear-shedding, I still remember’) from a ghazal, written originally by Hasrat Mohani a century ago. Likewise, the cognoscenti may recall the 1963 film Gumraah where a dashing Sunil Dutt sits at the piano and suggests to Sadhana, ‘Chalo ek baar phir se ajnabi ban jaayen hum dono’ (‘Come, let us become strangers again’), B.R. Chopra having reworked a previously published and already famous nazm by Sahir Ludhianvi into its narrative. More importantly, Urdu poets like Sahir, Majrooh, Kaifi, Shakeel Badayuni and others were able to infuse the idiomatic conventions of classical Urdu poetry into popular consciousness, a task that Javed Akhtar and Gulzar continue admirably today. Film music also led the way for an explosion of non-filmi music, where Urdu poetry also found representation and a place for international crossover. Pakistani singers like Ghulam Ali, Mehdi Hasan, Abida Parveen, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the Sabri Brothers, Iqbal Bano, Nayyara Noor and a host of others became household names in India, competing with such local stalwarts as Jagjit Singh, Panjak Udhas and others.

Two other movements deserve mention. In the 1960s, several Urdu poets, whose aesthetic inclinations were linked to the aforementioned Halqa-e Arbaab-e Zauq, intensified the infusion of modernist metaphor in Urdu poetry. Their efforts were championed by the literary journal Shabkhoon (Night Attack), under the stewardship of Shamsur Rahman Faruqi, and in Pakistan by journals such as Auraq (Pages) edited by Dr Wazir Agha. The neo-modern wave in Urdu poetry fostered a conscious union between the craft of the poet and the self-conscious language of the literary critic. The traditions of jadeediyat were strengthened, poets felt free to use free verse (aazad nazm) rather than the constricting boundaries of rhyme and metre, and the symbols of personal metaphysics were valued over the collectivist ethos of progressivism. Across the Atlantic, academics in the US supported these movements through journals such as Mahfil and the Annual of Urdu Studies. It was through the support of such institutions that the postmodernist turn also reached Urdu literature, where the weariness with the metanarratives of progressivism produced poems that shrugged off the imperatives of representation, and crafted an uber-personal literary ethos.

In a rather different vein, in the southern part of the subcontinent, poets from the Dakkani tradition like Sulaiman Khateeb and Sarwar Danda produced exquisite social commentaries through humorous poetry (mazaahiya shaayiri) that expressed through irony and wistfulness those sentiments that might have shattered the heart if spoken of directly. Protagonists of this craft in the Deccan—like Siraj Nirmali, Paagal Adilabadi, Himayatullah and Mujtaba Husain—deserve place in the Urdu canon. Their defiantly plebeian aesthetic[6] connected with their audience (for theirs was first and foremost an oral tradition), and perhaps struck a middle road between the programmatic socialism of the progressives and the self-absorbed ruminations of the modernists. It is a tragic matter that the canon, which is conditioned to view aesthetic experimentation with simplicity as aesthetic failure, was never able to value the Dakkani humorists in its conventional scale.[7]

Discerning readers who have come thus far in the narrative may notice a significant omission—not a single woman poet has been mentioned in the discussion yet. Was there a paucity of women poets writing Urdu poetry all these years? Were they of inferior quality compared to the masters mentioned thus far? I am inclined to answer both questions with an emphatic no, but the reality is that the work of women poets in the seventeenth–eighteenth centuries has been under-represented, and is difficult to find. To the extent that I have not made extra efforts to find it, I acknowledge my intellectual laziness, and promise to redress this in future offerings. I had heard of the poet Saeedunnisa Hirma, who wrote in the nineteenth century, but her work has been tough to locate. Also, as a Hyderabadi, I had heard of the eighteenth-century courtesan poet Mahlaqa Bai ‘Chanda’ (1767–1824), who not only wrote poetry (her Persian deevan was published in 1797 and a posthumous Urdu collection appeared in the mid-nineteenth century), but was a patron of the arts, and sustained several poets. Zahida Khatoon Shervani, another Dakkani poet, wrote Aaeena-e Haram, a collection of poems, in 1927. I am also acquainted with Baharistan-e Naz, a collection of Urdu poetry by women, and plan to do some justice to this aspect and fill the gaping hole in my own understanding as well as the representation of women poets in classical Urdu poetry in future work. I will settle now for an apology and a promise to correct the gender imbalance in my account of Urdu poetry.[8] Happily, I have been able to include a variety of twentieth-century Urdu women poets in this collection, many of whom write bravely and eloquently not just about love and romance but also about patriarchy, oppression and political engagement in a way that enhances our understanding of current social and political challenges and represents the best that Urdu poetry has to offer today.

Urdu continues to be a vibrant and lively language. With the advent of the Internet, we see a proliferation of Urdu websites, of video recordings of mushairas and songs, and of the dissemination of scholarly work. The web continues to build bridges connecting the archipelago that constituted scholarly work in Urdu. Also, researchers have now begun to compile and catalogue its impressive corpus of literature and research; for instance, recently, Anwar Moazzam and Ashhar Farhan of Hyderabad have compiled a bibliography of social science research in Urdu[9]. Every day new books are published on Urdu poetry, including criticism, anthologies and collections. The language continues to struggle with religious orthodoxy, and many current debates underscore its conflicted relationship with the mosque and its affinity for the street. Urdu remains the language of the present, and by way of showcasing its cosmopolitan and its contemporary ethos, I’d like to offer a poem by Lata Haya, a poet of remarkable performative ability I encountered only through the Internet, and whose poem here congratulates Urdu on the advent of the new millennium:

Subh ka pehla payaam, Urdu

Dhalti hui se jaise sham, Urdu

Utrey jo taare wahi baam, Urdu

Badi kamsin gulfaam, Urdu

Jaise naye saal ka ye din ho naya

Aur beetey saal ki ho aakhri dua

Naya saal, nayi Ram Ram, Urdu

Tujhe nayi sadi ka salaam Urdu

The first message of the dawn, Urdu

Like the slowly setting sun, Urdu

Where the stars descend, that roof, Urdu

A youthful beauty you are, Urdu

Like the new day of the New Year

And the last blessing of the old one

Happy New Year, and a new hello, Urdu

The new century salutes you, Urdu.

To some, the twenty-first century represents the dying gasps of Urdu poetry. But to those pessimists, may I say that the rumours of Urdu’s demise have been exaggerated for well over 150 years. Urdu was on the verge of death in 1857 (post ‘mutiny’), 1901 (post ‘Nagri resolution’), 1947 (post-Partition), 1951 (when the Uttar Pradesh Official Language Act derecognized Urdu), and 2001 (post–9/11, for reasons not very clear, beyond the fact that everyone wants to associate that date with everything). However, as long as a chill runs up your spine when you hear a verse by Ghalib, as long as marchers on the street shout ‘Inquilab Zindabad’, and as long as film lyricists like Gulzar compose lines like ‘Woh yaar hai jo khushboo ki tarah / Jis ki zuban Urdu ki tarah’ (‘It is a friend who appears like fragrance / And whose language is [sweet] like Urdu’), we have no problem. I am counting on my great-great-grandchildren wringing their hands and lamenting the eventual demise of Urdu in 2150. And I won’t be surprised if the language continues to prevail nevertheless, for Urdu poetry is, after all, written by angels. In Chicha’s words:

Aate hain ghaib se ye mazaameen khayaal mein

Ghalib, sareer-e khaama navaa-e sarosh hai

These rare ideas I dare invent

A zephyr from paradise brings,

Ghalib’s sounds of pen on parchment

Are the flutter of angel wings.

A Note on Poetic Form

Mir Anees, the great marsiya poet, and arguably one of the finest exponents of the art of Urdu poetry, was reputed to have composed his first sher when he was a child of five. Having watched his pet goat die, he apparently ran weeping to his father and said:

Afsos ke duniya se safar kar gayi bakri

Aankhen to khuli reh gaeen, par mar gayi bakri

Alas the goat’s soul departed for heaven

It is truly dead, though the goat’s eyes are open

I am struck by the rhythmic quality of this couplet, fashioned so beautifully by the young Anees. The tyke seems to have had perfect rhyme and metre from the start, and as he grew older, content must have fed technique in a harmonious cycle that peaked in his extraordinary prowess, where the most complex of emotions and situations were rendered in metred verse with not an ounce of effort showing. Such are the ways in which the poets of Urdu sharpened their technique—through countless repetitions of poems, a craft practised over and over again, tested in the furnace of mushairas, where jealous contemporaries and, occasionally, gentle teachers separated the wheat from the chaff. It was not enough to be solely an exponent of form or a purveyor of content in those rarefied circles. One needed to be both.

Over time, as poets tested their craft among peers and the listening public, a protocol of sorts emerged regarding the form poetry would take. Much like the way Indian classical musicians were trained within the boundaries of specific ragas, Urdu poets learned the protocols of the ghazal and other poetic forms, which they either adhered to or tweaked. Here, I briefly discuss five forms that are relatively common in Urdu poetry, namely the ghazal, the qataa, the rubaai, the musaddas, and the nazm (along with its variant, the aazad nazm). I should say at the outset that such a discussion of poetic conventions need not necessarily get between the reader and the enjoyment of poetry (just as you do not need to know the difference between a backward short leg and a leg slip to enjoy cricket). But such nuances are nonetheless interesting to know.

Ghazal

The ghazal is the dominant form of the Urdu poem. It is structured relatively strictly, with a string of shers (couplets), common in metre (i.e. the first and second lines have the same number of syllables). Every second line of a couplet in a ghazal shares a rhythmic continuity with every other second line, through two artefacts known as the qafiya and the radif. The qafiya primarily refers to a convention of using certain rhyming words in the course of a verse. The radif is the refrain at the end of a certain line that gives the verse a consistent rhythm.

To explain these in concrete terms, let us take an example of three shers from a popular ghazal, such as Hasrat Mohani’s ghazal ‘Chupke chupke’, which was used in the 1982 film Nikaah. The lines go thus:

Chupke chupke raat din aansoo bahaana yaad hai

Hum ko ab tak aashiqui ka vo zamaana yaad hai

Khainch lena vo mera parde ka kona daf’atan

Aur dupatte mein tera vo moonh chhupaana yaad hai

Dopahar ki dhoop mein mere bulaane ke liye

Vo tera kothe pe nange paaon aana yaad hai

Nights, days of quiet tear-shedding, I still remember

That era of intense loving, I still remember

Suddenly, I pulled away the curtain between us

Your veiled face playfully hiding, I still remember

The afternoon sun, the hot roof, your bare, burning feet

That sweet summons, you arriving, I still remember.

The rhyme in this ghazal derives primarily from the qafiya, which in this case comes from the rhyming of ‘bahaana’, ‘zamaana’, ‘chhupaana’ and ‘aana’. It is here that the creativity of the poet is tested the most. The radif in this ghazal is ‘yaad hai’, which is a base on which the ghazal stands. In this case, every second line of every stanza would end with the words ‘yaad hai’ (the radif), and that phrase would be preceded by a word that rhymed with ‘bahaana’ (the qafiya). Ghazals typically contain between five and twenty couplets, which are not necessarily connected to each other in narrative continuity.

Two more elements of the ghazal to keep in mind are the matla and the maqta. The matla is a sher in the ghazal, usually the first couplet, where both lines rhyme. The first sher in the above ghazal is a matla. A ghazal may have more than one matla; for instance, in the Faiz ghazal ‘Tum aaye ho’ that I have translated in this volume, the first two shers are both considered matlas. The maqta is that sher of a ghazal which contains the poet’s name as a signature (the signature is known as the takhallus). Many of the ghazals in this anthology have maqtas, which are often the place where poets showed their flourish. Often, a poet may have more than one takhallus. Ghalib had two: ‘Ghalib’ and, occasionally, ‘Asad’. As he said:

Main ne Majnun pe ladakpan mein, Asad

Sang uthaya thha, ke sar yaad aaya

In my childhood, Asad

I raised a stone to strike Majnu dead

But then,

I remembered my own head.

Typically, the maqta is the last sher of the ghazal. But poets may choose to tweak the format. For example, in the ghazal ‘Insha-ji utho’ translated in this book, the matla and the maqta are the same sher.

Qataa

A qataa, very simply, is a poem of four lines—a quatrain. It may occur in the middle of a ghazal (where the poet is unable to finish a thought in two lines, and chooses to use four). It may also be a stand-alone verse, un-embedded in any long poem. Here is an example of a stand-alone qataa from Faiz:

Raat yoon dil mein teri khoi hui yaad aayi

Jaise veerane mein chupke se bahaar aa jaaye

Jaise sehraaon mein haule se chale baad-e naseem

Jaise beemar ko be-vajah qaraar aa jaaye

Your faded memory visited my heart last night

As if the spring came to the ruins, real quiet

As if the zephyr silently cooled the desert

And the sick, miraculously, gained some respite.

Rubaai

Like a qataa, a rubaai is a four-liner, but it is always a stand-alone mini-poem in its own right. Its rhyming scheme is fixed, with the first, second and fourth line rhyming, while the third line is free. In this sense, one can say that all rubaais are also qataas but all qataas are not rubaais. Furthermore, an astute observer may ask if there is indeed a subtle difference between a stand-alone qataa that follows this fixed rhyme scheme, and a rubaai. The answer really appears to lie in an additional requirement, that the verses of the rubaai should have twelve syllables, and must be amenable to a certain kind of intonation.

Rubaais were very popular in Farsi poetry (with Omar Khayyam’s poems crossing the linguistic divide into English). One of the best-regarded exponents of the rubaai was Josh Malihabadi; this is considered one of his best:

Ghunche, teri be-basi pe dil hilta hai

Tu ek tabassum ke liye khilta hai

Ghunche ne kaha ke is chaman mein baba

Ye ek tabassum bhi kise milta hai

Dear flower, my heart does shake at your sorry plight

For one smile from your love does your blossom take flight!

The flower said, ‘Dear friend, don’t mock this garden’s grace

One smile I have. That’s more than other creatures might.’

Musaddas

A musaddas may be simply described as a poem in which each unit consists of six lines. Typically, the first four lines of the musaddas rhyme with each other, while the last two rhyme in a different format. This poetic form lends itself to longer narratives and epic poems, and has been adopted especially by purveyors of the marsiya (an elegy that usually describes events surrounding an important event in Islamic history—the battle of Karbala). Mir Anees and Mirza Dabeer are prominent exponents of the marsiya tradition. Of the non-marsiya poems, the musaddas by Maulana Altaf Husain Hali is popular, as are Iqbal’s two long poems, Shikva and Jawaab-e Shikva. A typical musaddas may have over a hundred six-line verses.

Here, I present a verse from a marsiya by Mir Anees, which is a good exemplar of the musaddas with clean rhythms and evocative manzar-kashi, or the ability of the poet to depict a scene as drama. This verse describes the moment before Imam Husain leaves for his final battle. The menfolk have all perished; he is in the company of only his little daughter Sakina and his sister Bibi Zainab. This particular verse is one of the most celebrated marsiya verses, having been performed repeatedly in the public domain as well as featured in Shyam Benegal’s Sardari Begum (1996).

Husain jab ke chale baad-e dopahar ran ko

Na thha koi ke jo thhaame rakaab-e tausan ko

Sakina jhaad rahi thhi abaa ke daaman ko

Husain chup ke khade thhe jhukaaye gardan ko

Na aasra thha koi shah-e karbalaai ko

Faqat savaar kiya thha bahan ne bhai ko

That fateful afternoon, ready to fight stood brave Husain

No one to help him mount his horse, loneliness fed his pain

Little Sakina brushed his robe, her sadness to contain

Husain simply stood with head bowed, and quietude did reign

Karbala’s hero was alone, no friends left to pay heed

His brave sister then stepped up, to help him mount his steed.

One could speak of other categories where longer poems have been done in specific rhyme schemes, like the mukhammas, a nazm with a five-line scheme (as in Nazeer Akbarabadi’s ‘Aadmi-Nama’ in this volume).

Nazm

Nazm translates to mean ‘poem’, and in that sense, every poem is a nazm. However, in ordinary usage, nazm refers to that poem which does not fall into any specific rhythmic category. Typically, the nazm is associated with narrative continuity, that is, it tells a single story, unlike the syncopated content of the ghazal. It is also longer than the qataa or the rubaai, and does not follow the stringent structural demands of a musaddas. Many of the works of Sahir, Faiz, Majaz and others in this anthology, come under the nazm category.

The aazad nazm is nothing more than a nazm liberated from the conventions of metre, and often, rhyme. The works of Noon Meem Rashid, Javed Akhtar and Gulzar in this volume are exemplars of the aazad nazm. Free verse in Urdu, however, retains still a lot more rhythm than a free verse poem in English or other European languages.

Other categorizations and terms

One may choose to categorize poems according to content rather than form, in which case a poem might be seen as a naat (a religious poem in praise of Prophet Mohammed), a hamd (a poem in praise of Allah), a qaseeda (a poem in praise of some person or being other than these two entities), or, as noted earlier, a marsiya (an elegy). One could speak of a poem according to performance, such as a qawwali, which is a group song with specific repetitive manoeuvres. For a delightful example of a performed qawwali, watch the Sabri Brothers perform ‘Saqiya aur pila’ (‘Some more wine please, cupbearer’) on YouTube.

Another term one hears about a lot is a deevan. A deevan is an anthology of a poet’s work, but usually contains only ghazals. The ghazals are ordered according to the last letter of the ghazal, and the deevan must contain ghazals that end with at least each letter of the Urdu alphabet. So the smallest possible deevan will have around twenty-five poems. Usually, they are much larger; for instance Ghalib’s deevan has 234 poems.

I hope the reader is not daunted by these terms and categories. Like I’ve mentioned earlier, discussions of poetic form should be considered secondary to the enjoyment of a poem’s rhythms. Onwards then, to the poets and poems themselves.

POEMS

Amir Khusrau

Amir Khusrau (1253–1325), the thirteenth-century maestro, is associated with Persian literature as well as the qawwali form of Sufi mystical poetry, but his forays into the Urdu/Hindavi tradition find him at his playful best. His popular qawwalis like ‘Zehaal-e miskin nakun taghaaful’ (‘Do not ignore the plight of the poverty-stricken’) are pure Persian, and exhibit immense gravitas. By contrast, one of the best-known Urdu/Hindavi poems, ‘Chhap tilak sab chheeni re mosay naina milaike’ (‘You have stolen my looks merely by gazing into my eyes’) is much more lyrically light, and has been performed repeatedly for more than 700 years.

In this anthology, I have chosen to highlight that aspect of Khusrau’s work which not only straddles the spurious Hindi–Urdu divide but also brings out the light-hearted quality of his poetic personality, one that puts him in the company of authors such as Lewis Carroll or Sukumar Ray.[1] I translate below a few of Khusrau’s riddle poems and a qawwali. In contemporary culture, this qawwali (‘Chhap tilak’) features often as a song in movies: for instance, in the 1978 film Main Tulsi Tere Aangan ki. It has been performed by a variety of singers including Sabri Brothers, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Richa Sharma and—my favourite—Abida Parveen. Note how the poet affects a feminine first person, and expresses affection for a male beloved (‘Nijaam’ here refers to Nizamuddin Auliya, the dear companion of Khusrau).

1   Do-sukhne (Double entendres)

These are specific riddles, where two questions lead to the same answer, made possible by deploying a word in the answer that has two meanings.

Deevar kyoon tooti?

Rah kyoon luti?

Raj na tha.

Why did the wall fall, won’t you say?

What made life unsafe on the highway?

There was no mason/There was no governance.

*

Ghar kyon andhiyara?

Faqeer kyon badbadaya?

Diya na tha.

Why does the house languish in the dark?

Why did the beggar angrily bark?

There was no lamp/Nothing was given.

*

Raja pyasa kyoon?

Gadha udasa kyoon?

Lota na tha.

Why was the king thirsty, my lad?

And why did the donkey appear so sad?

There was no tumbler/He had not rolled in the mud.

2   Paheliyaan (Riddles)

Many of Khusrau’s riddles are structured so that the answer lies within the text of the riddle itself.

Beeson ka sir kaat liya,

Na maara na khoon kiya.

Jawaab: Nakhoon

[Author’s Note: Na+khoon]

I cut off twenty heads and still,

No blood did I shed, no one did I kill.

Answer: Nail (cutting).

*

EEk guni ne ye gun keena

Hariyal pinjrey mein de deena

Dekho jadoogar ka kamaal

Daale hara, nikaale laal.

Jawaab: Paan.

A wise man did perform this feat

I’ll cage this green parrot, he said

Observe the sorcerer; this trick is neat

In went the green and out came red!

Answer: The betel leaf (green before chewing, red after).

*

Ek naari ke sir par hai naar

Pi ki lagan main khadi laachar

Sees chuve aur chale na jor

Ro ro kar woh kare hai bhor

Jawaab: Mombatti

Observe the woman with fire on her head

She burns as she awaits her beloved

Her body melts, her spirit mourns

And thus she suffers till the day dawns

Answer: Candle.

Chhaap tilak

Chhaap tilak, sab cheeni re mo-say naina milai-ke

Prem bhatee ka madhva pilai-ke

Matvali kar leeni re mo-say naina milai-ke

Gori gori baiyyaan, hari hari chudiyan

Baiyyaan pakad dhar leeni re mo-say naina milai-ke

Bal bal jaaoon main torey rang rajwa

Apni si kar leeni re mo-say naina milai-ke

Khusrau Nijaam ke bal bal jayyiye

Mohey suhaagan keeni re mo-say naina milai-ke

My looks, my self

My looks, my self, you have stolen them

Merely by locking eyes with me.

That love potion you made me drink

Has me teetering on the brink

Merely by locking eyes with me.

You clasped the fair hands of your queen

Those hands encased in bangles green

Merely by locking eyes with me.

I offer myself to my prince

Let me in your colour rinse

Merely by locking eyes with me.

Khusrau, I give myself up to

My dear Nizaam with such pride

He has turned me with his love

Into a radiant, blushing bride

Merely by locking eyes with me.

Quli Qutub Shah

Quli Qutub Shah (d. 1612) was one of the more celebrated kings of the Deccan, ascending the throne of Golkonda at a young age, and often credited with founding the city of Hyderabad.[1] He is also known to have composed poems in Telugu, which was consistent with his ecumenical temperament. His language reflects a curious mix of linguistic influences, comprising a bit of Turkish, a bit of the local Pali-oriented dialect, some Arabic words, and a lot of Sanskrit as well.

The ghazal I have chosen to represent his work is relatively simple, but as can be seen, this pioneering work has helped establish the stylistic conventions of the ghazal that endure even today, such as the rhyme schemes and the trope of unattained love. This ghazal has been deployed often in popular culture, most notably in the poignant climax of Shyam Benegal’s 1975 film Nishant. The enjoyment of the poem will be enhanced by listening simultaneously to Malika Pukhraaj’s

magical rendition.

Piya baaj

Piya baaj pyala piya jaaye na

Piya baaj ek til jiya jaye na

Nahin ishq jis vo bada kood hai

Kadhi us se mil besiya jaye na

Kahe the piya bin saboori karoon

Kahaa jaaye lekin kiya jaye na

Qutub Shah na de mujh deevane ko pand

Deevane ko kuchh pand diya jaye naa

Without my love

I cannot quaff the goblet without my love.

Nor can I live a moment without my love.

Crude is the one who does not feel

Love’s power

I just cannot stand such a heel

He’s no lover.

‘Be patient without your love, this moment too will pass’

Such counsel to follow is impossible, alas!

Qutub Shah, your guidance to the madman, although wise

Has no effect, for his love is beyond your advice.

Wali Dakkani

Wali Ahmed Khan (1667–1707) was associated with Aurangabad and Hyderabad, but died in Gujarat. He practised his craft in the late seventeenth century, and was acknowledged as the master of the ghazal format and of the proto-Urdu poetic tradition by stalwarts such as Mir and Ghalib. Many see Wali as the point of origin of Urdu poetry, perhaps because he was the first to publish a deevan. Mohammad Husain Azad, the author of Aab-e Hayaat, seems to have thought so as well. Wali will always be remembered for his optimistic poetry—exemplified by the couplet ‘Raah-e mazmoon-e taaza band nahin / Ta-qayaamat khula ha baab-e sukhan’ (‘The road to new ideas is not closed / The door of poetry will remain open forever’)—which presaged the emergence of a long-standing literary tradition. Unfortunately, his name has now become associated with tragedy; in March 2002, his tomb, which had been a prominent landmark in the city of Ahmedabad, was demolished, razed and paved over by the mobs that ravaged Gujarat in the post-Godhra conflagration.

The ghazal I have chosen here exemplifies his clean rhymes, his ability to move from the Dakkani idiom to the North Indian Rekhti, and his allegiance to the ghazal as poetic form. This ghazal has been performed by many singers, most notably by Iqbal Bano.

Jise ishq ka teer kaari lage

Jise ishq ka teer kaari lage

Use zindagi kyon na bhaari lage

Na chhode mohabbat dam-e marg lag

Jise yaar jaani so yaari lage

Na hoye use jag mein hargiz qaraar

Jise ishq ki beqaraari lage

Har ek waqt mujh aashiq-e paak ko

Pyaare teri baat pyaari lage

Wali ko kahe tu agar ek bachan

Raqibaan ke dil mein kataari lage

The one who is struck by cupid’s deadly dart

Once you are struck by Cupid’s deadly dart

You’ll find life a heavy burden, dear heart

Those who have felt their lover’s fragrant breath

Won’t cease in the ways of love until their death

Solace will never dilute my passion

Love’s impatient heat has left me ashen

My love’s transparent, unblemished and clear

Each word of yours I find lovely, my dear

With your Wali, if you share but a word

His rivals writhe as if pierced by a sword!

Mirza Sauda

The eighteenth century marked the beginning of a prolonged renaissance in Urdu poetry, and was kicked off by the triumvirate of Sauda, Dard and Mir. Mirza Sauda (1713–81) was Mir Taqi Mir’s contemporary, and one of the early exponents of what came to be called the ‘Delhi School’ of poetry. Mir’s senior in age, he tends to be eclipsed by his more illustrious counterpart even though he made an invaluable contribution to the decentring of the hegemony of Farsi as sole crucible of classical poetry. His language tended to be more decorous than Mir’s, still imbued with Persian rhetoric. He did write—in the fashion of poets of his time—a volume of Persian poetry, but was known principally for his Rekhti work, and also for his mischievous satires. His satires were often composed on the spot, derided those in power, and sometimes led to financial losses. One story goes thus: A rich man’s son once approached Sauda in public to become a tutor. Sauda asked him to recite some of his verses. The expectant pupil recited some verses of high quality, which Sauda immediately recognized as plagiarized fare. Sauda asked the man, ‘What is your takhallus?’ Replied the young man, ‘Ummeedwaar’ (hopeful). On the spot, Sauda declaimed: ‘Hai faiz se kisi ke shajar unka baardaar / Is vaaste kiya hai takhallus “ummeedwaar”’ (‘With another’s labour, his tree is fruitful, / Perhaps this is why his nom de plume is “hopeful”’). The shamefaced youngster exited hastily; Sauda had won bragging rights, but lost a potential patron.

I have chosen a single haunting ghazal that, to my mind, exemplifies Sauda’s serious work.[1] Unlike Mir’s accessible rhythms, Sauda affected a style of verbal flourish, perhaps owing to his felicity in writing qasidas (panegyrics).

Hua so hua

Jo guzri mujh pe mat us se kaho hua so hua

Balaa-kashaan-e mohabbat mein jo hua so hua

Mubaadaa ho koi zaalim tera gireban-geer

Mere lahu ko to daaman se dho, hua so hua

Pahunch chukaa hai sar-e zakhm dil talak yaaro

Koi siyo, koi marham karo hua so hua

Kahe hai sun ke meri sar-guzasht vo be-rehm

Ye kaun zikr hai, jaane bhi do, hua so hua

Ye kaun haal hai ahvaal-e dil pe ai aankhon

Na phoot phoot ke itna baho, hua so hua

Diya use dil-o-zeest ab ye jaan hai ‘Sauda’

Phir aage dekhiye jo ho so ho, hua so hua

This too will pass

Share not my fate with that heartless one, this too will pass

How the love-afflicted were undone, this too will pass

My tormentor, lest someone espy your stained garments

Wash off my blood from your red shirt-front, this too will pass

The wound has lanced my body; its pain has reached my heart

Call the surgeon to stitch it, someone! This too will pass

On hearing of my sorry fate, my heartless love said:

Don’t harp on this tale, don’t spoil the fun, this too will pass

Do not trouble your eyes on seeing my poor fortune

Why do those tears so copiously run? This too will pass

I sacrificed my love, my heart, my will—just life remains

Who can divine poor Sauda’s fate? None, this too will pass.

Khwaja Mir Dard

Another member of the ‘Delhi school’, Dard (1721–85) was a Sufi, and also one of the first proponents of a very direct authorial voice in the ghazal.[1] Mystical in bearing, he had a passion for music, which is reflected in the rhythms of his poems. His ascetic manner did not help him financially, as he refused all attempts by local noblemen to patronize him in any way. In his own eyes, Dard was truly a man of God. Representing the transitory phase between Persian and Urdu, Dard wrote most of his prose in Persian—a tome titled Ilm-ul Kitaab (The Knowledge of the Book) is especially noteworthy—but began gravitating to the people’s tongue for his poetic output. His mysticism often cast the world as a brief stop in a longer spiritual sojourn, and saw death as just another move in that ongoing journey. In his most famous sher, he conveys this with a simplicity that perhaps owes a connection to Mir: ‘Dosto dekha tamaasha yaan ke bas / Tum raho ab ham to apne ghar chale’ (‘Friends, I’ve had enough of this display / I am off, if you wish, you can stay’).

Interesting in this context is the defiant pose that Dard strikes in the third couplet of this ghazal, vis-à-vis the religious straw man (sheikh). The sher (which is one of Dard’s most widely quoted couplets and also famously performed by the singer Mukesh) taunts the sheikh for viewing his soaked garments (presumably with wine, since the maqta also extols drinking), stating that if he were to wring his clothes, the angels would view the squeezed liquid pure enough to use for their ablutions. The implicit celebration of the repudiation of religious strictures also characterizes Mir’s work, and became an important element in the aesthetic traditions of the Delhi school.

Hum tujh se kis havas ki falak justaju karen

Hum tujh se kis havas ki falak justaju karen

Dil hi nahin raha hai jo kuchh aarzoo karen

Mit jaayen ek aan mein kasrat numaiyaan

Hum aaine ke saamne aa kar jo ‘hoo’ karen

Har chand aainaa hoon par itnaa hoon na-qubool

Moonh pher le vo jis ke mujhe ru-ba-ru karen

Nai gul ko hai sabaat na ham ko hai aitbaar

Kis baat par chaman havas-e rang-o-bu karen

Hai apni ye salaah ke sab zahidaan-e shahr

Ai Dard aa ke bayat-e dast-e sabu karen

Should I ask fate for passion?

Should I ask fate for passion? I’m loath to do my part

I lost all desire when I lost my feckless heart.

All forms of consciousness will dissolve to one true state

When I look at the mirror and proclaim God is great!

Sneer not, dear judgemental sheikh, at my clothes wet with wine

When they’re wrung, angels ablute in this liquid divine.

I’m truthful like a mirror, but solitude’s the price

Anyone who looks at me leaves, hates to remain near.

Spring I cannot guarantee, nor is the rose so strong

On whose hopes can gardens bloom, with colour, scent and song?

It’s my advice, O Dard, to the city’s puritans

That they shun their false gods, and to wine pay obeisance.

Mir Taqi Mir

In the pantheon of Urdu poetry, it is interesting to ask why it was only Mir (1723–1810) who came to be known as the Khuda-e Sukhan (God of Poetry). There is something originary about his work, which is not immediately apparent (just as a novice to cinema studies may not appreciate the trailblazing nature of Citizen Kane or Battleship Potemkin without an appreciation of the history of cinema itself). It is just that much of what is aesthetically brilliant about the ghazal seems to originate with Mir’s work. The masters themselves, of course, paid obeisance. Consider for example this couplet by Ghalib: ‘Rekhta ke tumhi ustad nahin ho Ghalib / Kehte hain agle zamane me koi Mir bhi tha’ (‘You are not the only great exponent of Urdu, Ghalib / It is said that in the past there used to be a Mir as well’).[1]

Mir’s life coincided with a very eventful phase in India. On the one hand, he was accompanying his patrons to hunts (composing poems known as shikar namas or hunt poems), writing his autobiography, revelling in his status as the poet laureate of the cognoscenti, and indulging his sensual desires.[2] On the other hand, his beloved Delhi was under such constant attack from serial marauders like Ahmed Shah Abdali that Mir had to move to Lucknow. His interactions with the Lucknow poets produced great strain because he had developed his own inflexible aesthetic and grew tired of their florid romanticism, while they found him puzzlingly quotidian (his clashes with the local star Sheikh Khalandar Bakht Jur’at remind one of the stand-offs between Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, with Mir standing in for Shakespeare).

In deference to Mir’s exalted status, I have chosen to translate three of his poems here, all ghazals. The first one marked

my personal entry point into his poetry, when I listened enthralled to Lata Mangeshkar’s rendition of ‘Dikhaai diye yoon ke bekhud kiya’ in the 1982 movie Bazaar. I would draw special attention to Mir’s poignant maqta in this poem, which summarizes the essence of existential angst as depicted in romantic Urdu poetry.

The second ghazal, which I initially did not take to, mystified me because many Urdu poets themselves regard it as the finest ghazal ever written (Ghalib listed it among his favourites, especially the sher that went ‘Naazuki us ke lab ki kya kahiye / Pankhudi ek gulaab ki si hai’).[3]

The final ghazal is also very celebrated, having been immortalized by the likes of singers such as Begum Akhtar, and also demonstrates Mir’s sly asides at religion, which paved the way for a familiar anti-religious iconoclasm in Urdu literature. Mir’s playful yet hard-hitting asides at religious orthodoxy (for example he says ‘Dekhi hai jab se us but-e kaafir ki shakl, Mir / Jaata nahin hai jee tanik Islam ki taraf’; ‘Ever since I saw that infidel statue, Mir / My heart is not even mildly inclined toward Islam’) set the tone for future poets to bring about an antagonistic and dialectical relationship between love and religion, a tradition that endures in Urdu poetry even today.

1   Faqiraana aaye

Faqiraana aaye, sadaa kar chale

Miyaan khush raho hum dua kar chale

Jo tujh bin na jeene ko kahte the hum

So is ahd ko ab vafaa kar chale

Koi na-ummeedaana karte nigaah

So tum hum se moonh bhi chhupa kar chale

Bahut aarzoo thi gali ki teri

So yaan se lahu mein naha kar chale

Dikhaai diye yoon ke bekhud kiya

Hamein aap se bhi juda kar chale

Jabeen sajda karte hi karte gayi

Haq-e bandagi hum ada kar chale

Parastish ki yaan tak ke ai but tujhe

Nazar mein sabon ki Khuda kar chale

Kahen kya jo poochhe koi hum se Mir

Jahaan mein tum aaye the, kya kar chale?

I came like a beggar

Entering like a beggar, unfulfilled I went

Said a prayer for you mister, now be content

A promise I made not to stay alive without you

Now I leave the world to honour it, adieu

Any sign from you would confirm hopelessness

So you left sans a goodbye, hiding your face

To reach your street, was all that to me mattered

I arrived, but left defeated, blood-splattered

’Twas portrayed as a selfless quotidian act

But it tore me asunder from you in fact

My head prostrated before you on the ground

The essence of servitude, my love had found

So devout, O idol, was my faith in you

That in other eyes, I made you a God too

How should I respond, they ask me as I leave

In this stay on earth, Mir, what did you achieve?

2   Hasti apni hubaab ki si hai

Hasti apni hubaab ki si hai

Ye numaaish saraab ki si hai

Naazuki us ke lab ki kya kahiye

Pankhudi ek gulaab ki si hai

Baar baar us ke dar pe jaata hoon

Haalat ab iztiraab ki si hai

Main jo bola kaha ke ye aawaaz

Usi khana-kharaab ki si hai

Mir, un neem-baaz aankhon mein

Saari masti sharaab ki si hai

My life, like a bubble, is transient

My life, like a bubble, is transient

This show, like a mirage, evanescent

Exquisite, those lips that lie in repose

Delicate as the petals of a rose

Again and again I go to that door

In a state of panic, need I say more?

I spoke and everyone guessed that this sound

Belonged perhaps to that wretched, cursed hound

Those half-lidded eyes of that love of mine

Mir, they bear all the headiness of wine.

3   Ulti ho gaeen sab tadbeerein

Ulti ho gaeen sab tadbeerein, kuchh na dava ne kaam kiya

Dekha? Is beemari-e dil ne aakhir kaam tamaam kiya

Ahd-e jawani ro-ro kaati, peeri mein li aankhen moond

Yaani raat bahut the jaage, subah hui, aaraam kiya

Na-haq hum majbooron par ye tohmat hai mukhtari ki

Chaahte hain so aap kare hain, humko abas badnaam kiya

Sarzad hum se be-adabi to wahshat mein bhi kum hi hui

Koson us ki ore gaye par sajda har har gaam kiya

Mir ke deen-o-mazhab ko ab poochhte kya ho? Un ne to

Qashqaa khencha, dair mein baithaa, kab ka tark Islam kiya

All those efforts came to naught

All those efforts came to naught, my wound no salve could mend

See! This affliction of the heart beat me in the end.

I squandered youth in grief. Came age, I shut my weary eye

I’d stayed awake all night—at dawn, I rested with a sigh.

Prisoners of fate are termed players of the free-will game

How ironic, victims of caprice shoulder the blame.

I went mad but never broke devotion’s protocol

Miles I walked toward you, bowed at each step, I recall.

Ask not of Mir’s faith, he’s smeared ash-marks on his forehead

He lives in temples, and from Islam’s call, has long fled.

Nazeer Akbarabadi

Widely credited with popularizing the nazm tradition in the ghazal-dominated canon of eighteenth-century Urdu poetry, Nazeer Akbarabadi, whose real name was Sheikh Wali Muhammad (1735–1830), chose to write in relatively accessible language. Like many who choose to experiment with simplicity, he paid a price when the elite saw his experiment as an aesthetic failure, i.e. an inability (rather than a refusal) to affect the florid rhythms that constituted the canon of his time. History, of course, has been kinder to Nazeer; he is now acknowledged as a true ‘poet of the people’ and his nazms hark back to a tradition where great poetry was sung in streets instead of being imprisoned unread in texts. The noted theatre artist Habib Tanvir based his famous play Agra Bazaar on Nazeer’s life.

Nazeer’s poetic reflection on mortality, Banjaara Nama (Gypsy Tale), has assumed the status of metaphor, with its refrain ‘Sab thaath pada reh jaayega, jab laad chalega banjara’ (‘All your pomp will stay behind when the gypsy loads up and walks off’) now an acknowledged proverb in spoken Hindustani. He wrote plays on festivals like Diwali and Eid-ul Fitr, but chose to focus on their role as celebratory events rather than spiritual ones.

I have chosen to translate here a small part of his long poem titled ‘Aadmi-Nama’ (‘The Human Story’). Note that each verse has five lines; such a stanza is known as the mukhammas (‘fiver’). The fifth lines form a refrain across verses (in this case, with

‘. . . hai so hai woh bhi hai aadmi’). The simplicity of the verses likens the poem to a street ballad.

Aadmi-nama

Duniya mein badshah hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Aur muflis-o-gada hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Zar-dar be-nawa hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Ne’mat jo kha raha hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Tukde jo mangta hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Abdaal-o-qutb-o-ghaus-o-wali aadmi hue

Munkir bhi aadmi hue aur kufr se bhare

Kya kya karishme kashf-o-karamaat ke kiye

Hatta ke apne zor-o-riazat ke zor pe

Khaliq se ja mila hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Fir’aun ne kiya tha jo daawa khudai ka

Shaddad bhi bahisht bana kar hua khuda

Namrud bhi khuda hi kahaataa thha bar mala

Yeh baat hai samajhne ki aage kahoon main kya

Yan tak jo ja chuka hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Yaan aadmi hi naar hai aur aadmi hi noor

Yaan aadmi hi paas hai aur aadmi hi door

Kul aadmi ka husn-o-qaba mein hai yaan zahoor

Shaitaan bhi aadmi hai jo karta hai makr-o-zor

Aur haadi, rehnuma hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Masjid bhi aadmi ne banaayi hai yaan miyaan

Bante hain aadmi hi imaam aur khutba-khwaan

Padhte hain aadmi hi namaaz aur quran yaan

Aur aadmi hi un ki churaate hain jootiyaan

Unko jo taad-ta hai so hai woh bhi aadmi

Yaan aadmi pe jaan ko ware hai aadmi

Aur aadmi hi tegh se maare hai aadmi

Pagdi bhi aadmi ki utaare hai aadmi

Chilla ke aadmi ko pukare hai aadmi

Aur sun ke daudhta hai so hai woh bhi aadmi!

The human story

The king of this vast domain is also a man

And the beggar mendicant is also a man

The wealthy or the poorest is also a man

The one who eats sumptuously is also a man

And the one who begs for crumbs is also a man.

The sage, the saint, the prophet, yes—they all were men

The unbelievers, atheists, they too were men

The miracles they showed us were beyond our ken

They ruled us with the force of both the sword and pen

The creation who now seems a god? Also a man.

The Pharaoh did claim divinity, such were his lies

Shaddad made a city; called it his Paradise

Nimrod too decided to make the divine claim

What can I say? Fools! Their hubris was the same

The one who falls to such crass depths? Also a man.

Man is a blazing fire and the blessed light

It’s man who’s gone so far away, and is in our sight

It’s man who is so beautiful and is so right

And man it is who represents Lucifer’s blight

And he who saves us from perils? Also a man.

The mosques where we seek God’s help—why are they man-made?

Men led the prayers and helped us pay spiritual dues

It was men who were lost in God, and while they prayed

Men they were too, who crept around and stole their shoes

The one who screams at those rascals? Also a man.

Who’ll agree to sacrifice for another man?

Who’ll smite a man with a sword? He too is a man.

Who will besmirch a man’s reputation? A man!

Whom do the wretched call for redress? Yea, a man.

He who runs away, unheeding? Also a man.

Insha

Insha Allah Khan ‘Insha’ (1756–1817) symbolized the ways in which one could claim, quite unselfconsciously, that Urdu and Hindi were truly the same language. The felicity with which he moved from his Persianized ghazals to his Hindi-identified poems like ‘Rani Ketki ki Kahani’[1] was not only wonderful but, as it were, unremarkable in those times. Unfortunately, he also epitomized the capricious future that lay in store for the poet who depended on royal patronage. Insha’s best poems were written in his final days, as he, spurned by his sponsors and penniless, lost his beloved son to illness and death, and inhabited the twilight zone between grief and madness.

Of the two ghazals I translate here, the famous ‘Insha-ji utho’ has been sung beautifully by Amanat Ali Khan, the maestro of the Patiala gharana. Mohammad Rafi sang his even more lugubrious and fatalistic ‘Kamar baandhe hue’ as a non-film piece.

1   Insha-ji utho

Insha-ji utho, ab kuchh karo, is shahr mein jee ka lagaana kya?

Vahshi ko sukoon se kya matlab? Jogi ka nagar mein thikaana kya?

Is dil ke dareeda-daaman ko dekho to sahi, socho to sahi

Jis jholi mein sau chhed hue us jholi ko phailaana kya?

Shab beeti chaand bhi doob gaya, zanjeer padi darvaaze mein

Kyon der gaye ghar aaye ho sajni se karoge bahana kya?

Us husn ke sanche moti ko hum dekh saken par chhoo na saken?

Jise dekh saken par chhoo na saken, vo daulat kya? Vo khazaana kya?

Jab shahr ke log na rasta den, kyon ban mein na ja bisraam kare?

Deevanon ki si na baat kare to aur kare deevana kya?

Arise insha-ji

Arise, Insha-ji, let’s depart

This city’s no place to settle down

We are madmen, we abhor peace

Mendicants have no place in a town.

Cast a glance at your tattered soul

Ponder awhile, with reason calm

Your heart’s but a shroud pierced with holes

Dare you use it to beg for alms?

The night is done, the moon is down

A strong secure chain locks your gate

How’ll you explain to your love now

The reason you’ve returned this late?

Her beauty is a pearl, but I

Can merely watch but dare not touch

Such treasure is hardly worth much,

Eludes the grasp and haunts the eye.

If city-dwellers forsake me

Should I in forests seek respite?

I am fated to insane speech

For such talk is the madman’s plight.

2    Kamar baandhe hue

Kamar baandhe hue chalne ko yaan sab yaar baithe hain

Bahut aage gaye, baaqi jo hain, taiyyar baithe hain

Na chhed ai nakhat-e baad-e bahaari raah lag apni

Tujhe ath-kheliyaan soojhi hai, hum bezaar baithe hain

Tasavvur arsh pe hai aur sar hai paa-e saaqi par

Gharaz kuchh aur dhun mein is ghadi mai-khwaar baithe hain

Bhalaa gardish falak ki chain deti hai kise, Insha?

Ghaneemat hai ke ham-soorat yahaan do-chaar baithe hain

Ready to leave

My friends stand packed, ready to leave, determined, absolute

Some have left, the rest await departure, quite resolute

Bother me not, be on your way, O fragrant breeze of spring

I am at despair’s door, while you wish to gambol and sing

Prostrate before the cupbearer, with thoughts that reach the sky

The drinkers sway to strange rhythms, while I silently sigh

Insha, seek no solace in this mad whirlpool of the fates

Be grateful that, in this strange land, you’ve found a few soulmates

Mir Anees

Mir Babar Ali Anees (1803–74) bestrode Urdu poetry like a colossus in the early nineteenth century, which is remarkable considering the fact that his poetry dealt nearly exclusively with religious themes and more specifically with the passion play of Karbala which dominates the religious narratives of Shia Islam. His contribution to the marsiya (or elegiac poetry) genre was so breathtaking that it informed the entire broader corpus of Urdu poetry. The marsiya is an epic poem with between 100 and 200 stanzas of six lines each, where, typically, the first four lines rhyme, as do the last two.[1]

For this volume, I have chosen to translate from two of Anees’s poems, both regrettably brief. I began by translating a six-line verse from a marsiya that I placed in the introductory discussion on poetic form. The second piece that I have placed below comprises five verses of a marsiya, which is quite regularly performed at Shia religious gatherings called majalis. I have heard this poem since my childhood, and can never read or hear it without tears spontaneously welling up in my eyes. The verses I have chosen provide a unique tableau, where the unfolding drama of Imam Husain’s sacrifice is being narrated to angels and prophets by God (indeed, to me it is metaphorically symmetrical that Anees has a God-like command over his language). God instructs his audience to see this moment of martyrdom as the ultimate expression of closeness between the creator and the subject. The last verse shifts the action back to the desert of Karbala, where Husain is on the ground, and his executioner readies himself for the final blow. In a few short verses Anees moves from grandeur to pathos, from the depiction of Husain’s power and stature to that of his helplessness, from his exalted position in the eyes of God to the utter hatred his killers exhibited toward him and his family.

Readers may please note the similarities in language and scene construction of Anees’s and Dabeer’s work to Brij Narain Chakbast’s verses about the Ramayana. The power of the musaddas shines in the work of this triumvirate, even more than in the hands of other exponents like Hali and Iqbal.

Jab pareshan hui maula ki jamaa’at ran mein

Jab pareshan hui maula ki jamaa’at ran mein

Har namaazi ko pasand aayi iqaamat ran mein

Qibla-e deen ne kiya qasd-e ibaadat ran mein

Shakl-e mehraab bani tegh-e shahaadat ran mein

Ghul hua, is ko Imam-e do-jahaan kehte hain

Teghon ke saaye mein Shabbir azaan kehte hain

Qudrat-e Haq se dareeche hue firdaus ke vaa

Daf-atan khul gaye dar-haa-e falak sar ta paa

Ek-ba ek uth gaye sab parda-e arsh-e aala

Ambiya-o-malak-o-hoor ko pahunchi ye sada

Qadr-daan is ka main hoon, mera shanaasa hai ye

Kyon na ho? Mere Mohammad ka navaasa hai ye.

Ye vo taa’at hai, ke tanhaa hi adaa karte hain

Mere aashiq tah-e shamsheer raha karte hain

Sar qalam hota hai, vo shukr-e khuda karte hain

Sadiq-ul vaada yoonhi vaada vafaa karte hain

Hum namaaz is ke janaaze ki jo padhwaaenge

Tum bhi jaana ke rasoolan-e salaf jaayenge

Saakin-e arsh-e bareen karne lage naala-o-aah

Shah takbeer yahaan keh chuke, Allah Allah

Aur iqaamat mein hue sarf shah-e alijaah

Jaan-e vaahid pe gire aan ke laakhon badkhwaah

Soora-e hamd nabizaada padha chaahta thha

Shimr khanjar liye seene pe chada jaata thha

When fate scattered husain’s congregation in that desert

When fate scattered Husain’s congregation in that desert

The pious ones did praise his devotion on that desert

To pray, the Godhead showed his intention on that desert

A sword was raised, it sought execution on that desert.

A cry arose: indeed he is the leader of both worlds

Watch my brave Shabbir’s call to prayer made in the shade of swords.

By his power, the Almighty bared heaven’s great window

Suddenly the sky opened up its doors from head to toe

All curtains of the firmament opened to that scene’s glow

Prophets and angels were summoned: ‘Watch, and you need to know

That I am his admirer, to know me is in his blood

And why not? He’s the grandson of my dear Mohammed.

‘This is the sort of worship that is done only alone

Those who love me contend with swords, not with the kingly throne

They are beheaded and yet they prostrate to the One

They fulfil their promises, and then with this life are done.

When I convene the funeral prayer of this creation bold

You’d best attend, for you would join legions of prophets old.’

Heaven-dwellers began to weep at this great twist of fate

Husain composed himself to pray, proclaimed ‘Allah is Great’

Alas till he finished his prayers, the killers refused to wait

Millions attacked that single soul, so vicious was their hate

As the Prophet’s son read soorahs and repeated God’s word

The murderous Shimr sat on him, lifting the fatal sword.

Mirza Dabeer

Mirza Salamat Ali Dabeer (1803–75), perhaps like the second man to walk the moon, was fated to coexist with a marginally more talented peer. Anees was considered the better marsiyagoh, which infuriated Dabeer, and which led to a lively rivalry between the two in Lucknow circles. Dabeer’s verses tended to be more flowery, and he often experimented with form in the extreme, such as the time when he wrote an entire benuqta marsiya (one that did not use any word with a dot, equivalent in difficulty to someone writing a 700-line poem using only seventeen letters of the alphabet).

The marsiya tradition flourished in the expert hands of Dabeer because it allowed the poet to deal with a variety of emotions, using all manner of linguistic tropes and formulations. The snippet of marsiya I have translated below is structured as drama. The scene in my selected set of five verses involves the aftermath of the events of Karbala. Imam Husain’s family, including his sister Bibi Zainab and his son Imam Ali bin Husain (both featured in the marsiya below) have been incarcerated in Damascus, and have been subjected to prolonged torture. At this moment, the wife of the tormentor Yazid (named Hind), who is a virtuous woman unaware of her husband’s unspeakable tyranny, pays a visit to the prison. The first verse refers to Bibi Zainab’s anguish and shame that she should be publicly visited at a moment of such vulnerability. The second and third speak of Hind’s consternation and grief at the desolation she encounters, while the fourth and fifth verses refer to her meeting with Imam Ali bin Husain, whom she sees as a young convict. Multiply the richness of these five verses by thirty, and one gets a sense of a single Dabeer marsiya. Now imagine hundreds of such marsiyas. These were some serious poets. For variety, I have chosen to translate Dabeer as free verse, rather than as my rhyme-bound translation of Anees.

Qaidkhaane mein talaatum hai ke Hind aati hai

Qaidkhaane mein talaatum hai ke Hind aati hai

Dukhtar-e Fatima ghairat se mui jaati hai

Rooh-e qaalib se vo zindaan mein ghabraati hai

Be-hawaasi se har ek baar vo chillati hai

‘Aasman door zameen sakht kidhar jaaoon main?

Bibiyon mil ke dua maango ke mar jaaoon main.’

Naagahan Fizza ne di Ahl-e haram ko ye khabar

Hind aati hai bade jaah-o-tajammul se idhar

Bairqeen naqra-o-zar ki hai juloo ke andar

Sab kaneezen to rida odhe hain, vo nange sar

Par savaari bahut ahista ravaan hoti hai

Har qadam Hind thehar jaati hai aur roti hai

Kehti hai: ‘Qaidiyon ke shor-o-bukaa ne maara

Mujh ko is “Hai Husaina” ki sadaa ne maara

In ke sardaar ko kya ahl-e jafaa ne maara?

Kya vo Sayyad thha jise ahl-e daghaa ne maara?

Ek bijli si kaleje pe mere girti hai

Nange-sar Fatima aankhon ke tale phirti hai!’

Laundiyaan thheen zan-e haakim ke jilaun mein jo ravaan

Dekhti kya hai ke ek sher hai aahan mein nihaan

Laaghar-o-khasta-tan-o-faaqa-kash-o-tashna-dahaan

Moonh pe seli ke nishaan, pusht pe durron ke nishaan

Saaq-e paa faaqe se zanjeer mein tharrati hai

Ustakhaanon se larazne ki sada aati hai.

Hind ne poochha ‘Maraz kya hai?’ Kaha ‘Be-pidari’

Ro ke boli vo ‘Dawaa kya hai?’ Kaha ‘Nauhagari’

Ghar jo daryaft kiya, kehne lage ‘darbadari’

Boli leta hai khabar kaun? Kaha ‘bekhabari

Kuchh kafan ke liye humraah nahin laaya hoon

Baap ko chhod ke be gor-o-kafan aaya hoon.’

The prison is in turmoil, Hind’s arrival is imminent

The prison is in turmoil, Hind’s arrival is imminent

The daughter of Fatima shrinks inwards in her shame

Her heart and soul are aflutter with fear in the dungeon

With unselfconscious passion, she lets out a scream

‘The sky is too far, the earth too tough, where can I hide?

My sisters, pray that death should protect my dignity’

Suddenly Fizza announced to the Prophet’s kin

‘Hind arrives this way, with her dignified retinue

Her train is full of pomp and splendour,

But her head is bare though her companions are draped in shawls

The procession winds its way slowly, though

For at every step, Hind stops and begins to weep!’

Says she, ‘The wails of these convicts will be the death of me

I have been slain by these shouts of “Alas, O Husain”

Who were the cruel ones who killed their leader?

Was he Mohammed’s kin, the one murdered by tyrants?

A bolt of lightning strikes my heart

And in my eyes arises the image of Fatima, bareheaded!’

The women with the king’s wife moved but she stopped

At the sight of a shackled youth, though tiger-like in bearing

Weak, emaciated, food-deprived, parched of tongue

With a face swollen by slaps, and a back scarred by the lash

His chains clattered with the tremble of his exhausted feet

His bones made sounds as if they creaked.

Asked Hind, ‘What afflicts you?’ He said, ‘Orphanhood.’

She wept. ‘What is the cure?’ ‘Grief,’ said he.

She asked for his address, and he said, ‘Homelessness.’

‘And who cares for you?’ He said, ‘Anonymity.

Upon death, I have nothing that can serve me as a shroud

Indeed, I have left my father’s corpse unclothed, unburied.’

Bahadur Shah Zafar

Few poets have had to practise their art in more trying circumstances than Zafar (1775–1862). He ascended the titular throne of the monarch of India in 1837, when the Mughal empire had shrunk to a size that was smaller than the current municipal limits of New Delhi. His desire to lead a life of leisure was to be rudely interrupted, however, when the first Indian war of independence was waged nominally under his flag by brave fighters who took on the world superpower of their time in 1857. The triumph of the British led to catastrophic consequences for Zafar, who was stripped of his emperorhood, watched his family members executed by the British forces, and eventually died in exile in Rangoon, leaving behind a sardgah (empty tomb) in Mehrauli, where he had wished to be interred next to his ancestors. His death ended the Mughal empire, and also marked the descent of Delhi into colonial servitude. In his words: ‘Na ghar hai na dar hai, bacha ek Zafar hai, Faqat haal-e Dilli sunaane ki khaatir’ (‘Without home or hearth we wander and we suffer, The sad tale of Delhi narrated by Zafar’).

Much of Zafar’s poetry was perhaps meant to presage

his lonely fate.[1] His ghazals lend themselves to performance; and the three ghazals I have chosen to translate have been sung by a myriad of performers. My favourite renditions include Mehdi Hasan’s essaying of ‘Baat karni’. Mohammad Rafi rendered ‘Lagta nahin hai dil mera’ with his trademark simplicity in the 1960 film Laal Qila. The fourth sher of this ghazal (‘umr-e daraaz . . .’), about existential futility, has achieved metaphorical proportions in Urdu. Finally, his ghazal ‘Shamsheer barahnaa’ was rendered by Preeti Sagar for Shyam Benegal’s 1983 film Mandi. The sly verses compare the beauty of the beloved with the torment of the lover in interesting ways.

1   Baat karni mujhe mushkil

Baat karni mujhe mushkil kabhi aisi to na thi

Jaisi ab hai teri mehfil kabhi aisi to na thi

Le gaya chheen ke kaun aaj tera sabr-o-qaraar

Beqaraari tujhe ai dil kabhi aisi to na thi

Un ki aankhon ne khuda jaane kiyaa kya jaadoo

Ke tabiyyat meri maa’il kabhi aisi to na thi

Chashm-e qaatil meri dushman thi hamesha lekin

Jaise ab ho gayi qaatil kabhi aisi to na thi

Aks-e rukhsaar ne kis ke hai tujhe chamkaayaa

Taab tujh mein mah-e kaamil kabhi aisi to na thi

Kya sabab tu jo bigadtaa hai Zafar se har baar

Khoo teri hoor-e shamaa’il kabhi aisi to na thi

I’m at a loss for words

I’m at a loss for words, it was never like this before

Your congregation now was never like this before.

Who is it then that has stolen my peace of mind today?

Your consternation, O heart, was never like this before.

God knows what magic it was that those eyes created

My heart’s acute discomfort, was never like this before.

Your killer gaze, I always knew, would do me in some day

The way it performed its task, was never like this before.

Whose face is it that you reflect, tell me my dear full moon?

Such beauty in your shine—it was never like this before.

Why do you get so angry with Zafar time and again?

Your impatience, angel face, was never like this before.

2   Lagta nahin hai ji mera

Lagta nahin hai ji mera ujde dayaar mein

Kis ki bani hai aalam-e naa paayedaar mein

Bulbul ko paasbaan se, na sayyad se gila

Qismat mein qaid thhi likhi fasl-e bahaar mein

Keh do in hasraton se kahin aur jaa basein

Itni jagah kahaan hai dil-e daagdaar mein

Umr-e daraaz maang ke laaye thhe chaar din

Do arzoo mein kat gaye, do intezaar mein

Kitna hai bad-naseeb Zafar dafn ke liye

Do gaz zameen bhi na mili koo-e yaar mein

My heart is uneasy

In this deserted ruined space, uneasiness is great

To find some peace in this transient world was not my fate.

The nightingale assigns no blame to the hunter, cage or guard

Misfortune led it to spend youth in this captive state.

Tell my yearnings and desires that they may live elsewhere

My heart alas is full of wounds, hardly the best estate.

Asked I for a wholesome life, but was granted four mere days

For two I pined, and longed and yearned, and two I spent in wait.

How unfortunate was Zafar that in death was denied

Two yards of earth for his grave in the lane of his soulmate.

3   Shamsheer barahnaa

Shamsheer barahnaa maang ghazab, baalon ki mehak phir vaisi hai

Joode ki gundhaavat qahr-e khuda, zulfon ki latak phir vaisi hai

Har baat mein us ke garmi hai, har naaz mein us ke shokhi hai

Aamad hai qayaamat chaal bhari chalne ki phadak phir vaisi hai

Mahram hai habaab-e aab-e ravaan sooraj ki kiran hai us pe lipat

Jaali ki ye kurti hai vo balaa gote ki dhanak phir vaisi hai

Vo gaaye to aafat laaye hai sur taal mein leve jaan nikaal

Naach us ka uthaaye sau fitne ghunghroo ki chhanak phir vaisi hai

The naked sword

Her hair’s parting a naked sword, its fragrance is like that

Its styling like the wrath of God, its fall is just like that.

Her every word is packed with heat, her pride is beauteous too

She enters like Armageddon, hips swaying just like that.

The flowing rivers know her well, sunbeams confide in her

Her shirt a diaphanous curse, her bangles clink just like that.

Her siren songs announce my doom, her rhythms take my life

Her dance causes a hundred fights, her anklets chime just like that.

Zauq

It was perhaps the misfortune of Zauq (1789–1854) that he happened to be the contemporary of the greatest poet in the Urdu pantheon, Ghalib. Like Antonio Salieri to Wolfgang Mozart in eighteenth-century Vienna, Zauq was to eclipse Ghalib in the Delhi mushaira circles of the mid-nineteenth century, and was even appointed poet laureate of the Mughal court while Ghalib languished in relative obscurity. But Zauq was smart enough to know genius when he encountered it; perhaps it was his own poetic ability that allowed him a glimpse into Ghalib’s genius, and this aroused feelings of envy in him. The two are known to have had numerous verbal skirmishes. Of course, we now think of Ghalib, not Zauq, as the paradigmatic poet of nineteenth-century Delhi. But despite Ghalib’s aura, Zauq’s poetry continues to enthral. It is supposed that a large portion of his output was lost in the post-1857 chaos, but what is left includes a deevan[1]. Mohammad Husain Azad, the reported compiler of Zauq’s surviving works, provides an extensive biography and critical comments on Zauq’s work in his 1880 magnum opus Aab-e Hayaat[2].

The two ghazals translated here have been performed extensively by renowned singers.[3] The first verse of the second ghazal speaks of the existential angst that had permeated Urdu poetry in the nineteenth century, where the poets began to see themselves as mere puppets in a hostile tableau of history. This sentiment can be linked to some of Mir’s more introspective works too, including some translated in this volume.

1   Laayi hayaat aaye

Laayi hayaat aaye, qazaa le chali, chale

Apni khushi na aaye, na apni khushi chale

Behtar to hai yahi ke na duniya se dil lagaye

Par kya karen jo kaam na be-dillagi chale

Ho umr-e Khizr bhi to kahenge ba waqt-e marg

Ham kya rahe yahaan? Abhi aaye, abhi chale

Duniya ne kis ka raah-e fanaa mein diya hai saath

Tum bhi chale chalo yoon hi jab tak chali chale

Naazaan na ho khirad pe jo hona hai vo hi ho

Danish teri na kuchh meri daanishvari chale

Kam honge is bisaat pe ham jaise bad-khumaar

Jo chaal hum chale vo nihaayat buri chale

Jaate havaa-e shauq mein hain is chaman se Zauq

Apni balaa se baad-e saba ab kahin chale

Life summoned me

Life summoned me, I ascended; death caused my descent

Neither of my will I came, nor of my will I went.

It might be best not to fall for this world’s wily snares

But some tasks just won’t get done without love’s droll consent.

Were we to be granted the age of Khizr[4], we would still

Say, ‘Why leave now? I’ve just come! My passing, I resent!’

This world is indifferent to wayfarers bound for death

You may as well go on till your time here is spent.

Be not vain, knowledge will lose, fate has the upper hand

That which is decreed, none of your wisdom can prevent.

Few are worse than you once you’ve surrendered to the wine

What you did was truly mean, deserved is your torment.

Zauq flows away into the void from this verdant garden

After my death, should I care what spring and flowers had meant?

2   Ab to ghabraa ke ye kahte hain

Ab to ghabraa ke ye kahte hain ke mar jaayenge

Mar ke bhi chain na paayaa to kidhar jaayenge?

Tum ne thahraai agar ghair ke ghar jaane ki

To iraade yahan kuchh aur thahar jaayenge

Hum nahin vo jo karen khoon ka daavaa tujh par

Balke poochhega khuda bhi, to mukar jaayenge

Aag dozakh ki bhi ho jaayegi pani pani

Jab ye aasi araq-e sharm se tar jaayenge

Shola-e aah ko bijli ki tarah chamkaaoon

Par mujhe dar hai, ke vo dekh ke dar jaayenge

Nahin paayegaa nishaan koi hamaara har-giz

Hum jahaan se ravish-e teer-e nazar jaayenge

Zauq, jo madarase ke bigde hue hain mullaah

Unko maikhaane mein le aao, sudhar jaayenge

In fear you say

In fear you say you’d rather die, have you thought though?

If there is no solace in death, where will you go?

Since you wish to hedge bets, visit my rival’s home

My fidelity will change too, it’s quid pro quo.

I’ll not blame you for my murder, even if God

Asks me. Immunity upon you, I’ll bestow.

Hell’s fire will lose its heat, turn into cold water

When we sinners pass wet in shame from head to toe.

I’ll flash the flame of my pain like a lightning bolt

But will its light scare you away? I do not know.

You may search, but will never find a trace of me

I’ll pass from sight like a glance, swift as an arrow.

O Zauq, for mullahs ruined by seminaries

A visit to yonder tavern may be apropos!

Mirza Ghalib

Hoon garmi-e nishaat-e tasavvur se naghma-sanj

Main andaleeb-e gulshan-e na-aafareeda hoon

Behold, I sing in the heated joy of imagination

For I’m the nightingale of the yet uncreated garden.

The name of Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib (1797–1869) rolls off the tongue like a word of gratitude. Indeed, Ghalib is a gift, and he was well aware of it. In his own words, ‘Surma-e muft-nazar hoon, meri qeemat ye hai / Ke rahe chashm-e khareedaar pe ehsan mera’ (‘I am the kohl that adorns the eye, my only price is your grateful sigh’). I am sighing.

What makes Ghalib so unique? Like Shakespeare in the English dramatic tradition, he has now been studied so much that all his poetic output has been subjected to the full glare of scrutiny, and plumbed for metaphorical hints and allegorical subtext. What made his poetry great was its simultaneous accessibility and impenetrability. He could write the most playful verses about mangoes and the most opaque verses about the nature of existence. Consider the first sher of the first ghazal of his deevan. It goes: ‘Naqsh faryadi hai kis ki shokhi-e tehreer ka / Kagazi hai pairahan, har paikar-e tasveer ka.’ The literal translation of this two-liner could be: ‘Whose creativity does the creation complain about? / Every picture wears paper robes.’ This verse lends itself to multiple meanings, and is possibly the most analysed sher in the history of Urdu poetry.[1] Much has been said about the consternation of the poets in the Delhi mushaira circles—who were more used to lighter fare—when they heard such verses. The meaning of this famous verse actually hinges on a few metaphors. The wearing of paper robes refers to an ancient Persian custom in which complainants to the king dressed in paper to signify their unhappiness. Perhaps Ghalib is upset at God for the imperfection of his creation (the human); perhaps he is lauding humanity for its ability to critique God. In my opinion, a good translator would do well to not offer a direct interpretation of the sher, but rather alert the reader to the important elements of metaphor and context—and then promptly get out of the way.

We are also aware of a variety of anecdotes about his life that show him to be a colourful character. One anecdote has it that British soldiers once accosted him in a post-1857 round-up. The soldiers asked him, ‘Are you a Muslim?’ Ghalib replied, ‘I am half-a-Muslim.’ Watching their mystified expressions, he ventured a clarification: ‘I drink liquor, but do not eat pork.’ Likewise, his love for mangoes was well known. Once, his senior friend, a hakim (doctor), was watching Ghalib gorge on mangoes. He espied a donkey, which was rooting about in the garbage, but left a heap of mango peels alone. Hakim Saheb loftily remarked: ‘Look Mirza, even the donkey does not like mangoes.’ Never one to let such an opening go waste, Ghalib reparteed: ‘True, Hakim Saheb, only a donkey would not like mangoes.’

Ghalib’s witty anecdotes disparaging religion would fill pages, as would his sly asides at those in power, including those whom he depended on for financial assistance, and composed ceremonious odes to. His love life was chequered, his morals suspect, his sense of responsibility repugnant, but he was a character worthy of the appellation ‘poet’.

Ghalib has been translated by several people, from language experts to armchair enthusiasts. It is refreshing to see him as the bone of contention among translators of varying temperaments, some of whom take extraordinary liberties with his work (for example, a recent book referred to his ghazals as ‘sonnets’), while others take a more literal approach, choosing not to muck around with genius. I am an agnostic in this debate; I enjoy both kinds of efforts. Likewise, Ghalib has been the subject of relentless scholarly analysis. A friend who is an Urdu scholar estimates that over a thousand PhD theses have been done on Ghalib in India alone, and possibly as many in Pakistan. There are over twenty-five sharahs (explanatory volumes) of his deevan in print, many of which disagree quite violently on the meanings and contexts of his verse. I would recommend that the Ghalib neophyte start instead with a visual introduction—by watching Naseeruddin Shah portray him in Gulzar’s magnificent TV serial.[2]

In deference to Ghalib’s stature, I beg your indulgence for having chosen to translate five ghazals. I have translated only the first two rhythmically, choosing to let Ghalib’s words speak for themselves in the other three without too much wordsmithing on my part. These ghazals have all been performed multiple times by a veritable pantheon of singers, and many performances are available in the public domain.[3]

1   Aah ko chaahiye

Aah ko chaahiye ek umr asar hone tak

Kaun jeeta hai teri zulf ke sar hone tak?

Daam-e har mauj mein hai halqaa-e sadkaam-e nahang

Dekhen kya guzre hai qatre pe gohar hone tak

Aashiqi sabr-talab aur tamanna betaab

Dil ka kya rang karoon khoon-e jigar hone tak

Hum ne maana ke taghaaful na karoge lekin

Khaak ho jaayenge hum tum ko khabar hone tak

Partav-e khur se hai shabnam ko fanaa ki taaleem

Main bhi hoon ek inaayat ki nazar hone tak

Ek nazar besh nahin fursat-e hasti ghaafil

Garmi-e bazm hai ek raqs-e sharar hone tak

Gham-e hasti ka, Asad, kis se ho juz marg ilaaj

Shama har rang mein jalti hai sahar hone tak

A cry needs

For a cry to lead to redress, it often takes an age

Who can remain alive while you with your stray curls engage?

Each wave of the ocean harbours a hundred crocodiles

What lies in store before the drop achieves a pearly stage[4]?

Love counsels patience while passion betrays its anxiety

How should I paint my bloodied heart while these duellists rage?

I know that you won’t shrink from familiarity but

Before you hear of my sad plight, I would have died off-stage

The new sunbeam pronounces imminent death upon dewdrops

I too await the gaze that will both kill and assuage

A mere glance is sufficient for you to complete your task

A spark needs but a moment to kindle a fire’s rage

What is the cure to life’s sorrow save death, my dear Asad?

The taper burns all night, awaits the dawn to be upstaged.

2   Bas ke dushwaar hai

Bas ke dushwaar hai har kaam ka aasaan hona

Aadmi ko bhi mayassar nahin insan hona

Ishrat-e qatlgah-e ahl-e tamanna mat poochh

Eed-e nazaara hai shamsheer kaa uriyaan hona

Ki mere qatl ke baad us ne jafa se tauba

Hai us zood-pashemaan ka pashemaan hona

Haif us chaar-girah kapde ki qismat, Ghalib

Jis ki qismat mein ho aashiq ka garebaan hona

It’s impossible

It’s impossible for all tasks to be facile, that’s all

People find it so tough to answer humanity’s call.

Measure not the desire for death in the passionate

The sight of the killer’s sword presages the festival.[5]

After killing me, my tormentor forswore all murder

That swift repenter was contrite and rueful, I recall.[6]

Spare a thought for the ill-fated cloth of four measures that

Was destined to become a lover’s shirt, tunic or shawl.[7]

3   Sab kahaan? kuchh

Sab kahaan? Kuchh laala-o-gul mein numaayaan ho gai’n

Khaak mein kya sooratein hongi ki pinhaan ho gai’n

Yaad thi hum ko bhi ranga rang bazm-aaraaiyan

Lekin ab naqsh-o-nigaar-e taaq-e nisyaan ho gai’n

Thi banaatun-naash-e gardoon din ko parde mein nihaan

Shab ko un ke ji mein kya aaya ki uriyan ho gai’n

Joo-e khoon aankhon se bahne do ke hai shaam-e firaaq

Main ye samjhoonga ke shamen do farozaan ho gai’n

Neend uski hai, dimaagh uska hai, raatein uski hain

Teri zulfein jiske baazoo par pareshaan ho gai’n

Main chaman mein kya gaya, goya dabistan khul gaya

Bulbulen sun kar mere naale, ghazal-khwaan ho gai’n

Hum muvahhid hain, hamaara kaish hai tark-e rusoom

Millaten jab mit gai’n, ajzaa-e eemaan ho gai’n

Ranj se khoogar hua insaan to mit jaataa hai ranj

Mushkilen mujh par padi itni ke aasaan ho gai’n

Yoon hi gar rota raha Ghalib, to ae ahl-e jahaan

Dekhna in bastiyon ko tum, ke veeraan ho gai’n

Not all, merely a few[8]

Not all, merely a few were celebrated in tulips and roses

What faces there must have been, which remain hidden in dust?

I remembered for a long time those colourful decorations

But now they are consigned to the shelf of forgotten memories.

The starry beauties of the constellation stayed hidden in the mist of the day

At night, wonder what came over them, they revealed themselves, disrobed[9].

Blood flows from my eyes; let it, for it’s the night of separation

I will think of my burning eyes as two candles that were thus lit.

Sleep, and wisdom, and the nights all belong to that one

On whose shoulder you choose to rest, with your tresses scattered.

As I entered the garden, it was like school had commenced

The nightingales became poets, when they heard me declaim.[10]

I believe in Oneness, the disavowal of rituals is my creed

For when religions fade away, they will become part of true faith.

When one makes friends with grief, it miraculously

disappears

I faced so many privations, that they eventually

became facile.

If Ghalib keeps up his lament, mark my words O people

These neighbourhoods of yours will turn into wilderness.

4   Hazaaron khwaahishein aisi

Hazaaron khwaahishein aisi ke har khwaahish pe dam nikle

Bahut nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle

Nikalna khuld se Aadam ka sunte aaye hain lekin

Bahut be-aabroo ho kar tere kooche se ham nikle

Magar likhvaaye koi us ko khat to hum se likhvaaye

Hui subh aur ghar se kaan par rakh kar qalam nikle

Mohabbat mein nahin hai farq jeene aur marne ka

Usi ko dekh kar jeete hain jis kaafir pe dam nikle

Khuda ke vaaste parda na Kaabe se uthaa, zaalim

Kahin aisa na ho yaan bhi vahi kaafir sanam nikle

Kahaan maikhaane ka darvaza, Ghalib, aur kahaan vaaiz

Par itnaa jaante hain kal vo jaata thha, ke hum nikle

Thousands of desires

Thousands of desires, and each one worth dying for

Many of my desires were fulfilled, but yet, I feel unrequited.

We have heard often of the expulsion of Adam from Eden

But that is nothing compared to my shamed exit from your street.

If anyone wishes to write my love a letter, then I am available

Every morning, I set out, with a pen tucked behind my ear.[11]

In love, there is no difference between living and dying

For I find my will to live by gazing at the infidel who kills me.[12]

For God’s sake, keep the black cloth on the Kaaba

I do not want to find that it harbours yet another infidel idol.[13]

Whither the tavern door, Ghalib, and whither the holy man?

But I swear, as I left the winehouse last night, I saw him enter.

5   Baazeecha-e atfaal

Baazeecha-e atfaal hai duniya mere aage

Hota hai shab-o-roz tamaasha mere aage

Hota hai nihan gard mein sehraa mere hote

Ghista hai jabeen khaak pe dariya mere aage

Mat poochh ke kya haal hai mera tere peechhe

Tu dekh ke kya rang hai tera mere aage

Eemaan mujhe roke hai jo khenche hai mujhe kufr

Kaabaa mere peechhe hai, kaleesa mere aage

Go haath ko jumbish nahin aankhon mein to dam hai

Rehne do abhi saaghar-o-meenaa mere aage

Hum-pesha-o-hum-masharab-o-humraaz hai meraa

Ghalib ko buraa kyon kaho achhaa mere aage

The play of children

The world to me is no more than a play of children

This cheap spectacle occurs every day in front of me.

[For the dust my wandering raises] the desert acknowledges my superiority

[For the volume of my tears] the sea acknowledges me as its master.[14]

Ask not how I am doing in your absence

Instead, watch your colour in my presence.[15]

Faith compels me to stop, while infidelity pulls me forward

I vacillate thus, between the Kaaba and the church.

Admittedly, my hands have ceased to move, but my eyes still have strength

Keep the cask and the wine glass in front of me.[16]

He shares my profession, my wine, and also my secrets

And you dare denounce ‘Ghalib’ in front of me!

Momin

It is reported that when Ghalib heard Momin Khan Momin’s (1800–51) sher that went ‘Tum mere paas hote ho goya / Jab koi doosra nahi hota’ (‘It is as if you are close to me / When there is nobody else’), he offered an extraordinary trade: his entire deevan for that one couplet. I hope Ghalib was not serious, but if he was, I’d recommend Momin run, not walk, to accept the trade! Nevertheless, it is good to be appreciated thus by the master. Many of Momin’s verses have been elevated to the status of metaphor in standard Urdu usage. For example, on the persisitence of habit: ‘Umr saari to kati ishq-e butaan mein, Momin, / Aakhri waqt mein kya khaak musalmaan honge’ (‘I have spent my life loving idols, Momin, / On my deathbed, I am loath to accept Islam’).

A hakim by profession, Momin also dabbled in mathematics, was a musician, and was known to have played a mean game of chess. His epicurean life unfortunately ended in an ultra-religious phase, which must have made some of his naughtier verses very sad.

I include here what is perhaps the best-known ghazal by Momin: ‘Vo jo hum mein tum mein qaraar thha’.[1]

Vo jo hum mein tum mein qaraar thha

Vo jo hum mein tum mein qaraar thha, tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho

Vahi yaani vaada nibaah ka tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho

Vo naye gile vo shikaayaten, vo maze maze ki hikaayaten

Vo har ek baat pe roothna tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho

Koi baat aisi agar hui jo tumhaare ji ko buri lagi

To bayan se pahle hi bhoolna tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho

Suno zikr hai kai saal kaa, koi vaadaa mujh se tha aap ka

Vo nibaahne kaa to zikr kya, tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho

Kabhi hum mein tum mein bhi chaah thi, kabhi hum se tum se bhi raah thi

Kabhi hum bhi tum bhi thhe aashna, tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho

Vo bigadnaa vasl ki raat kaa, vo na maan-na kisi baat ka

Vo nahin nahin ki har-aan adaa, tumhe yaad ho ki na yaad ho

Jise aap ginte thhe aashnaa, jise aap kehte thhe baavafaa

Main vahi hoon Momin-e mubtalaa tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho

That familiarity between us

That familiarity between us

You may remember perhaps, perhaps not

Those days we made each other promises

You may remember perhaps, perhaps not.

Your annoyed reproach at matters minor

They led me to label you a whiner

At every moment, your feigned distress

You may remember perhaps, perhaps not.

Perchance if something had really hurt you

You would forget in an instant, I knew

Your wonderful forgiving affections thus

You may remember perhaps, perhaps not.

I recall a promise you made years ago

It remains unfulfilled, don’t you know?

Is this matter unfit for us to discuss?

You may remember perhaps, perhaps not.

Your anger at me on our union right

When you perceived my actions as a slight

The words ‘no, no’ the way I saw you stress

You may remember perhaps, perhaps not.

The one you found trustworthy to the end

The one you always counted a friend

I remain that Momin, I do profess

You may remember perhaps, perhaps not.

Dagh Dehlavi

Nawab Mirza Khan is hardly a household name among Urdu enthusiasts, but the Urdu-daans of Delhi and Hyderabad bare their fangs when they dispute the affiliations of Dagh (1831–1905), who lived much of his life in Delhi but chose to move south after the 1857 upheaval and its aftermath. Dagh wrote many of his famous ghazals after he moved southward[1], and his grave near the Yusufain Dargah is still a site of pilgrimage to Hyderabadis. He is most notably invoked by oldies when they quote the first line of the following sher as they sit down: ‘Hazrat-e Dagh jahaan baith gaye, baith gaye / Aur honge teri mehfil se nikalne vale’ (‘Where Sir Dagh sits, he stays seated / There may be others who choose to exit your presence’).

The two ghazals I have chosen to translate are among his more popular ones.[2]

1   Ji jaanta hai

Lutf vo ishq mein paaye hain ke ji jaanta hai

Ranj bhi, taane uthaaye hain ke ji jaanta hai

Jo zamaane ke sitam hain vo zamaana jaane

Tu ne dil itne dukhaaye hain ke ji jaanta hai

Tum nahin jaante ab tak ye tumhaare andaz

Vo mere dil mein samaaye hain ke ji jaanta hai

Inhin qadmon ne tumhaare, inhin qadamon ki qasam

Khaak mein itne milaaye hain ke ji jaanta hai

Dosti mein teri dar-parda hamaare dushman

Is qadar apne paraaye hain ke ji jaanta hai

Only the heart knows

Such pleasure in love I have found, only the heart knows

Sometimes taunts, sometimes grief profound, only the heart knows.

Let us leave time alone to deal with its tyrannies

Of the souls that you have drowned, only the heart knows.

You do not know this yet but your careless flirtations

In my earnest mind, abound; only the heart knows.

Your feckless feet, I swear on your cavalier feet

Many they have into dust ground, only the heart knows.

The distinction between friend and foe is no longer clear

Such taxonomies do confound, only the heart knows.

2   Sabaq aisa

Sabaq aisa padha diya tune

Dil se sab kuchh bhula diya tu ne

Hum nikamme hue zamaane mein

Kaam aisa sikha diya tu ne

Laakh dene ka ek dena hai

Dil-e be-mudda diya tu ne

Be-talab jo mila mila mujhko

Be gharaz jo diya diya tu ne

Kahin mushtaq se hijab hua

Kahin parda utha diya tu ne

Mit gaye dil se naqsh-e baatil sab

Naqsha apna jama diya tu ne

Dagh ko kaun dene waala thha?

Jo diya, ai khuda diya tu ne.

Such a lesson

Indeed, such a lesson you have taught

All previous knowledge my heart forgot.

I’ve been rendered useless to the world

Such fruits your feckless labours have wrought.

Priceless is the gift that you gave me

A content heart that no longer sought.

I received without seeking bounties

You gave me with future motives, naught.

Sometimes you gave, veiled and secretly

Sometimes you were obvious, a lot.

Your visage became so clear, that I

Forgot that your face was with evil fraught

Who else will give with such great elan?

Who else but God, that’s what ‘Dagh’ thought.

Maulana Hali

When he was a young poet, Maulana Altaf Husain Hali (1837–1914) recited his work in front of Ghalib, who is said to have approved. But 1857 intervened, and he returned from Delhi to Panipat. Eventually, he made the acquaintance of Sayyid Ahmad Khan and, at his behest, went about composing an epic poem Musaddas-e Madd-o Jazr-e Islam (A Musaddas on the Ebb and Flow of Islam). The poem was published in 1879, and is now known simply as Musaddas-e Hali. It critiques the Muslims of Hali’s era as decadent when compared to the glory of Islamic history; however, despite this self-reflexivity, it is not difficult to see how such narratives presented a defensive posture, given the ascendency of the West and the ‘victory’ of the colonists (Ashis Nandy reflects about similar tendencies in Swami Vivekananda’s thought in his book The Intimate Enemy). Depending on one’s perspective, it is ironic or fitting to see these ideas being expressed by a poet with the takhallus ‘Hali’ (meaning ‘of the present’). One may mention in passing that Hali wrote perhaps the first biography of Ghalib, titled Yaadgaar-e Ghalib. His Muqaddama-e Sher-o-Shairi (Exegesis on Poems and Poetry) remains one of the earliest works of literary criticism in Urdu.

In this collection, I am translating one of his more famous ghazals.

Hai justaju

Hai justaju ke khoob se hai khoobtar kahaan

Ab dekhiye thaharti hai jaa kar nazar kahaan

Yaarab is ikhtilaat ka anjaam ho ba-khair

Tha us ko hum se rabt, magar is qadar kahaan

Ek umr chaahiye ke gawaaraa ho naish-e ishq

Rakhhi hai aaj lazzat-e zakhm-e jigar kahaan

Hum jis pe mar rahe hain vo hai baat hi kuchh aur

Aalam mein tujh se laakh sahi, tu magar kahaan

Hoti nahin qubool dua tark-e ishq ki

Dil chaahta na ho to zuban mein asar kahaan

Hali, nishaat-e naghma-o-mai dhoondte ho ab

Aaye ho waqt-e subh, rahe raat bhar kahaan

My ambition

To be better than the best, that is my ambition

Let us see where my sight rests, ends its exploration

O God, I pray this intimacy ends happily

Love was warm before, but this is fiery ignition

Verily, it takes an age to get used to love’s pain

The wounded heart slowly makes friends with its condition

Thus far I had been taken in by a strange visage

I want you, not someone like you, an apparition

My prayer that love should vanish remains unanswered

For the heart does not back up the tongue’s composition

Hali arrives in the morn seeking wine and song

Whose company caused you to miss the night’s edition?

Akbar Allahabadi

Syed Akbar Husain, aka Akbar Allahabadi (1846–1921), was a great satirist who unfortunately sobered down and became serious, mystical and religious (in other words, boring) in his later days. I enjoy his earlier poems; they are elaborate jokes set to verse. His later poetry exhibits a more classical mindset, which, while competent, is not as delightful. He was part of a lively debate among the Urduwalas of the late nineteenth century, and opposed his peers like Sir Sayyid for their allegiance to Western mores. Even his conservatism was imbued with wit; opposing the practice of women renouncing the veil, he composed the following qataa:

Be-parda kal jo aayi nazar chand beebiyaan

Akbar zameen mein ghairat-e qaumi se gadh gaya

Poochha jo main ne aap ka parda, vo kya hua?

Kehne lageen ke aql pe mardon ke padh gaya.

Yesterday, as some bareheaded ladies walked down the lane

Akbar bemoaned his culture with a sense of shame and pain

I asked politely, ‘Ladies, how come you have lost your veil?’

Said they, ‘That opaque cloth resides now on our menfolk’s brain.’

I have translated two poems below. The first is a classical ghazal that was sung by the maestro K.L. Saigal, while the second is a comic poem about an imaginary dialogue between Majnu and Laila’s mother. The social criticism of indolent Indians, especially Muslims, is difficult to miss. Muslim culture of a certain social class tended to devalue labour and trade, and Akbar provides an ironic critique of this. I have translated the second verse in jaunty language to preserve its affect.

1   Duniya mein hoon

Duniya mein hoon duniya ka talabgaar nahin hoon

Bazaar se guzra hoon, kharidaar nahin hoon

Zindaa hoon magar zeest ki lazzat nahin baaqi

Har-chand ke hoon hosh mein, hoshiyaar nahin hoon

Is khaanaa-e hasti se guzar jaaoonga be-laus

Saayaa hoon faqat naqsh-ba deevaar nahin hoon

Afsurda hoon ibrat se dava ki nahin haajat

Gham ka mujhe ye zof hai beemar nahin hoon

Vo gul hoon khizaan ne jise barbaad kiya hai

Uljhoon kisi daaman se main vo khaar nahin hoon

Yaarab mujhe mahfooz rakh us but ke sitam se

Main us ki inaayat ka talab-gaar nahin hoon

Afsurdagi-o-zauf ki kuchh had nahin, Akbar

Kaafir ke muqaabil mein bhi deen-daar nahin hoon

I’m in this world

I’m in this world but I’m not consumed by its desire

I did pass by the market, but I am no customer

I am alive, but life to me is bereft of pleasure

I am smart but don’t call me devious. That is a slur

From this house that represents life I will exit unspoiled

I am no imprint on the wall, but a shadow, a blur

My conscience is enough for me, I need no sage advice

I’m sick with grief but I’m not ill, no potions for me, sir

I am the flower that has been done in by autumn’s blight

To be the thorn that rends clothes, such a life I don’t prefer

O God, keep me safe from the tyranny of that idol

I am not desirous of the largesse that it might confer

My sadness and self-abasement have no limits, Akbar

I’ve less faith than the infidel, with this you must concur

2   Laila ki maa aur majnu

Khudahafiz musalmanon ka Akbar

Mujhe to un ki khush-haali se hai yaas

Yeh ashiq shahid-e maqsood ki hein

Na jaayenge, wa lekin sayi ke paas

Sunaoon tum ko ek farzi lateefa

Kiya hai jis ko main ne zeb-e qirtaas

Kaha Majnu se ye Laila ki maa ne

Ke ‘Beta, tu agar kar le MA pass

‘To fauran byaah doon Laila ko tujh se

Bila diqqat main ban jaaoon teri saas’

Kaha Majnun ne ‘Ye achhi sunaai!

Kuja aashiq, kuja college ki bakvaas

‘Badi bee, aap ko kya ho gaya hai

Hiran pe laadi jaati hai kahin ghaas?

‘Ye achhi qadr-daani aap ne ki

Mujhe samjha hai koi Harcharan Das?

‘Yehi thhehri jo shart-e vasl-e Laila

To istefa mera ba hasrat-o-yaas.’

Laila’s mother and majnu

May Allah keep all Muslims in his shelter, O Akbar

I pray for their happiness and their well-being as a rule

They love their Prophet who bore witness to his Creator

They will go to their happy fate, and drink from heaven’s pool

I will share with you an imagined tale for your pleasure

That I have composed, I’m sure you’ll find it cool

Said Laila’s mother to Majnu, the suffering paramour

‘Dear son, all you have to do is to go to graduate school

‘Then I will immediately accept you as my son-in-law

And be your mom-in-law and stop treating you like a ghoul’

Majnu started: ‘Hey wait a sec, I don’t think I heard right

A Romeo and higher studies? Don’t take me for a fool

‘You’ve got it all wrong, old lady, why don’t you watch your mouth

A deer is no beast of burden, don’t load me like a mule

‘This is a strange way to treat guests, have you no manners, ma’am?

I am no Harcharan Das, your proposal’s rather cruel

‘If this is the condition of union with your daughter

Please accept my resignation, I’m sad, but I’m no tool.’

Mohammed Iqbal

What can I say about Allama Iqbal (1877–1938) that has not been repeated a million times before? A beautiful website devoted to him is maintained by the Iqbal Academy Pakistan[1], and he has his own YouTube channel as well. V.G. Kiernan’s 1955 book of translations of his poetry has been reissued.[2] A listing of books devoted to him would be far too immense a task to do justice to; indeed, a few bibliographies of books on Iqbal have been published as books in their own right.

But to scratch that formidable surface that is the persona of the ‘Poet of the East’, let us say that he had a doctorate in philosophy from the University of Heidelberg, that he wrote the most amazing poems in a language that was not his mother tongue, and that when he died in 1938, his funeral was attended by 70,000 people, which included colonialists and freedom fighters, the atheists of the PWA and the fundamentalists of the Ahl-e Hadees, Indian nationalists and Muslim Leaguers, reflecting his ability to defy categorization. I personally find Iqbal to be much more of a progressive; his engagement with Islam is critical and borderline heretical. His protagonist asserts selfhood against God in Shikva, his long musaddas, often mocking the creator. One of my brother’s favourite poems is Iqbal’s ‘Gibreel aur Iblees’ (Gabriel and Satan) where Lucifer (Iblees) mocks Gabriel for his blind faith, while proudly asserting that it is his disobedience to God that has imbued the story of creation with life.[3]

Here, I have translated two poems, the first as free verse and the second more rhythmically. The first is a ghazal, which was sung beautifully by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. The second, titled ‘Farmaan-e Khuda Farishton se’ (God’s Command to the Angels), is from Iqbal’s book Baal-e Gibreel (Gabriel’s Wing), and is a response by God to Lenin. The previous poem in that collection is called ‘Lenin, Khuda ke Huzoor Mein’ (Lenin in God’s Presence), where Lenin has complained to God about injustice. Such an imaginary dialogue is vintage Iqbal, in the vein of the aforementioned Shikva and ‘Gibreel aur Iblees’. Lenin holds his ground, accusing God of being ineffectual, while God is not upset at all with Lenin’s impertinence. Instead, in response to the diatribe, He calls upon His angels to effect a few changes in the organization of the world at large. Wouldn’t you have liked to be a fly on the wall during that exchange? Thanks to Iqbal, you were.

1   Kabhi ai haqeeqat-e muntazar

Kabhi ai haqeeqat-e muntazar, nazar aa libaas-e majaz mein

Ke hazaaron sajde tadap rahe hain meri jabeen-e niyaaz mein

Tu bachaa bachaa ke na rakh ise, teraa aaina hai vo aaina

Ke shikasta ho to azeez-tar, hai nigaah-e aaina-saaz mein

Na kaheen jahaan mein amaan mili, jo amaan mili to kahaan mili

Mere jurm-e khaanaa kharaab ko, tere afv-e banda-navaaz mein

Na vo ishq mein rahi garmiyaan, na vo husn mein rahin shokhiyaan

Na vo Ghazanavi mein tadap rahi, na vo kham hai zulf-e Ayaaz mein

Jo main sar-ba-sajda hua kabhi to zameen se aane lagi sadaa

Tera dil to hai sanam-aashna, tujhe kya milega namaaz mein

For once, o long-sought truth

For once, O long-sought truth, appear before me, in understood metaphor

For a thousand obeisances wait in my forehead, awaiting consummation

Do not keep your heart so safe, for it is such a mirror

That it increases in value only after it has been shattered

I found no solace in this world, except now, when

My unforgivable sin was housed by your infinite forgiveness

Neither does love have that heat any more, nor beauty the allure

Neither has Ghazni that passion, nor Ayaz the beauty[4]

When I prostrated my head, a voice arose from the earth

Your heart loves but an idol, what will you find in Allah’s prayer?

2   Farman-e khuda (Farishton se)

Uthho meri duniya ke ghareebon ko jagaa do

Kaakh-e umaraa ke dar-o-deevaar hila do

Garmaao ghulaamon ka lahu soz-e yaqin se

Kunjishk-e phiromaayaa ko shaaheen se lada do

Sultaani-e jamhoor ka aata hai zamaana

Jo naqsh-e kuhan tum ko nazar aaye mita do

Jis khet se dah-qaan ko mayassar nahin rozi

Us khet ke har khosha-e gandum ko jala do

Kyon khaaliq-o-makhlooq mein haayal rahen parde

Peeraan-e kaleesa ko kaleesa se hata do

Main naakhush-o-bezaar hoon marmar ke silon se

Mere liye mitti kaa haram aur bana do

Tahzeeb-e naveen kaar-gah-e sheesha-garaan hai

Aadab-e junoon shaayar-e mashriq ko sikha do

God’s bidding to the Angels

Go bid the wretched of my earth to awake

The foundations of elite palaces should quake

Roil the blood of slaves with the pain of belief

Sparrows should challenge eagles, make no mistake

The moment of democracy is at hand

Signs of the old order I bid thee to break

Burn every ear of wheat of that field from which

The farmer is not permitted to partake

Distance between God and humans is futile

Remove the bishops from the church; they are fake

Build me a simple house with sand, for I hate

Those marble edifices. That’s a mistake.

The new world is but a brittle glass palace

Poet of the East, learn madness and heartache.

Brij Narain Chakbast

Chakbast (1882–1926) was one of the foremost lawyers of Lucknow in the early twentieth century. A veteran of the freedom movement, he wrote eloquently in support of ‘home rule’, as independence was termed in those days. His first book, titled Subh-e Watan (Morning in the Homeland), was published in 1931, five years after his death. He wrote in a variety of formats, including the ghazal. The sher from his collection that became most famous was:

Zindagi kya hai anasir mein zahur-e tarteeb

Maut kya hai inhi ajza ka pareshan hona

Life,

When elements become ordered, that’s all

Death,

But a moment when into chaos they fall

Chakbast would, however, achieve immortality for his Ramayan poems. He wrote three, each a masterpiece in the musaddas tradition. They were ‘Ramayan ka Ek Scene’ (‘A Scene from the Ramayana’), ‘Maa ka Javaab’ (‘The Mother’s Response’), and ‘Vanvaas par Ayodhya Nagri ki Haalat’ (‘The State of Ayodhya during the Exile’).[1] I have translated an excerpt from ‘Ramayan ka Ek Scene’ that depicts the moment Lord Rama, who has been banished from Ayodhya for fourteen years, takes his final leave of his mother Kausalya.

Ramayan ka ek scene[2]

Rukhsat hua vo baap se le kar khuda ka naam

Raah-e vafaa ki manzil-e awwal hui tamaam

Manzoor tha jo maa ki ziyaarat ka intezaam

Daaman se ashk pochh ke dil se kiya kalaam

Izhaar-e bekasi se sitam hoga aur bhi

Dekha hamen udaas to gham hoga aur bhi

Dil ko sambhaalta hua aakhir vo nau-nehaal

Khaamosh maa ke paas gaya surat-e khayaal

Dekha to ek dar mein hai baithi vo khasta haal

Sakta sa ho gaya hai, ye hai shiddat-e malaal

Tan mein lahoo ka naam nahin, zard rang hai

Goya bashar nahin, koi tasveer-e sang hai

Kya jaane kis khayaal mein gum thi vo begunaah

Noor-e nazar pe deeda-e hasrat se ki nigaah

Jumbish hui labon ko, bhari ek sard aah

Li gosha haai chashm se ashkon ne rukh ki raah

Chehre ka rang haalat-e dil kholne laga

Har moo-e tan zaban ki tarah bolne laga

Ro kar kaha; khamosh khade kyon ho meri jaan?

Main jaanti hoon, kis liye aaye ho tum yahaan

Sab ki khushi yahi hai tu sahra ko ho rawaan

Lekin main apne moonh se na hargiz kahoongi ‘haan’

Kis tarah ban mein aankh ke taare ko bhej doon?

Jogi bana ke raaj dulaare ko bhej doon?

Duniya ka ho gaya hai ye kaisa lahoo safed?

Andha kiye hue hai zar-o-maal ki ummed

Anjaam kya hai? Koi nahin jaanta ye bhed

Soche bashar, to jism ho larzaan misaal-e baid

Likkhi hai kya hayaat-e abad in ke waaste?

Phaila rahe hain jaal ye kis din ke waaste?

Leti kisi faqeer ke ghar mein agar janam

Hota na meri jaan ko samaan ye baham

Dasta na saanp ban ke mujhe shaukat-o-hasham

Tum mere laal, thhe mujhe kis saltanat se kam?

Main khush hoon, phoonk de koi is takht-o-taaj ko

Tum hi nahin, to aag lagaaoongi raaj ko

Sun kar zaban se maa ki ye faryaad dard khez

Us khasta jaan ke dil pe chali gham ki tegh-e tez

Aalam ye tha qareeb, ke aankhen hon ashk rez

Lekin hazaar zabt se rone se ki gurez

Socha yehi, ke jaan se bekas guzar na jaaye

Nashaad hum ko dekh ke maa aur mar na jaaye

Phir arz ki ye maadar-e nashaad ke huzoor

Mayoos kyon hain aap? Alam ka hai kyon wufoor?

Sadma ye shaaq aalam-e peeri mein hai zaroor

Lekin na dil se keejiye sabr-o-qaraar door

Shayad khizaan se shakl ayaan ho bahaar ki

Kuchh maslahat isi mein ho parwardigaar ki

A scene from the Ramayana

He said goodbye to his father taking the name of God

The first step on fidelity’s tough path his feet had trod

Now for a meeting with his mother he began to plod

Wiping his tears he spoke inward squaring his shoulders broad

‘I dare not let her see my pain; it will cause her more grief

Better I show a smiling face that may give her relief.’

Thus steeling his sad heart, the youth began to move at last

He reached but found her silent, lost in her own thoughts, downcast

Alone in a doorway, though contemplating something vast

He’d braced for tears but was rendered dumbstruck by this contrast

Her body appeared bloodless, her colour yellow and pale

As if she was no human form but a stone statue, frail

Wonder what passed through the mind of that woman innocent

She cast a glance at her scion, her gaze like a lament

Her lips quivered as if she would give voice to her torment

Finally grief moved from her heart and to her eyes it went

The colour of her face began to portray her heart’s plight

Her grief became a tongue itself, and commenced to recite

With weeping eyes she asked her son, ‘Why don’t you speak your mind?

I know what errand brings you here, what puts you in a bind

“Everyone will be happy if I leave,” you have divined

But I will never permit you to go, let me remind

You that you are my shining star, I’ll never let you go

Like a yogi to the forest, I must say no, no, no.

‘Has this world lost its loyalty, why has our blood turned white?

Has the desire for wealth and fame caused us to lose our sight?

How will this sorry story end? It will only cause blight

I quiver like a reed when I imagine my son’s plight

My question is to those people who are planning this strife

Do they plan to live forever? Don’t they fear the afterlife?

‘Had I been born a beggar’s girl, this would not be my fate

My life wouldn’t have been subject to this deplorable state

The snake of false prestige would not have bitten me with such hate

You are my son, were you to me less than a kingdom great?

I’d be happy were someone to set fire to this throne and crown

If you leave me, watch me if I don’t burn this kingdom down.’

When the brave prince heard all at once his mother’s piteous words

His heart felt as if it had been struck by a sword or worse

The moment was at hand when eyes would feel tears of remorse

But slowly in a level voice he began to converse

For he thought, she may not survive unless he held his peace

‘My emotions will only cause her distress to increase.’

Then slowly he ventured to speak, and said, ‘My mother dear

Please do control yourself, indeed for your well-being, I fear

I understand your sadness at this parting is severe

But do summon some patience, and this thought may bring some cheer

Perhaps this autumn is the way a new spring to instil

Maybe this is an expression of God’s mysterious will.’

Jigar Moradabadi

Jigar, ab maikade mein aa gaye ho to munaasib hai

Agar chupke se tum pee lo, musalmaan kaun dekhega?

Now that you are already in the tavern

It does behove you to indulge, dear Jigar

Quickly have a drink away from gazes stern

Here you are safe from the Muslim naysayer.

Ali Sikandar ‘Jigar’ Moradabadi (1890–1960) was an optician by trade. His work inaugurated the move of Urdu poetry toward the new century, which began as the century of servitude. Jigar’s poetry reflects, perhaps, the initial response of Urdu poets—denial. His poetry retained the conventions of an earlier era, and he is best known for his exuberance in ghazals. The task of imbuing poetry with the sobering realism of its material and historical reality would be left to others, but Jigar continued to showcase his craft alongside them. His remarkable career continued right down to Independence and after. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award by the Government of India in 1958, shortly before his death. He is also known to have mentored Majrooh Sultanpuri in his initial career.

The ghazal I have translated was sung by Abida Parveen, among others, and boasts two of the more popular shers of the twentieth century: the ones that begin ‘Kya husn ne samjha hai’ and ‘Ye ishq nahin aasaan’.

Ek lafz-e mohabbat

Ek lafz-e mohabbat ka, adna sa fasaana hai

Simte to dil-e aashiq, phaile to zamaana hai

Ye kis ka tasavvur hai, ye kis ka fasaana hai?

Jo ashk hai aankhon mein, tasbeeh ka daana hai

Hum ishq ke maaron ka itna hi fasaana hai

Rone ko nahin koi, hansne ko zamaana hai

Vo aur vafaa-dushman? Maanenge na maana hai

Sab dil ki sharaarat hai, aankhon ka bahaana hai

Kya husn ne samjha hai, kya ishq ne jaana hai

Hum khaak-nasheenon ki thokar mein zamaana hai

Vo husn-o-jamaal un ka ye ishq-o-shabaab apna

Jeene ki tamanna hai, marne ka zamaana hai

Ya vo thhe khafaa hum se, ya hum thhe khafaa un se

Kal un ka zamaana thha aaj apna zamaana hai

Ashkon ke tabassum mein, aahon ke tarannum mein

Maasoom mohabbat ka maasoom fasaana hai

Ye ishq nahin aasaan, itnaa to samajh leeje

Ek aag kaa dariya hai, aur doob ke jaana hai

Aansoo to bahut se hain, aankhon mein Jigar lekin

Bundh jaaye so moti hai, beh jaaye so daana hai

One word, love

One word—love; when it shrinks, it can fit in a lover’s heart

If it expands it is the whole and this world just a part

Whose imagination made a fable of this story?

Each teardrop in the eye is a bead of the rosary

We love-afflicted souls are cursed; the world enjoys our smile

This is our plight: if we cry, no one wants to stay awhile

Accuse not my love of infidelity! Not a chance!

Don’t make much of mischievous eyes, and the heart’s flirty glance

What has beauty understood, and what secrets has love known?

That the world is a captive of us dust-dwellers alone

His[1] beauty and grace against my love and youth collide

I want to live but truly it were better that I died

Was she unhappy with me, or was I upset with her?

The last time she was ascendant; this time is mine for sure

In the smile of teary eyes and in the rhythm of sighs

An innocent saga of innocent love, here it lies

It is not that easy to love, think before you desire

Do you have the gumption to swim across a sea of fire?

I have many tears in my eyes, what will become of them?

Either they’ll be lost or, Jigar, they’ll become pearls and gems.

Firaaq Gorakhpuri

Raghupati Sahay Firaaq Gorakhpuri (1896–1982) was one of the most prolific poets of his time. A professor of English at Allahabad University, he achieved the status of an organic intellectual, infusing his work with sensuality, and writing spiritedly in support of alternative sexualities in an atmosphere of heteronormativity. His 1936 article in defence of homosexual love and its depiction in the ghazal remains a classic, where he defiantly describes the depiction of homosexuality in poetry across time and cultures in the works of Sappho and Socrates, Saadi and Hafiz, Shakespeare and Whitman.[1] His well-known ghazal on forbidden and furtive love begins thus: ‘Zara visaal ke baad aaina to dekh ai dost, / Tere Jamaal ki dosheezagi nazar aayi’ (‘Look in the mirror after our union, friend / How your beauty has acquired a virgin innocence’).

A fierce polemicist and a character who did not need

any assistance in blowing his own trumpet, Firaaq wrote:

‘Aane wali naslein tum par rashk karegi, hum-asro / Jab tum un se kahoge ye, hum ne Firaaq ko dekha thha’ (‘Future generations will envy you, my dear peers / When you say unto them, I had seen Firaaq’). Firaaq was also a member of the Progressive Writers’ Association, a spirited anti-colonialist, and enjoyed the confidence of Nehru and other early Congress functionaries.

His works appear in a number of anthologies, most published in the 1940s (the best known are Shola-e Saaz [The Fire of Rhythm], 1945, and Shabnamistan [Land of Dew], 1947). His essays were compiled in a book titled Andaze (Hunches). Firaaq won the Jnanpith Award (India’s highest literary honour) in 1969, and remained the only Urdu poet Jnanpith awardee until Ali Sardar Jafri won it in 1997. Newcomers may have first encountered Firaaq’s poetry through Jagjit Singh and Chitra Singh’s rendition of ‘Bahut pehle se un qadmon ki aahat jaan lete hain’ (We recognize those footsteps from a long way off), which they sang in the 1976 album Unforgettables.

I have chosen to translate just one of Firaaq’s ghazals that, I feel, conjures a vivid sense of this remarkable poet.

Shaam-e gham

Shaam-e gham kuchh us nigaah-e naaz ki baaten karo

Bekhudi badhti chali hai, raaz ki baaten karo

Nikhat-e zulf-e pareshaan, daastaan-e shaam-e gham

Subah hone tak isi andaz ki baaten karo

Ye sukoot-e yaas, ye dil ki ragon ka tootna

Khamoshi mein kuchh shikast-e saaz ki baaten karo

Kuchh qafas ki teeliyon se chhan rahaa hai noor sa

Kuchh fazaa kuchh hasrat-e parvaaz ki baatein karo

Jis ki furqat ne palat di ishq ki kaaya, Firaaq

Aaj usi Eesaa-nafas dum-saaz ki baaten karo

Sad evening

On this sad evening let us talk of the beloved’s gaze

Let us talk of secret things for my passion is ablaze

The beauty of those tossed curls and the tale of this sad night

Till morning dawns, let us talk in such melancholic ways

In the silence of yearning, as hearts shatter, let us speak

How does it break, the instrument that such melodies plays?

From the bars of my prison, I feel a faint hint of light

Of my desire to spread my wings, let’s talk about that phase

The one who has transformed the nature of my love, Firaaq

Let’s talk of that Jesus-like lover who lights up my days.

Josh Malihabadi

Shabbir Hasan Khan ‘Josh’ Malihabadi (1898–1982) was the patron saint of the progressives, who conferred upon him the fond honorific Shaayar-e Inquilab—The Poet of the Revolution. He was a freedom-fighter, was close friends with Nehru, and was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1952. He migrated to Pakistan in 1958, ostensibly to serve Urdu (and to escape the complications that arose from some extramarital affairs with the spouses of powerful people, if his wild autobiography is to be believed), but was generally shunned by the Establishment for his leftist views. He continued to write prolifically; he published seven poetry collections, the most popular being Shola-o-Shabnam (Flame and Dew). Josh was also a skilful exponent of the marsiya: the website http://urdushahkar.org contains five marsiyas of Josh, duly translated, transliterated, annotated and declaimed by S.M. Shahed.

In his autobiography Yaadon ki Baraat (The Procession of Memories—itself a marvel of embellished anecdote), Josh describes a moment in 1939 when he heard a speech on radio delivered by the British governor of Lucknow, which urged Indians to join the Allied effort against the Axis, for that was the only way ‘to save humanity from that barbarian, Hitler.’ An incensed Josh claims that he wrote a poem (translated below), titled ‘East India Company ke Farzandon se Kalaam’ (‘Address to the Heirs of the East India Company’) in fifteen minutes. He had to suffer the consequences of his action, but escaped jail because the freedom movement was in full swing and had already stretched the incarcerating capacity of the British rulers. Josh was instead placed under house arrest.

East India Company ke farzandon se kalaam

Kis zuban se keh rahe ho aaj ai saudagaro

‘Dahr mein insaniyat ke naam ko ooncha karo

Jis ko sab kahte hain Hitler, bhedia hai bhedia

Bhediye ko mar do goli pa-ye amn-o-baqa

Baghe insani mein chalne hi ko hai baad-e khizan

Aadmiyat le rahi hai hichkiyon pe hichkiyan

Hath Hitlar ka hai rakhsh-e khudsari ki bag par

Tegh ka pani chidak do Germany ki aag par.’

Sakht hairan hoon ke mehfil mein tumhari aur ye zikr

Nau-e insani ke mustaqbil ki ab karte ho fikr!

Jab yahan aaye thhe tum saudagari ke vaaste

Nau-e insani ke mustaqbil se kiya vaqif na thhe?

Hindiyon ke jism mein, kya rooh-e aazadi na thhi?

Sach batao, kya voh insanon ki aabadi na thhi?

Apne zulm-e be-nehayat ka fasaana yaad hai?

Company ka bhi voh daur-e mujrimana yaad hai?

Loot-te phirte thhe tum, jab karvan dar karvan

Sar-barhana phir rahi thhi daulat-e Hindustan

Dast-karon ke angoothey kaat-te phirte thhe tum!

Sard lashon se gadhon ko paat-te phirte thhe tum!

Sanat-e Hindustan par, maut thhi chhayi hui

Maut bhi kaisi? Tumhare haath ki layi hui!

Allah Allah, kis qadar insaaf ke talib ho aaj

Mir Jafar ki qasam, kya dushman-e haq thha Siraj?

Voh Avadh ki begamon ka bhi satana yaad hai?

Yaad hai, Jhansi ki rani ka zamaana yaad hai?

Hijrat-e sultan-e Dilli ka samaa bhi yaad hai?

Sher-dil Tipu ki khooni dastaan bhi yaad hai?

Teesre faaqe mein ek girte hue ko thaam-ne

Kin ke sar laaye thhe tum Shah-Zafar ke saamne?

Yaad to hogi voh Mityaburj ki bhi dastan?

Ab bhi jis ki khaak se reh-reh ke uthta hai dhuan

Tum ne Qaisar Bagh ko dekha to hoga bar-ha?

Aaj bhi aati hai jis se ‘Haay Akhtar’ ki sada

Such kaho kya hafize mein hai voh zulm-e be-panah

Aaj tak Rangoon mein ek qabr jis ki hai gavah

Zehn mein hoga yeh taaza Hindiyon ka Dagh bhi

Yaad to hoga tumhe Jalianwala Bagh bhi?

Poochh lo us se tumhara naam kyon ta-banda hai

Dyer-e garg-e dahan aalood ab bhi zinda hai

Voh Bhagat Singh, ab bhi jis ke gham mein dil nashaad hai

Us ki gardan mein jo dala tha voh phanda yaad ha?

Hind ki rahbar rahaa karte thhe kis sanjaar se

Poochh lo ye qaidkhanon ke dar-o-deevar se

Ab bhi hai mahfooz jis me tantana sarkar ka

Aaj bhi goonji hui hai jin mein kodon ki sada

Aaj kashti, khulq ke amwaj par khetey ho kyun?

Sakht hairan hoon ke ab tum dars-e haq dete ho kyun

Ahl-e quvvat daam-e haq mein to kabhi aate nahin

Aadmiyat ko kabhi khatir hi mein latay nahin?

Lekin aaj akhlaq ki talqeen farmate ho tum

Ho na ho apne mein ab quvvat nahin pate ho tum

‘Ahl-e haq roshan-nazar hain, ahl-e batil kor hain’

Yeh to hain aqwaal un qaumon ke jo kamzor hain

Aaj shayad, manzil-e quvvat me tum rahte nahin

‘Jis ki lathi us ki bhains’ ab kis liye kahte nahin?

Der se baithey ho, nakhl-e rasti ki chaoun mein

Kiya, khuda-na-kardah, kuchh moch aa gayee hai paon mein?

Goonj tapon ki na aabadi, na veerane mein hai

Khair to hai? Asp-e taazi kya shifakhane me hai?

Aaj kal to har nazar mein, rahm ka andaz hai

Kuchh tabiyat kya naseeb-e dushmanan naa-saaz hai?

Sans kiya ukhdi, ke haq ke naam par marne lagey!

Nau-e insan ki hawa khawahi ka dam bharne lagey!

Zulm bhoole, ragini insaf ki gane lagey

Lag gayi hai aag kya ghar mein ke chillane lagey?

Mujrimon ke vaaste zeba nahin yeh shor-o-shain

Kal Yazid-o-Shimr thhe, aur aaj bante ho Husain

Khair, ai saudagaro, ab hai to bus is baat mein

Waqt ke farmaan ke aage jhuka do gardanen

Ek kahani waqt likhega naye mazmoon ki

Jis ki surkhi ko zaroorat hai tumhare khoon ki

Waqt ka farmaan apna rukh badal sakta nahin

Maut tal sakti hai ye farmaan tal sakta nahin.

Address to the heirs of the East India Company

With what tongues can you say this, dear traders?

‘Do your bit to exalt the name of humanity in this world

The one they call Hitler is a wolf, no more than a wolf

Let us shoot the wolf in the name of peace and sanity

The garden of humanity is now beset by autumn

Humanity languishes in thirst and yearning while

Hitler’s hand grasps the mane of the steed

Throw the water of the sword on Germany’s fire.’

Amazed am I at such talk in your gathering

Now you think of the future of humanity

When you came here as shopkeepers, to ply your trade

Were you not aware of the future of humanity then?

Did the Indians not harbour the soul of freedom in their bodies?

Speak the truth—was it not a congregation of humans?

Do you even remember the story of your unparalleled tyranny

And of the [East India] Company’s reign of terror

When you went about looting caravan after caravan

And the wealth of India scurried about bareheaded?

You used to go about cutting off the hands of weavers

And filling holes in the ground with cold corpses

The industry of India had death all over it

And what a death? One brought about by you!

Allah Allah! Now you seek justice?

Tell us in the name of Mir Jafar, was Siraj[1] an enemy of truth?

Remember you, harassing the ladies of Avadh?

Do you remember that Rani of Jhansi?

Can you recall the migration of the King of Delhi

And the bloody history of the lionhearted Tipu?

And to help the person tottering on his third day of fasting

Whose heads did you place in front of King Zafar?[2]

Do you remember the story of Metiaburj[3]

Even now its dust is redolent with smoke

You must have seen Qaiser Bagh many a time

Where, even now, a dirge to Akhtar echoes

Tell me, does your memory encompass that tyranny

Of which a grave in Rangoon bears witness?

Recall you, that still raw wound in Indian hearts

This is called Jalianwala Bagh, remember?

Ask it why you are so well remembered here

For Dyer, the bloody fanged, is still alive[4]

That Bhagat Singh, in whose memory the heart is still unhappy

The noose you put around his neck, do you not remember that?

The leaders of India lived in such penury

Ask that of the doors and walls of your dungeons

Where, even now, your governance is remembered

And the sound of the whip still echoes.

Now suddenly, your boat is being docked on the banks of civility

To my amazement, you have begun to preach about truth

The folks in power hardly ever speak of who is right

And bringing humanity into the conversation is not your style

Yet, now you counsel us to be forgiving

Sure enough, you must have lost your strength

‘Those who are on the right are wise, and those who are ignorant are cruel’

This is usually the talk of the defeated!

Perhaps you are no longer in a powerful position

Hence you do not chant, ‘He who owns the stick owns the cow.’

For a while now, you have been sitting in the shade of a different path

Are you okay sir, or is your foot a bit sprained?

There is no sound of hooves here, nor in the wilderness

Is your fleet steed ill, at the hospital; is all well?

Nowadays, every gaze of yours is full of tenderness

Sure all is well, or is the fortune of mine enemy a bit troubled?

Your breath seems laboured, and so you have turned moral

And speak of sojourns into the strange path of humanity

Now you feel tyranny, so you speak of justice

Why do you scream so, is your house on fire today?

It does not behove criminals to be indignant

Till yesterday, you were Yazid and Shimr, and today, you want to be Husain[5]?

Anyway, shopkeepers, this is what needs to be done:

That you bow down before the verdict of destiny

Time will write a new story, with a new title

And this story needs to be reddened with your blood.

The verdict of time cannot be made to change course

Death may wait, but this verdict awaits no one.

Makhdoom Mohiuddin

Hayaat le ke chalo, kaayenaat le ke chalo

Chalo to saare zamaane ko saath le ke chalo

Carry life as you walk, and carry the firmament too

Walk so, that the entire world should choose to walk with you

Abu Sayeed Mohammad Makhdoom Mohiuddin Huzri (1908–69)

lived in the city of the famous Charminar, and is lovingly known as the fifth minar of Hyderabad. Born into poverty, he grew up sweeping mosque courtyards, but soon became a trade union leader. He was a member of the Communist Party of India, and even represented it in the state assembly. He was one of the architects of the 1946–47 Telangana Rebellion against the government of the nizam of Hyderabad. His poem ‘Telangana’ was an anthem for the movement, and continued to be deployed during the struggle for statehood by Telangana in independent India. Much in the fashion of Vladimir Mayakovsky, the Russian poet who had influenced him, Makhdoom struggled against his tendencies to wax metaphysical, choosing to eschew finer verbal constructions in the service of anthems and group songs, which unthinking literary critics often interpret as simplistic.

I have translated three poems below, the latter two of which are to be read as a series. The first, ‘Intezaar’ (‘The Wait’) is an exposition of Makhdoom’s gentle lyricism.[1] The other two poems are much more strident, programmatic, with simple rhythms, reflecting their status as chants and songs. The first, an anti-war piece, was composed by Makhdoom in the early 1930s, when Indians were being forcibly conscripted by the British to fight in the Second World War. It was sung by Kumar Sanu for Ali Sardar Jafri’s TV serial on progressive poets, Kahkashan, and was also featured in the 1960 film Usne Kaha Thha. However, Makhdoom’s attitude to the war became much more positive once the Soviet Union joined it following Hitler’s infamous Operation Barbarossa in 1941. Like many leftists of that time, he saw the war now as a part of a broader struggle against imperialism, rather than a fight between two foreign powers. His song ‘Jang-e Aazadi’ reflected his new sentiments.

1   Intezaar

Raat bhar deeda-e namnaak mein lehraate rahe

Saans ki tarah se aap aate rahe, jaate rahe

Khush thhe ham apni tamannaon ka khwaab aayegaa

Apna armaan bar-afganda naqaab aayegaa

Nazarein neechee kiye sharmaaye huwe aayegaa

Kaakulein chehre pe bikhraaye huwe aayegaa

Aa gayi thi dil-e muztar mein shakeebaai si

Baj rahi thi mere gham-khaane mein shehnaai si

Shab ke jaage huwe taaron ko bhi neend aane lagi

Aap ke aane ki ik aas thi, ab jaane lagi

Subah ne sej se uth-te huwe li angdaai

Ai sabaa, tu bhi jo aayi to akele aayi

Mere mehboob meri neend udaane vaale

Mere masjood meri rooh pe chhaane vaale

Aa bhi jaataa, ke mere sajdon ka armaan nikle

Aa bhi jaataa, tere qadmon pe meri jaan nikle

The wait

All night, in my moist eyes you continued to sway

Like my breath, you kept coming and going away

I was happy, that the dream of my desires would come

My shy lover, encased in a veil, eyes downcast, would come

Inciting my passion with hair strewn over face, would come

My impatient heart had achieved contentment and belief

A shehnai struck up, and sadness gave way to relief

But soon, the stars, which had stayed awake all night, nodded off

The hope of your arrival gave way to a cynic’s scoff

The morning eventually woke up; a new sun shone

O morning breeze, you did come, but alas, you came alone

Enchanted lover mine, who stole the sleep from my sad eyes

I bowed to you, you ruled my dreams, now I’m shamed by those lies

Would that my prayers would bear fruit, and we would meet

Would that you’d come and I’d breathe my last at your feet.

2   Jaane vaale sipahi se poochho

Jaane vaale sipahi se poochho

Vo kahaan ja raha hai?

Ishq hai haasil-e zindagaani

Khoon se tar hai uski javaani

Hai maasoom bachpan ki yaaden

Hai do roz ki nau-javaani

Jaane vaale sipahi se poochho

Vo kahaan ja raha hai?

Kaun dukhiya hai jo gaa rahi hai?

Bhookhe bachhon ko behla rahi hai

Lash jalne ki bu aa rahi hai

Zindagi hai ke chilla rahi hai

Jaane vaale sipahi se poochho

Vo kahaan ja raha hai?

Kitne sehme hue hain nazaare

Kaisa dar dar ke chalte hain taare

Kya javaani ka khoon ho raha hai?

Surkh hai aanchalon ke kinaare

Jaane vaale sipahi se poochho

Vo kahaan ja raha hai?

Hil raha hai siyaahi ka dera

Ho raha hai meri jaan savera

O vatan chhod ke jaane waale

Khul gaya inquilaabi pharera

Jaane vaale sipahi se poochho

Vo kahaan ja raha hai?

Ask that departing soldier

Ask that departing soldier

Where he is headed

A well-spent life leads to love eternal

But this story’s fate is to be writ in blood

He harbours memories of an innocent childhood

But his youth is destined to be ephemeral.

Ask that departing soldier

Where he is headed

Who is that sad woman who is singing?

She is comforting her hungry children

The air stings and reeks as a corpse burns

And what of life? It is screaming

Ask that departing soldier

Where he is headed

Why are these vistas so fearful?

Why do the stars move with such dread?

Is youth being murdered here?

The borders of clothing are blood red

But look now, the darkness is lifting

My dear, see the colour of dawn

O departing soldier, hang on

The revolutionary banner’s unfurling

Ask that departing soldier

Where he is headed.

3   Jang-e aazadi

Ye jang hai jang-e aazadi

Aazadi ke parcham ke tale

Hum Hind ke rehne waalon ki

Mazdooron ka dehqaanon ki

Aazadi ke matwaalon ki

Dehqanon ki, mazdooron ki

Ye jang hai jang-e aazadi

Aazadi ke parcham ke tale

Saara sansaar hamaara hai

Poorab, Pachhim, Uttar Dakshin

Hum Afrangi, hum Amreeki

Hum Cheeni jaanbaazaan-e watan

Hum surkh sipaahi, zulm-shikan

Aahan paikar, faulaad badan

Ye jang hai jang-e aazadi

Aazadi ke parcham ke tale

Lo surkh savera aata hai

Aazadi ka, aazadi ka

Gulnaar taraana gaata hai

Aazadi ka, aazadi ka

Dekho parcham lehraata hai

Aazadi ka, aazadi ka

Ye jang hai jang-e aazadi

Aazadi ke parcham ke tale

The war for freedom

This war is the war for freedom

Fought under the banner of freedom

The war for all Indians

The labourers and the farmers

The lovers of freedom

The farmers and the labourers

This war is the war for freedom

Under the banner of freedom

The whole world is ours

The East and the West, the North and the South

We Europeans, we Americans

We Chinese soldiers of our homeland

We, the red soldiers, the crushers of tyranny

Torsos like the furnace, bodies like steel

This war is the war for freedom

Under the banner of freedom

Behold, the red dawn arrives

Of freedom, of freedom

It sings the flower-red song

Of freedom, of freedom

Look, the banner waves in the sky

Of freedom, of freedom

This war is the war for freedom

Fought under the banner of freedom.

Majaz

Is mehfil-e kaif-o-masti mein, is anjuman-e irfani mein

Sab jaam-bakaf baithe hi rahe, hum pi bhi gaye, chhalka bhi gaye

In this celebratory gathering, in the company of wisdom

Everyone kept holding his glass; I drank my fill, even spilled some.

Asrar-ul Haq Majaz (1909–55) emerged in the heady academic atmosphere of Aligarh in the 1930s, and was quite the rock star in university circles. Flamboyantly dedicating his poetry to social change, he never could renounce his innate romanticism. The resultant output was truly an exemplar of the best offerings of progressive Urdu poetry. Majaz’s spirited critique of patriarchy made him quite the cynosure of rebel Muslim female eyes. His poems critiquing the institution of purdah (for instance, ‘koi aur shai hai, ye ismat nahin hai’; ‘whatever it is, this is not virtue’) are a very significant part of his poetry, as are his existential verses, presaging the anomie and loneliness that emerge from the hegemony of industrial capital. Majaz’s early death has also added a layer of youthfulness to his mystique.

I have translated three poems here. The first is an excerpt from a lyrical tribute to a train, hardly the most romantic of subjects until it fell into Majaz’s deft hands.[1] To Majaz, a train was the ultimate symbol of progressive modernity, all steel and straight lines, cutting purposively through nature. The second is Majaz’s despairing depiction of urban alienation, which is perhaps his best-known poem and also appeared as a song in the 1948 film Thokar. The third, ‘Khwab-e Sahar’(‘Dream of Dawn’), is a remarkable repudiation of religiosity that showcases the emerging rejection of spirituality by progressive poets and casts religion as a barrier to human progress and emancipation. It was written in 1936; one can only estimate the reception it would have garnered in present times.

1   Raat aur rail[2]

Phir chali hai rail, istayshan se lehraati hui

Neem shab ki khamushi mein zer-e lab gaati hui

Daalti behis chattaanon par hiqaarat ki nazar

Koh par hansti, falak ko aankh dikhlaati hui

Daaman-e taariki-e shab ki udaati dhajjiyaan

Qasr-e zulmat par musalsal teer barsaati hui

Zad mein koi cheez aa jaaye to us ko pees kar

Irteqaa-e zindagi ke raaz batlaati hui

Al-gharaz, badhti chali jaati hai, be khauf-o-khatar

Shaayar-e aatish-nafas ka khoon khaulaati hui

The night and the train

Once again, the train jauntily leaves the station

Breaking the silence of the night with its whispered song.

Casting scornful glances on the placid cliffs

Laughing at mountains, making eyes at the sky.

Tearing the black fabric of the night into smithereens

Shooting constant arrows of sparks at the palace of darkness.

Crushing anything that comes in its way

Revealing the secrets of the evolution of life.

Ultimately it flies, fearlessly,

Roiling the blood of the fire-souled poet.

2   Aawara

Shahr ki raat aur main naashaad-o-naakaara phirun

Jagmagaati jaagti sadkon pe aawara phirun

Ghair ki basti hai, kab tak darbadar maraa phirun

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Jhilmilaate qumqumon ki raah mein zanjeer si

Raat ke hathon mein din ki mohini tasveer si

Mere seene par magar dahki hui shamsheer si

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Ye roopahli chhaon, ye aakash par taaron ka jaal

Jaise Sufi ka tasavvur, jaise aashiq ka khayaal

Aah lekin kaun jaane, kaun samjhe ji ka haal

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Phir vo toota ek sitara, phir vo chhooti phuljhadi

Jaane kiski god mein aayi hai moti ki ladi

Hook si seene mein uthi, chot si dil par padi

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Raat hans hans kar ye kehti hai ke maikhaane mein chal

Phir kisi Shahnaz-e la’ala rukh ke kaashaane mein chal

Ye nahin mumkin to phir ai dost, veerane mein chal

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Har taraf bikhri hui rangeeniyan ra’anaaiyan

Har qadam par ishraten leti hui angdaaiyan

Badh rahi hai god phailaye hue rusvaaiyan

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Raaste mein ruk ke dam le loon meri aadat nahin

Laut kar vaapas chalaa jaoon, meri fitrat nahin

Aur koi ham-navaa mil jaaye ye qismat nahin

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Muntazir hai ek toofan-e balaa mere liye

Ab bhi jaane kitne darwaaze hain vaa mere liye

Par museebat hai mera ahd-e vafaa mere liye

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Jee mein aata hai ke ab ahd-e vafaa bhi tod doon

Un ko paa sakta hoon main, ye aasra bhi tod doon

Haan, munaasib hai ke zanjeer-e vafaa bhi tod doon

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Ek mahal ki aad se niklaa vo peela maahtab

Jaise mulla ka amaama, jaise baniye ki kitab

Jaise muflis ki javaani, jaise bevaa ka shabab

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Dil mein ek shola bhadak utha hai, aakhir kya karoon

Mera paimana chhalak utha hai, aakhir kya karoon

Zakhm seene ka mehak utha hai, aakhir kya karoon

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Jee mein aata hai, ye murda chand taare noch loon

Is kinaare noch loon, aur us kinaare noch loon

Ek do ka zikr kya, saare ke saare noch loon

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Muflisi, aur ye manaazir hain nazar ke saamne

Saikdon sultan-o-jaabir hain nazar ke samne

Saikdon Changez-o-Nadir hain nazar ke saamne

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Le ke ek Changez ke haathon se khanjar tod doon

Taj par us ke damakta hai jo patthar tod doon

Koi tode ya na tode, main hi badh kar tod doon

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Badh ke is Indarsabha ka saaz-o-saaman phoonk doon

Is ka gulshan phoonk doon, us ka shabistan phoonk doon

Takht-e sultan kya, main saara qasr-e sultan phoonk doon

Ai gham-e dil kya karun, ai vahshat-e dil, kya karun

Vagabond

Night has fallen in the city, and I, unhappy and defeated

Roam, a vagabond on dazzling, awake streets

It is not my neighbourhood, how long can I loiter thus?

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

In the glittering sky, the streetlights seem linked in a chain

The bosom of the night holds the image of a beautiful day

But the lights fall on my heart like the flash of a scimitar

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

These beautiful shadows, this net of stars on the sky

Like a Sufi’s contemplation, a poet’s thought

But ah, who is to know, to understand, a soul’s plight?

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

There falls a shooting star, like a sparkler

A string of pearls fell in somebody’s lap, perhaps?

Desolation rises in my chest, hitting the heart like a blow

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

The night laughs gaily, and invites me to a tavern

‘Or come then, to the boudoir of a rose-cheeked beauty

If not, then join me, my friend, among the ruins’

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

Bright colours and lovely images lie scattered

At every step, joys beckon languorously

But look here, sorrows and defeats also proffer their laps

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

To stop and rest on the way is not my habit

To admit defeat and return is not in my nature

But to find a companion, alas, is not my fate

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

A storm of misfortune lies, ready to waylay me

And though several open doors still beckon me

An old promise of fealty holds me back, like a curse

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

Sometimes I wonder: should I break those foolish vows?

Should I even surrender the hope that love will be rewarded?

It is possible, is it not, that I could break this feeble chain?

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

From behind a palace, emerges the yellow moon

Like a mullah’s turban, like a moneylender’s ledger

Like a poor man’s youth, a widow’s beauty

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

My heart burns like a flame, what should I do?

The cup of my patience brims over, what should I do?

The wound in my chest is fragrant, what should I do?

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

I want to pluck this dead moon, these dead stars from the sky

Pluck them from this end of the horizon and from that corner

What is one or two, I want to pluck them all out

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

These beautiful sights mock my helpless poverty

Hundreds of wealthy kings profane my gaze

Hundreds of Chengizes, hundreds of Nadirs to behold[3]

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

Ah that I could break every sword in the hands of every Chengiz

Pull out the diadem from his crown and break it too

Why wait for anyone else, let me break it myself

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

Walk into the Indrasabha[4] and burn it to the ground,

Burn down their garden, and burn down their bedchamber!

Not just the crown, I should burn the entire palace!

Anguished heart, desperate heart, what should I do?

3   Khwab-e sahar

Mahr sadiyon se chamakta hi raha aflaak par

Raat hi taari rahi insaan ke idraak par

Aql ke maidaan mein zulmat ka dera hi raha

Dil mein taareeki, dimaghon mein andhera hi raha

Ik na ik mazhab ki sai khaam bhi hoti rahi

Ahl-e dil par barish-e ilhaam bhi hoti rahi

Masjidon mein maulvi khutbe sunaate hi rahe

Mandiron mein barahman ashlok gaate hi rahe

Aadmi minnat kash-e arbaab-e irfaan hi raha

Dard-e insani magar mahroom-e darmaan hi raha

Ik na ik dar par jabeen-e shauq ghisti hi rahi

Aadmiyat zulm ki chakki mein pisti hi rahi

Rahbari jaari rahi, paighambari jaari rahi

Deen ke parde mein jang-o-zargari jaari rahi

Ye musalsal aafaten, ye yoorishen, ye qatl-e aam

Aadmi kab tak rahe auham-e batil ka ghulam

Zahn-e insani ne ab auhaam ke zulmaat mein

Zindagi ki sakht toofani andheri raat mein

Kuchh nahin to kam se kam khwab-e sahar dekha to hai

Jis taraf dekha na tha ab tak, udhar dekha to hai

The dream of dawn

The sun did shine as bright as always in the firmament

Yet over the human mind the dark did not relent

Darkness pitched its opaque camp amid the fields of mind

Lightlessness now ruled the hearts, intellect was rendered blind

By turns, a different religion established its reign

And its wisdom fell upon believers just like rain

Maulvis made fiery speeches in mosques at all times

While in temples, the Brahmins chanted their holy rhymes

Humanity continued its leaders to beseech

A cure for its angst, alas, remained out of its reach

Foreheads bent at holy thresholds, supplicants stayed prone

Yet humans remained crushed by tyrannical grindstones

Pious leaders preached and the prophetic game prospered

War and accumulation, in religion’s name prospered

These continuous calamities, massacres, assaults

Should humans remain enslaved in superstition’s vaults?

In these black and stormy days of false faith and belief

In this dark night of life, humanity craves relief

If nothing else, we have at least dared to dream of dawn

That which we’d never glimpsed, to that place our gaze has gone.

N.M. Rashid

Raja Nazar Mohammed Janjua (1910–75) preferred to be known as Noon Meem Rashid. He will also be known as a true exponent of the modernist craft and a master of Urdu free verse. He published four volumes of poetry, each with a wonderful title. They were Maavra (Beyond), Iran mein Ajnabi (A Stranger in Iran), La Musawi Insan (Nothingness = Human) and Guman ka Mumkin (The Possibility of Doubt).

Rashid worked for the United Nations, lived in England, and willed that his body be cremated. These disparate demographic details offer glimpses of the life of a modernist. In his poetry, he was especially contemptuous of the ghazal, choosing to free his words from rhyme, metre, linearity and social commentary. His poems dredge up from the subconscious a vibrant spectrum of individual ideas—quite unique in their time, but often imitated later by a growing army of acolytes.

Rashid’s poems do not lend themselves to easy interpretation, and I would not recommend them to the neophyte reader without some serious handholding.[1] The poem I have translated below is the first part of an extended poem (Rashid wrote it in four discrete parts; each can be read on its own, or as part of a series). The story in brief involves an Iraqi potter named Hasan, who falls madly in love with a mysterious beauty called Jahanzad. Hasan’s passion induces in him a nine-year period of insanity that causes him to become distant from his craft. In a moment of relative lucidity, he encounters Jahanzad again, and unapologetic about his affliction, suggests that he may become the potter of old again, but only if his love is requited. It is a strange story of desire and creativity, of sanity and madness, and also represents the best traditions of the Urdu aazad nazm (free verse poem), where relaxing the strictures of rhyme and metre do not absolve the poet of the imperatives of rhythm.

Hasan koozagar

Jahanzad, neeche gali mein tere dar ke aage

Ye main sokhta sar, Hasan Koozagar hoon!

Tujhe subha bazaar mein boodhe attar Yusuf

Ki dukkan par main ne dekha

To teri nigaahon mein vo taabnaaki

Thhi main jin ki hasrat mein nau saal deevana phirta raha hoon

Jahanzad, nau saal deevana phirta raha hoon!

Ye woh daur tha jis me main ne

Kabhi apne ranjoor koozon ki jaanib

Palat kar na dekha . . .

Woh kooze, mere dast-e chabuk ke putle

Gil-o-rang-o-raughan ki makhlooq-e bejaan

Woh sargoshion mein ye kehte:

‘Hasan Koozagar ab kahan hai?

Woh hum se, khud apne amal se

Khudawand ban kar khudaaon ki manind hai rooy-e gardaan!’

Jahanzad, nau saal ka daur yoon mujh pe guzra

Ke jaise kisi shehr-e madfoon par waqt guzre.

Taghaaron mein mitti

Kabhi jis ki khushboo se waarafta hota tha main Sang-basta padi thi

Suraahi-o-meena-o-jam-o-suboo aur faanoos-o-guldaan

Meri hech-maya ma’eeshat ke, izhaar-e fan ke sahaare Shikasta pade the.

Main khud, main Hasan Koozagar, pa-ba gil, khaak bar-sar, barahna

Sar-e chaak zhooleeda-moonh, sar ba-zaanu

Kisi gham-zada devta ki tarah waaheme ke

Gil-o-la se khaabon ke sayyal kooze banata raha tha

Jahanzad, nau saal pehle

Tu naadan thi lekin tujhe ye khabar thi

Ke main ne, Hasan Koozagar ne

Teri qaaf ki si ufaq taab aankhon mein dekhi hai vo taabnaaki

Ke jis se mere jism-o-jaan, abr-o-mahtaab ka

Rahguzar ban gaye the

Jahanzad, Baghad ki khaab goon raat

Vo rood-e Dajla ka saahil

Vo kashti, vo mallah ki band aankhen

Kisi khasta-jaan, ranj-bar koozagar ke liye

Ek hi raat vo kahrbaa thi

Ke jis se abhi tak hai paiwast us ka wajood,

Us ki jaan, us ka paikar

Magar ek hi raat ka zauq darya ki vo lehr nikla

Hasan Koozagar jis mein dooba to ubhra nahin hai!

Jahanzad, is daur mein roz, har roz

Vo sokhta bakht aa kar

Mujhe dekhti chaak par paa-ba-gil, sar-ba-zaanu

To shaanon se mujh ko hilaati . . .

(wahi chaak jo saal-haa saal jeene ka tanhaa sahaara raha tha!)

Vo shaanon se mujh ko hilaati:

‘Hasan Koozagar, hosh mein aa

Hasan apne veeran ghar par nazar kar

Ye bachchon ke tannoor kyon-kar bharenge?

Hasan, ai mohabbat ke mare,

Mohabbat ameeron ki baazi

Hasan apne deevar-o-dar par nazar kar’

Mere kaan mein ye nawa-e hazeen yoon thi jaise

Kisi doobte shakhs ko zer-e gardaab koi pukaare!

Vo askhon ke ambaar phoolon ke ambaar thhe, haan

Magar main, Hasan Koozagar, shehr-e auhaam ke un

Kharaabon ka mahjoor tha jis

Mein koi sadaa, koi jumbish

Kisi murgh-e parran ka saaya

Kisi zindagi ka nishaan tak nahin tha!

Jahanzad, main aaj teri gali mein

Yahaan, raat ki sard-goon teergi mein

Tere dar ke aage khada hoon

Sar-o-mu pareshaan

Dareeche se vo qaaf ki si tilismi nigaahen

Mujhe aaj phir jhaankti hain

Zamaana, Jahanzad, vo chaak hai jis pe meena-o-jam-o-subu

Aur faanoos-o-guldaan

Ke maanind bante bigadte hain insaan

Main insaan hoon lekin

Ye nau saal jo gham ke qaalib mein guzre!

Hasan Koozagar aaj ek tauda-e khaak hai jis

Mein nam ka asar tak nahin hai

Jahanzad, bazaar mein subha attar Yusuf

Ki dukkan par teri aankhen

Phir ek baar kuchh keh gayi hain

Un aankhon ki taabinda shokhi

Se uthi hai phir tauda-e khaak mein nam ki halki si larzish

Yahi shaayad is khaak ko gil bana de!

Tamanna ki wus’at ki kis ko khabar hai, Jahanzad, lekin

Tu chaahe to ban jaoon main phir

Wahi koozagar jis ke kooze

Thhe har kaakh-o-ku aur har shehr-o-qariya ki naazish

Thhe jin se ameer-o-gada ke masaakin darakhshaan

Tamanna ki wus’at ki kis ko khabar hai, Jahanzad, lekin

Tu chahe to main phir palat jaoon un apne mehjoor koozon ki jaanib

Gil-o-la ke sookhe taghaaron ki jaanib

Ma’eeshat ke, izhaar-e fan ke sahaaron ki jaanib

Ke main us gil-o-la se, us rang-o-raughan

Se phir vo sharaare nikaaloon

Ke jin se dilon ke kharaabe hon roshan!

Hasan the potter

Jahanzad, in the street below, just ahead of your house

I stand with heart aflame, Hasan the potter.

In the morning I saw you in the shop of that old perfumer, Yousuf

And your eyes had the same passion

The desire for which committed me to nine years of madness.

Jahanzad, nine years of insanity!

That was the time when I

Cast not another look at my spurned pots

Those pots, statues enslaved by my creative whip

Lifeless creations of clay, colour and grease

They would speak in whispers

‘Where is Hasan the potter?

He has distanced himself from us, from his labour, and

Like gods, he has become invisible.’

Jahanzad, those nine years happened to me

Like time happens to ruins, to buried cities

The dust in the flowerpots

Whose fragrance once enamoured me

Lay under stones

Goblet and cup and chandelier and lantern and vase

The artefacts through which I expressed my existence, my art

Lay broken

Me, myself, Hasan the potter, immobile as a tree

A dusty face in front of the wheel, head bowed

Lay there like a sad deity

And with the clay and the nothingness of doubts, I made pots of empty dreams.

Jahanzad, nine years ago,

You were innocent, but I’m sure you knew

That I, Hasan the potter, had seen

In your bright eyes, like the mystical mountain of Caucasus

Such heat, such passion

That my body and soul had become

The wayfarers of clouds and the moon.

Remember Jahanzad, that dreamy Baghdad night

The banks of the Tigris

The boat, the closed eyes of the boatman

I tell you that for a tired, disheartened potter

That one night was such a maelstrom

That even now, his being, his life, his body

Remain associated with them

But the passion of one night turned into such a tidal wave

That Hasan the potter, once he went under, has not surfaced yet.

Jahanzad, in those days, every day

That unlucky wife of mine would come

Find me on the wheel immobile, bowed of head

(The same wheel that had been our sole means of support for years)

And she would shake me by the shoulder

Gently she would shake me

‘Hasan the potter, regain your senses

Hasan, cast a glance at your ruined house

How will the ovens of the children be filled?

O love-struck Hasan

Love is for the rich

Hasan, look around at your own hovel!’

To my ears, that sorrowful voice was akin

To someone calling a drowning man in a whirlpool

Those tears were light like flowers but

I, Hasan the potter, had been banished to that city of illusions

Where no sound, no movement

No shadow of a bird overhead

No sign of life remained!

Jahanzad, I am now in your street

In this cold darkness of the night

I stand again before your house

Hair tousled, mouth agape

From the window, those Caucasus-like magical eyes

Once again gaze at me

The world, Jahanzad, is a wheel where

Like goblets and glasses and vases, humans are built and broken

I am a human too

But these nine years I have spent in a funk of grief

Have turned Hasan the potter into a clod of earth

That does not harbour even a sign of moisture.

Jahanzad, in the market, at the shop of the old perfumer Yousuf

Your eyes have spoken to me again

And out of their beauty has emerged

A hint of moisture that may turn this clod of earth into clay again.

Who is aware of the limits of passion, Jahanzad, but

If you wish, I can again become that potter

Whose creations were the pride of palace and hovel

Of city and village

Which adorned the houses of rich and poor alike.

Who is aware of the limits of passion, Jahanzad, but

If you wish, I will return to my deserted pots

Those flowerpots filled with clay and nothingness

Toward the joy of creation and its display

That from that clay and nothingness, that colour and grease,

I produce again such sparks

That would light up the ruins of many a heart!

Faiz

If there ever was a ‘Mount Rushmore’ of Urdu poetry, Faiz’s face would be under serious contention for being carved in granite. Like Ghalib and Iqbal, Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911–84) has been written about, translated and commented upon relentlessly. The official website of Faiz[1] contains audio files, and anyone looking to find a great collection of Faiz poems being sung, performed, declaimed and celebrated would do well to search for the poet’s work on YouTube, and then proceed to knock themselves out in delight. Faiz’s work has been well translated by V.G. Kiernan in a pleasing format that includes the poem in Urdu script, its transliteration and two forms of translation.[2]

Faiz was a Ghalibian, a Gandhian and a Marxist rolled into one. His poetry was infused with an unsurpassed lyricality, but spoke evocatively and urgently against regimes of exploitation. He was an early member of the Progressive Writers’ Association, and formed a Punjab chapter in 1936. He wrote poems against colonialism, and after Independence/Partition, settled in Lahore. He was among the Pakistanis who travelled to India in 1948 to attend Gandhi’s funeral. His activism in the labour movement irked the right-wing elements in the Pakistani state, especially Ayub Khan. Months after Khan’s elevation to the position of commander-in-chief of the Pakistan Army in 1951, Faiz and several of his colleagues were imprisoned under trumped-up conspiracy charges. He was incarcerated for four years, during which he wrote some of his finest poetry.[3] Even after his release, he was subject to surveillance and harassment, and spent a lot of years in quasi-exile in the Soviet Union and the Middle East where his poetry developed a truly international ethos. He won the Lenin Peace Prize in 1962, and things came full circle when the Government of Pakistan eventually awarded him its highest civilian honour, the Nishan-e Imtiaz (posthumously in 1990).

During his incarceration, Faiz’s poetry exhibited a strong metaphorical connection with the trope of qafas (cage) and the relationship of the prisoner with the saba (breeze). His poems abounded with Sufi metaphors; for example, he incorporated Mansoor Hallaj’s famous declaration ‘An-al Haq’ (‘I am God’) as a political cry in his nazm ‘Hum dekhenge’ (‘We will see’; incidentally that particular nazm became the anthem of Pakistanis struggling for democratic rights and civil liberties under Zia-ul Haq; Iqbal Bano’s magical rendition of the poem at the height of Zia’s powers is a joy to hear).

In this volume, I have translated four of Faiz’s poems, all of which have been extremely well performed by a number of well-known artistes.[4]

1   Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

Chashm-e nam, jaan-e shoreeda kaafi nahin

Tohmat-e ishq-posheeda kaafi nahin

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

Dast-afshan chalo, mast-o-raqsaan chalo

Khaak bar-sar chalo, khoon ba-damaan chalo

Raah takta hai sab shahr-e janaan chalo

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

Haakim-e shahr bhi, majmaa-e aam bhi

Teer-e ilzaam bhi, sang-e dushnaam bhi

Subh-e nashaad bhi, roz-e nakaam bhi

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo

In ka dum-saaz apne siva kaun hai?

Shahr-e jaanan mein ab baa-safaa kaun hai?

Dast-e qaatil ke shaayaan raha kaun hai?

Rakht-e dil baandh lo, dil figaaro chalo

Phir hameen qatl ho aayen yaaro chalo.

Aaj bazaar mein paa-bajaulaan chalo.

Come in shackles to the marketplace

Come in shackles to the marketplace

The teary eye is not enough

Nor is the accusation of concealed love

Come in shackles to the marketplace

With hands held high, swaying and dancing, come

Walk with sand in your hair and blood on your shirtfront

The city of our beloved beckons, come

Come in shackles to the marketplace

The ruler of the city awaits, as does the multitude

The arrow of slander and the stone of invective awaits too

The forlorn morning too, and the unfulfilled day

Come in shackles to the marketplace

Who is their champion save us?

In the city of our beloved, is there anyone left pure?

Who is ready for the executioner’s sword?

Pack up your hearts’ belongings, O broken-hearted ones

Let it be us again who are murdered, friends

Come in shackles to the marketplace.

2   Tum aaye ho na shab-e intezaar guzri hai

Tum aaye ho na shab-e intezaar guzri hai

Talaash mein hai sahar, baar baar guzri hai

Junoon mein jitni bhi guzri, bakaar guzri hai

Agarche dil pe kharaabi hazaar guzri hai

Hui hai hazrat-e naaseh se guftagu jis shab

Vo shab zaroor sar-e ku-e yaar guzri hai

Vo baat saare fasaane mein jis ka zikr na tha

Vo baat un ko bahut na-gavaar guzri hai

Na gul khile hain, na unse mile, na mai pi hai

Ajeeb rang mein ab ke bahaar guzri hai

Chaman mein ghaarat-e gulcheen se jaane kya guzri

Qafas se aaj saba beqaraar guzri hai

Neither you came, nor did this night of waiting cease

Neither you came, nor did this night of waiting cease

The impatient morning has come and gone many times

The time spent in passion, was spent well

Even though the heart suffered its share of pain

Every night that the well-wisher advised me to desist

That night I spent at my lover’s lane

That matter which was never mentioned in the story

Was the one to which my love took the greatest offence

Neither roses bloomed, nor was my love met, nor wine drunk

In such a strange way this spring has been squandered

I wonder what havoc the gardener wreaked on the garden

For the zephyr has passed through my cage rather agitated.[5]

3   Subh-e aazadi

Ye dagh dagh ujaala, ye shab-gazeeda sahar

Vo intezaar tha jis ka, ye vo sahar to nahin

Ye vo sahar to nahin jis ki aarzoo le kar

Chale thhe yaar, ke mil jaayegi kahin na kahin

Falak ke dasht mein taaron ki aakhri manzil

Kahin to hoga shab-e sust-mauj ka sahil

Kahin to jaa ke rukega safina-e gham-e dil

Jawaan lahu ki pur-asraar shah-raahon se

Chale jo yaar to daaman pe kitne haath pade

Dayaar-e husn ki be-sabr khwaab-gaahon se

Pukarti rahin baahen, badan bulaate rahe

Bahut azeez thi lekin rukh-e sahar ki lagan

Bahut qareen tha haseenaan-e noor ka daaman

Subuk subuk thi tamanna, dabi dabi thi thakan

Suna hai ho bhi chuka hai firaaq-e zulmat-o-noor

Suna hai ho bhi chuka hai visaal-e manzil-o-gaam

Badal chuka hai bahut ahl-e dard kaa dastoor

Nishaat-e vasl halaal aur azaab-e hijr haraam

Jigar ki aag, nazar ki umang, dil ki jalan

Kisi pe chaara-e hijran ka kuchh asar hi nahin

Kahaan se aayi nigaar-e saba, kidhar ko gayi?

Abhi chiragh-e sar-e rah ko kuchh khabar hi nahin

Abhi giraani-e shab mein kami nahin aayi

Najaat-e deeda-o-dil ki ghadi nahin aayi

Chale chalo, ke vo manzil abhi nahin aayi

The dawn of freedom

This pockmarked light, this night-inflected morning

This is not the dawn that we had awaited

Truly this is not the awaited dawn

That we friends had dreamed, sought, and in search set out.

The last harbour of the stars in the wasteland of the skies

Somewhere, there had to be a bank on this slow river of the night

Where the boat of the wounded heart could find ground

When we comrades walked on the tumultuous highways of young blood

So many hands clutched at our shirts to stall us

On the roads of beauty lay impatient boudoirs

Where embraces awaited, and bodies called out

But the face of the dawn was too beloved

The laps of the luminous beauties were too limited

And we went on, with bated passion, and muted exhaustion

And now they tell us that darkness and light have been separated

That journey and destination have finally been united

The experiences of the pain-afflicted are now transformed

Such that the joy of meeting is now legal and the pain of separation banned.

But is that true?

For the fire in my gut, the longing of my eyes, and the pain in my heart

Do not show any signs of being cured of parting

Where did the painted morn come from, where did it go?

The lamp at the highway has no news of it

The abatement of the darkness is not here yet

The deliverance awaited by eyes and hearts is not here yet

Keep moving, for the destination is not here yet.

4   Mujh se pehli si mohabbat, meri mehboob na maang

Mujh se pehli si mohabbat, meri mehboob na maang

Main ne samjha thha ke tu hai to darakhshaan hai hayaat

Tera gham hai to gham-e dahr ka jhagda kya hai

Teri soorat se hai aalam mein bahaaron ko sabaat

Teri aankhon ke siva duniya mein rakhhaa kya hai

Tu jo mil jaaye to taqdeer nigoon ho jaaye

Yoon na thha, main ne faqat chaaha thhaa yoon ho jaaye

Aur bhi dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke siva

Raahaten aur bhi hain vasl ki raahat ke siva

Anginat sadiyon ke taareek bahimaana tilism

Resham-o-atlas-o-kam-khwaab men bunvaaye huwe

Jaa-ba jaa bikte huwe koocha-o-bazaar mein jism

Khaak mein lithde huwe, khoon mein nahlaaye huwe

Jism nikle huwe amraaz ke tannooron se

Peep bahta hua gal-te huwe naasooron se

Laut jaati hai udhar ko bhi nazar, kya keeje?

Ab bhi dilkash hai tera husn magar kya keeje?

Aur bhi dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke siva

Raahaten aur bhi hain vasl ki raahat ke siva

Mujh se pehli si mohabbat, meri mehboob na maang

My love, do not ask me for that old love again

My love, do not ask me for that old love again

I had felt that with you around, the world would be luminous

If I had your sorrows, what were the sorrows of this world worth?

Through your visage, spring had beauty

What else was left on this earth but your eyes?

If I could have you, my fortune would be resplendent

It was not to be, it was just my fantasy.

Indeed, there are more pains in the world than love

And more joys than the joy of union

For countless centuries, dark odious spells

Stand cloaked in silk and velvet and fine fabric

While on streets and markets, bodies are sold like commodities

Coated with dust, bathed in blood

Bodies fresh out of the ovens of disease

Pus flowing quietly from rotting, unhealed wounds

But the gaze returns there too, what am I to do?

Your beauty is alluring still, but what am I to do?

Indeed, there are more pains in the world than love

And more joys than the joy of union

My love, do not ask me for that old love again.

Miraji

Sanaullah Dar ‘Miraji’ (1912–49) burnt the candle of his life at both ends, and died tragically young, but not before he produced a corpus of poetry that has stood the test of time. As a title, he took on the name of a woman he was infatuated with. This act may be seen, in hindsight, as his attempt to decentre the patriarchy and heteronormativity that afflicted Urdu poetry in the twentieth century.[1] His poetry traversed the spectrum, from relatively simple ghazals and nazms to complex surreal tracts. The influence of Charles Baudelaire on Miraji was profound, but he was also struck by the lyricality of Omar Khayyam, whom he translated into Urdu.

Miraji briefly headed the Halqa-e Arbaab-e Zauq (circle of connoisseurs), a literary organization that was formed in 1939, and infused Urdu poetry with modernism. He was himself a modern character, who affected a bohemian appearance and liberated much of his verse from the prison of rhyme and metre, while still tossing out the occasional classical ghazal. The one I have translated below was immortalized by Ghulam Ali. I have also included a nazm that is more reflective of his oeuvre.

1   Bhool gaya

Nagri nagri phira musafir ghar ka rasta bhool gaya

Kya hai tera kya hai mera apna paraaya bhool gaya

Apni beeti jag beeti hai, jab se dil ne jaan liya

Hanste hanste jeevan beeta, rona dhona bhool gaya

Andhiyaare se ek kiran ne jhaank ke dekha, sharmaayi

Dhund si chhab to yaad rahi, kaisa thha chehra bhool gaya

Hansi hansi mein, khel khel mein baat ki baat mein rang gaya

Dil bhi hote hote aakhir ghaao ka risna bhool gaya

Ek nazar ki, ek hi pal ki baat hai dori saanson ki

Ek nazar ka noor mitaa, jab ek pal beeta bhool gaya

Jis ko dekho us ke dil mein shikvaa hai to itna hai

Hamen to sab kuchh yaad raha, par ham ko zamaana bhool gaya

Koi kahe ye kis ne kaha thha, keh do jo kuchh ji mein hai

‘Miraji’ keh kar pachhtaayaa, aur phir kehna bhool gaya

He forgot

The wayfarer went from town to town, the way back, he forgot

His possessions, his friends and foes, he lost track, he forgot

Once the heart knew that the experience of self and world were one

It started laughing so hard, to let sobs wrack, it forgot

A lone sunbeam broke through the dark, it looked and shyly smiled

Made out a face, but its features in the dark it forgot

In playful laughing talk with you, I became enamoured

Although my heart remained wounded, your attack it forgot

Each glance and each moment is part of life’s evolving string

A glance lost its radiant light, when a moment one forgot

Whoever I meet has one major complaint with the world

‘I remembered everyone’s woes, my woes the world forgot’

I don’t remember who urged me to bravely say my piece

‘Miraji,’ I said with regret, and to say more, forgot.

2   Safar

Tum ne tahreek mujhe di ke jaao dekho

Chaand taaron se pare aur duniyaayein hain

Tum ne hi mujh se kaha tha ki khabar le aao

Mere dil mein vahin jaane ki tamanaayen hain

Aur main chal diya ghaur kiya kab is par

Kitna mehdood hai insaan ki quvvat ka tilism

Bas yahi ji ko khayaal aaya, tumhen khush kar doon

Ye na socha ke yoon mit jaayega raahat ka tilism

Aur ab humdami-o-ishrat-e raftaa kaise

Aah! Ab doori hai, doori hai, faqat doori hai

Tum kahin aur main kahin, ab nahin pehli haalat

Laut ke aa bhi nahin saktaa ye hai majboori

Meri qismat ke judaai tumhen manzoor hui

Meri qismat ko pasand aayi na meri baaten

Ab nahin jalvaagah-e khilavat-e shab afsaane

Ab to bas teeraa-o-taareek hai apni raaten.

Journey

You commanded me, go on and see

There are worlds beyond the moon and stars

And it was you who bade me get news

For your heart desired to visit those worlds as well.

And I headed off, without realizing, reflecting

How limited the power of humanity is, its spell

I just desired that you should be happy, did not know

That the spell that would break would be of my contentment.

And now, where is the companionship, the desire for the past?

Ah, all that is left is distance. And distance. Only distance.

You are somewhere, I elsewhere; the earlier situation was not to be

And this is a journey where return is impossible.

It is my fate that separation was acceptable to you

But my fate did not like my words

No more the privacy of the evening tales

My nights are now nothing, just dark and opaque.

Ali Sardar Jafri

For some reason, Ali Sardar Jafri (1913–2000) never received his due as a poet, perhaps due to his programmatic verses and his overt association with the Communist Party of India. In his later years, he experienced some recognition as a poet who wrote optimistically about Indo-Pakistan relations. When Indian Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee took a bus journey to Pakistan in 1999, the following four-liner by Jafri was played on its PA system, and became quite the rage for a while:

Tum aao gulshan-e Lahore se chaman bardosh

Hum aayen subh-e Banaras ki raushni le kar

Himalaya ki havaaon ki taazgi le kar

Aur us ke baad yeh poochhenge kaun dushman hai?

Come bearing the fragrant garden of Lahore

And we will bring the light of a Banaras morning

And the fresh breeze from the Himalayas

And then let us ask: who is the enemy?

Jafri began his career as a fiction writer, but later moved to poetry. He also wrote a few plays for the Indian People’s Theatre Association. He was subjected to periodic incarceration twice: first, by the British in 1939, and then—in a moment that reminds us of Frantz Fanon’s account of the betrayal of the moment of decolonization by local elites—Jafri was arrested by the government of independent India in 1949 for espousing the cause of socialism, joining his colleagues like Faiz and Sajjad Zaheer who had suffered similar incarceration in Pakistan. Like a good communist, he also aroused the ire of religious fundamentalists, and was subjected to death threats in the 1980s when he came out against the treatment of divorced women under the Muslim Personal Law. His opposition to the infamous Muslim Women’s Protection Act in 1986 earned him the ire of Muslim communalists; I remember, as a college student, watching him being shouted at, slapped and garlanded with chappals by goons—a moment that politicized me further against the atmosphere of rapidly increasing communalism in India. However, in the end, we must remember that Jafri led a celebrated life, having had the Jnanpith award bestowed on him in 1993. In 2013, on the occasion of his birth centenary, a website was inaugurated in his honour.[1]

Jafri’s long poem ‘Karbala’—recited by him—is available in the public domain, and has been translated by my friend Syed Akbar Hyder in his book Reliving Karbala.[2] I have chosen to translate two other poems here. The first is his ‘Guftagu Band Na Ho’, speaking of the possibilities of more harmonious Indo-Pakistan relations. The second is an excerpt from Jafri’s long poem ‘Avadh ki Khaak-e Haseen’ (‘The Beautiful Land of Avadh’). I include the latter as an exemplar of progressive poetry, which turned labour into romance and ordinary folk into protagonists.

1   Guftagu band na ho

Guftagu band na ho

Baat se baat chale

Subh tak shaam-e mulaaqaat chale

Hum pe hansti hui ye taaron bhari raat chale

Vo jo alfaaz ke haathon mein hai sang-e dushnaam

Tanz chhalkaye to chhalkaaya karen zahr ke jaam

Teekhi nazren hon tarash abru-e khamdaar rahe

Ban pade jaise bhi dil seenon mein, bedaar rahe

Bebasi harf ko zanjeer ba-paa kar na sake

Koi qaatil ho magar qatl-e nava kar na sake

Subh tak dhal ke koi harf-e vafaa aayega

Ishq aayegaa ba-sad laghzish-e paa aayega

Nazren jhuk jaayengi, dil dhadkenge, lab kaanpengey

Khamoshi bosa-e lab ban ke bahak jayegi

Sirf ghunchon ke chatakne ki sadaa aayegi

Aur phir harf-o-nava ki na zaroorat hogi

Chashm-o-abroo ke ishaaron mein mohabbat hogi

Nafrat uth jaayegi, mehmaan muravvat hogi

Haath mein haath liye, saara jahaan saath liye

Tohfa-e dard liye, pyaar ki saughaat liye

Regzaaron se adaawat ke guzar jaayeingey

Khoon ke daryaaon se hum paar utar jaayeingey

Guftagu band na ho

Baat se baat chale

Subh tak shaam-e mulaaqaat chale

Hum pe hansti hui ye taaron bhari raat chale

Let not the conversation cease

Let not the conversation cease

Let one word lead to another

And let our evening tryst go on till dawn

While the starry night-sky smiles down on us

Though we have hurled the stones of bitter words at each other

We have swirled poison in our goblets in the form of sarcastic jibes

Our brows furrowed, our gazes venomous

But be that as it may, let hearts awaken in chests

Let not despair imprison our words

Whoever the murderers are, let them not kill dialogue

If that is done, a word of faith may escape at dawn

Love will arrive on trembling legs

Eyes downcast, hearts aflutter, lips atremble

Silence will then be fragrant like a kiss on the lips

And the only sound left will be that of buds flowering

And then there will be need for neither word nor talk

In the movement of the gaze, an emotion will sprout

Tenderness will be our guest, hate will be asked to leave

Hand in hand, accompanied by the whole world

Bearing the gift of pain, and the bounty of fondness

We will cross the deserts of animus

And find ourselves on the other side of oceans of blood

Let not the conversation cease

Let one word lead to another

And let our evening tryst go on till dawn

While the starry night-sky smiles down on us.

2   Avadh ki khaak-e haseen[3]

Ye seedhe saadhe ghareeb insan, nekiyon ke mujassame hain

Ye mehnaton ke khuda, ye takhleekh ke payambar

Jo apne haathon ke khurdarepan se zindagi ko sanvaarte hain

Lohaar ke ghan ke neeche lohe hi shakl tabdeel ho rahi hai

Kumhaar ka chaak chal raha hai

Suraahiyan raqs kar rahi hain

Safed aata siyaah chakki se raag ban kar nikal raha hai

Sunehre choolhon mein aag ke phool khil rahe hain

Pateeliyaan gunguna rahi hain

Dhuen se kaale tave bhi chingaariyon ke honton se hans rahe hain

Dupatte aangan mein doriyon se tange hue hain

Aur un ke aanchal se dhaani boonden tapak rahi hain

Sunehri pagdandiyon ke dil par

Siyaah lehngon ki surkh koten chamak rahi hain

Ye saadgi kis qadar haseen hai

Main jail mein baithe baithe aksar ye sochta hoon

Jo ho sake to Avadh ki pyaari zameen ko god mein utha loon

Aur us ke shadaab lahlahaati jabeen ko

Hazaaron boson se jagmaga doon.

The beautiful land of Avadh

These simple poor folk are the epitome of goodness

These gods of labour, these prophets of creation

Who make life beautiful with their calloused hands

Under the blacksmith’s anvil, iron is changing shape

The potter’s wheel hums

And goblets dance to its beat

The white flour emerges from the black millstone like a musical note

Flowers of fire bloom in stoves and ovens

Cooking utensils sing along

Skillets black with smoke laugh with lips made of sparks

Dupattas hang on ropes

And from their borders, a row of drops fall to the ground

On the hearts of these golden streets

The red borders of black long skirts shine on

How beautiful is this simplicity!

I sit in my prison cell and often wonder

That if I could I would take the beautiful earth of my Avadh in my lap

And light up its beautiful, shimmering forehead

With thousands of kisses.

Jan Nisar Akhtar

Bhoole na kisi haal mein aadaab-e nazar hum

Mud kar na tujhe dekh sake waqt-e safar hum

Jeene ka hamen khud na mila waqt to kya hai

Auron ko sikhlaate rahe jeene ka hunar hum

I never did lose sight of the protocols of the gaze

Thus did not turn to say goodbye as we went our ways

I admit I had no time to lead my own life but

My advice guided so many through its tricky maze.

A little birdie persistently whispers that Jan Nisar Akhtar (1914–76) ghostwrote many of the film songs that Sahir got credit for. Such rumours are not particularly useful, since they cannot be confirmed, but they do serve as a reminder that Jan Nisar’s style was similar to Sahir’s, and his command over poetry was as strong.[1] Akhtar himself is credited with quite a few song lyrics, such as the haunting ‘Ye dil aur un ki nigahon ke saaye’ (‘This heart, and the shadow of the gaze’) from the 1973 film Prem Parbat, and ‘Ai dil-e nadaan’ (‘O naive heart’) from the 1983 film Razia Sultan.

Jan Nisar gave up a career as an academic and moved to Bombay, where he mostly hung out with Mulk Raj Anand, Krishan Chander, Rajinder Singh Bedi and Ismat Chughtai—the so-called ‘Bombay Group of Writers’. He published several anthologies of his work, including Khaak-e Dil (The Dust of the Heart; 1973).

I have translated two of his poems. The first, ‘Ash-aar Mere’ (‘My Verses’), was rendered beautifully by Mukesh in a non-film work.[2] The second poem hews more to the progressive tradition. ‘Aakhri Lamha’ (‘Last Moment’) is part of a long poem dedicated to his daughter Uneza. The poem incorporates narrative sweeps, shifting rhyme schemes and combines personal narrative with broader social concerns.

1   Ash-aar mere

Ash-aar mere yoon to zamaane ke liye hain

Kuchh sher faqat unko sunaane ke liye hain

Ab ye bhi nahin theek ki har dard mitaa den

Kuchh dard kaleje se lagaane ke liye hain

Aankhon mein jo bhar loge to kaanton se chubhenge

Ye khwaab to palkon pe sajaane ke liye hain

Dekhoon tere haathon ko to lagta hai tere hath

Mandir mein faqat deep jalaane ke liye hain

Socho to badi cheez hai tahzeeb badan ki

Varna to badan aag bujhaane ke liye hain

Ye ilm ka sauda, ye risaale ye kitaaben

Ek shakhs ki yaadon ko bhulaane ke liye hain

My verses

My poetry of course for the entire world I deploy

But some verses are set aside for that one person’s joy

Some deep wounds are meant to be kept in the heart closely guarded

No joy can compensate if those unique pains are destroyed

Store them not inside your eyes, they will sting you like sharp thorns

Place those sharp shards of dreams on your eyelashes, to enjoy

When I look at your wondrous hands, I do strongly believe

To light lamps in temples, they are destined to be employed

Considered one way, the discipline of the flesh is vital

Think differently, and the body’s merely a pleasure-toy

This lofty intellectual demeanour I affect, sir

Is but a vain attempt to forget someone—a mere ploy.

2   Aakhri lamha

(Apni beti uneza ke naam)[3]

Tum meri zindagi mein aayi ho

Mera ek paaon jab rikaab mein hai

Dil ki dhadkan hai doobne ke qareeb

Saans har lahza pech-o-taab mein hai

Toot-te bekharosh taaron ki

Aakhri kapkai rabab mein ha

Koi manzil, na jaada-e manzil

Raasta gum kisi saraab mein hai

Tum ko chaaha kiya khayaalon mein

Tum ko paaya bhi jaise khwaab mein hai

Main sochta thha ke tum aaogi, tumhe paakar

Main is jahaan ke dukh-o-dard bhool jaaoonga

Gale mein daal ke baanhen jo jhool jaaogi

Main aasmaan ke tare bhi tod laaoonga

Tum ek bel ke manind badhti jaaogi

Na chhoo sakengi havaadis ki aandhiyan tum ko

Main apni jaan pe sau aafaten utha loonga

Chhupa ke rakkhoonga baahon ke darmiyan tum ko

Magar main aaj bahut door jaane vaala hoon

Bas aur chand nafas ko tumhare paas hoon main

Tumhe jo paa ke khushi hai, tum is khushi pe na jaao

Tumhe ye ilm nahin kis qadar udaas hoon main

Kya tum ko khabar is duniya ki, kya tum ko pataa is duniya ka

Masoom dilon ko dukh dena, ik sheva hai is duniya ka

Taareeq bataayegi tum ko insaan se kahaan par bhool hui

Sarmaaye ke haathon duniya ki kis tarah mohabbat dhool hui

Jeene ki hara tarah se tamanna haseen hai

Har shar ke bavajood ye duniya haseen hai

Dariya ki tund bhaad bhayaanak sahi magar

Toofan se khelta hua tinka haseen hai

Sehra ka har sukoot daraata rahe to kya

Jangal ko kaat-ta hua rasta haseen hai

Chaman se chand hi kaante main chun saka lekin

Badi hai baat jo tum rang-e gul nikhaar sako

Amal tumhara ye taufeeq de sake tum ko

Ke zindagi ka har ek qarz tum utaar sako

Raushni der se aankhon ki bujhi jaati hai

Theek se kuchh bhi dikhai nahin deta mujh ko

Ek chehra mere chehre pe jhuka jaata hai

Kaun hai ye bhi sujhayi nahin deta mujh ko

Sirf sannate ki awaaz chali aati hai

Aur to kuchh bhi sunaai nahin deta mujh ko

Ye meri nazm mera pyaar hai tumhaare liye

Ye sher tum ko meri rooh ka pata denge

Yehi tumhe mere azm-o-amal ki denge khabar

Yehi tumhe meri majbooriyan bataayenge

Kabhi jo gham ke andhere mein dagmagaaogi

Tumhari raah mein kitne diye jalaayenge

Aao is chaand se maathe ko zara choom to loon

Phir na hoga hamen ye pyaar naseeb aa jaao

Aaakhri lamha hai seene pe mere sar rakh do

Dil ki haalat hui jaati hai ajeeb aa jaao

Na aizza na akhibba na khuda hai na rasool

Koi is waqt nahin mere qareeb, aa jaao

Tum to qareeb aa jaao

The last moment

(For my daughter uneza)

You have come into my life now

When departing, I have one foot on the stirrup

When my heartbeat has begun to get faint

And every breath is a tortured effort

A final sound escapes, as if

From the frayed strings of a harp

Neither a destination, nor a pathway to one

My path is ghostly, like a mirage

I had desired you in my thoughts

And now have found you as if in a dream

I had thought that when you came, your presence

Would help me forget all the woes of this world

That when you swung in my joyous embrace

I would bring you back the stars from the sky

You would grow tall like a sturdy vine

The storms of circumstance would not reach you

A hundred calamities I would take upon myself

Keeping you safely nestled in my arms

But today, I am headed to a place far away

I am your companion for a few short moments

Do not go by the happiness I feel in your presence

You have no idea how sad I am

What do you know of this world, what do you reckon of this world?

To torture innocent hearts is a pastime of this world

History will show us where humanity lost its way

How love was ground to dust by the merciless hand of capital

Every will to live is beautiful

Despite all its flaws, the world is beautiful

The storm of a river in spate is scary, but

That stubborn floater in the maelstrom is beautiful

The stillness of the desert does terrify, so what?

The path that cuts through the forest is beautiful

I was able to remove very few thorns from the garden, but

It would be great if you could bring colour back to the roses

May your effort give you the wisdom

That you may repay every debt that you owe to life

The light in my eyes has begun to dim

I can no longer see anything with clarity

A face bends over mine

But whose is it? I can no longer tell

The only sound is the sound of silence

I can hear nothing else

This poem is an offering of my love

These verses will show you the way to my soul

It is they who will tell you of my struggle, my effort

It is they who will show you my constraints

When you will reel in the darkness of sorrows

It is they who will light so many lamps in your path

Come, that I may kiss that bright moonlike forehead

We may never be destined for such love, come

It is the final moment: rest your head on my chest

My heart has begun to experience strange feelings, come

No friends, no relatives, no God, no prophets

There is no one near me, come

At least you be close, come.

Majrooh Sultanpuri

Majrooh, likh rahe hain vo ahl-e vafaa ke naam

Hum bhi khade hue hain gunahgaar ki tarah

Majrooh, the names of the faithful they write

Like a sinner, I await my name, quiet

Asrar-ul Hassan Khan ‘Majrooh’ (1919–2000) was born in Sultanpur, and studied in relatively conventional settings, becoming a qualified Unani hakim, a career he gave up to become a full-time poet. His high-risk career choice was to pay rich dividends; he became arguably the most successful

poet of the progressive tradition after Sahir, writing extensively for movies.

Majrooh’s leftist leanings were evident from the start, as was his lyricality. He combined both by writing exquisite ghazals in praise of socialist nations (the maqta of one of his ghazals was: ‘Meri nigaah mein hai arz-e Moscow, Majrooh / Vo sarzameen ke sitaare jise salaam karen’; ‘My eyes are fixed on the horizon of Moscow, Majrooh / The land that is saluted even by the stars’). Despite his activism during the independence movement, Majrooh escaped incarceration in the pre-1947 phase. Ironically, he was jailed in 1949 (along with fellow lefty film-wala Balraj Sahni and fellow PWA member Ali Sardar Jafri, among others) by the government of newly independent India, which reflected the troubling reality of how newly independent nations devoured their socialists after decolonization.

The ghazal I have translated below is a tongue-in-cheek look at how lovers and revolutionaries bragged about their misfortune to mark their superiority.[1] To do justice to Majrooh’s phenomenal success as a lyricist (he is, after all, the only lyricist to have won the prestigious Dadasaheb Phalke Award), I also include a film song. His most popular songs were ‘Chahoonga main tujhe saanjh savere’ (from the 1946 Dosti), the execrable ‘Angrezi mein kehte hain ke I love you’ (from the 1982 film Khuddar) and ‘Papa kehte hain bada naam karega’ (from the 1988 film Qayamat se Qayamat Tak). I would, in good cricketing tradition, do a ‘well-left’ to all three. I have chosen the song ‘Ek din bik jaayega maati ke mol’ from the 1975 film Dharam Karam, especially since it truly showcases Majrooh’s lyrical ability, and simultaneously demonstrates how a song is different from a traditional poem.

1   Tum se ziyaada

Hum ko junoon kya sikhlaate ho, hum thhe pareshan tum se ziyaada

Chaak kiye hain hum ne azeezo, chaar garebaan tum se ziyaada

Chaak-e jigar muhtaaj-e rafoo hai, aaj to daaman sirf lahoo hai

Ek mausam thha, hum ko raha hai shauq-e bahaaran tum se ziyaada

Ahd-e vafaa yaaron se nibhaayen, naaz-e hareefan hans ke uthaayen

Jab hamein armaan tum se siva thha, ab hai pashemaan tum se ziyaada

Jao tum apni baam ki khaatir saari laven sham’on ki katar lo

Zakhmon ke mehr-o-maah salaamat, jashn-e chiraaghan tum se ziyaada

Hum bhi hamesha qatl hue, aur tum ne bhi dekha door se, lekin

Ye na samajhna hum ko hua hai jaan ka nukhsan tum se ziyaada

Zanjeer-o-deevaar hi dekhi tum ne to, Majrooh, magar hum

Koocha koocha dekh rahe hain aalam-e zindaan tum se ziyaada

Way more than you

Do not teach me about passion, I’ve suffered hurt way more than you

I have torn in lost love, my friend, four more good shirts, way more than you

Wounded hearts demand repairing, my garment is red with my blood

Once there was a blighted autumn, when I sought spring way more than you

Faithful was I to well-wishers, and smilingly bore the betrayal of foes

More than you I was passionate; now I’m shamefaced way more than you

Hide behind your darkened secrets, cut the wicks off prying tapers

Yet, my wounds will light up the night: illumination way more than you

Though I was always killed in action, and you always watched from safety

Do not imagine that I suffered annihilation way more than you[2]

Walls and chains were all you knew, but know this, Majrooh, even then

Every street is like a prison: incarceration way more than you.

2   Ek din bik jayega

Ek din bik jayega, maati ke mol

Jag mein reh jayenge pyare tere bol

Dooje ke honthon ko de kar apne geet

Koi nishani chhod, phir duniya se dol

Anhoni path mein kaante lakh bichhaaye

Honi to phir bhi bichhda yaar milaye

Ye birha, ye doori

Do pal ki majboori

Phir koi dilwala kahe ko ghabraye

Taram pam . . .

Dhara jo behti hai milke rehti hai

Behti dhara ban ja, phir duniya se dol

Ek din bik jayega, maati ke mol

Jag mein reh jayenge pyare tere bol

Parde ke peechhe baithi saanval gori

Thaam ke tere mere man ki dori

Ye dori na chhoote, ye bandhan na toote

Bhor hone wali hai ab raina hai thodi

Taram pam . . .

Sar ko jhukaye tu baitha kya hai yaar?

Gori se naina jod, phir duniya se dol

Ek din bik jayega, maati ke mol

Jag mein reh jayenge pyare tere bol

You will be sold one day

A day will come when you will be sold for the price of dust

Remember, all that will be left will be your poems, just

Donate your songs to strangers’ lips and they’ll keep you alive

Leave this eternal gift for them, and then move on you must.

Chance will strew a million thorns on your path till the end

While fortune will unite you with old forgotten friends

This autumn, this parting

A brief pain, a smarting

Why should the brave of heart be scared of fortune then?

Taram pum . . .

Watch when the river flows: many eddies, one thrust

Become the flowing stream, and then move on you must

A day will come when you will be sold for the price of dust

Remember, all that will be left will be your poems, just

Look, behind the curtain sits a brown beauty divine

She holds in her hands a string, controls your mind and mine

Let not that string break; let not that relationship fade

For it will soon be morning, and a harsh light will invade

Taram pum . . .

Don’t sit, bowing your head, my young friend robust

Lock eyes with that beauty, and then move on you must

A day will come when you will be sold for the price of dust

Remember, all that will be left will be your poems, just.

Kaifi Azmi

Hua hai hukm ke Kaifi ko sang-saar karo

Maseeh baithe hain chhup kar kahaan, khuda jaane

Stone Kaifi to death, the rulers cried

The Messiah? We do not know where he hides!

Born Syed Athar Hussain Rizvi (1919–2002), Kaifi Azmi was initially educated in Islamic seminaries, but eventually became a true adherent of Marxism, dedicating his life to the service of the Communist Party of India, and writing his most tortured work, Aavara Sajde (Vagabond Obeisances), when the CPI and CPM split in the 1960s. He is well known for his proclamation: ‘I was born in enslaved India, have lived in independent secular India, and God willing, I will die in socialist India.’ Alas, his last wish was not to come true; indeed, the year he died was especially difficult even for secular India, thanks to the Gujarat pogroms. Kaifi’s death became a moment when people took it upon themselves to rededicate themselves to the idea of secularism.

Kaifi won many awards in his life, but was proudest of his Soviet Land Nehru Award. The Urdu Academy conferred on him the Millennium Award in 2001, and he was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Fellowship in 2002. His presence is well represented on the web[1], and translations[2] of his work have been well received.

I have translated two poems below. The first, ‘Andeshe’ (‘Premonitions’) is a poignant description of an ending relationship, and was adapted by Chetan Anand in the 1964 film Haqeeqat, picturized on soldiers presumed dead in the Indo-China war imagining their spouses grieving them. In the second poem ‘Makaan’ (‘House’), Kaifi writes about construction workers and their role in the conquest of nature. In its unselfconscious modernism, the poem extols the power of labour in achieving mastery over nature (through the use of walls, and cables of electricity), and is reminiscent of a similar poem by Majaz on the train, also translated in this volume, albeit with a lot more anger on behalf of the dispossessed workers. To me, the poem depicts the ultimate potential failure of modernity from the point of view of the socialist: that it does not automatically ensure a just and egalitarian society. Modernity sometimes fails the very subjects who were promised freedom from the feudal system they had laboured under in earlier eras. Kaifi ends with a call for collective action, which is a trope he was to deploy consistently in his work.

1   Andeshe

Rooh bechain hai, ek dil ki aziyyat kya hai

Dil hi shola hai to ye soz-e mohabbat kya hai

Vo mujhe bhool gayi iski shikaayat kya hai

Ranj to ye hai ke ro-ro ke bhulaayaa hoga

Jhuk gayi hogi javaan-saal umangon ki jabeen

Mit gayi hogi lalak, doob gaya hoga yaqeen

Chha gaya hoga dhuaan ghoom gayi hogi zameen

Apne pehle hi gharaonde ko jo dhaayaa hoga

Dil ne aise bhi kuchh afsaane sunaaye honge

Ashk aankhon ne piye aur na bahaaye honge

Band kamre mein jo khat mere jalaaye honge

Ek-ik harf jabeen par ubhar aaya hoga

Us ne ghabra ke nazar lakh bachayi hogi

Mit ke ik naqsh ne sau shakl dikhaayi hogi

Mez se jab meri tasveer hataayi hogi

Har taraf mujh ko tadapta hua paaya hoga

Bemahal chhed pe jazbaat ubal aaye honge

Gham pashemaan tabassum mein dhal aaye honge

Naam par mere jab aansoo nikal aaye honge

Sar na kaandhe se saheli ke uthaaya hoga

Zulf zid kar ke kisi ne jo banayi hogi

Roothe jalvon pe khizaan aur bhi chhayi hogi

Barq ashvon ne kayi din na girayi hogi

Rang chehre pe kayi roz na aaya hoga

Premonitions

The soul itself is upset; it’s not merely the heart’s pain

The heart is all afire, agony is a refrain

I’m not sad that she forgot me and scrubbed memory’s stain

But she did it with tears and hurt—that is what I regret.

Resigned, her young expectations must have bowed their forehead

Her certitude must have sunk to resignation with dread

A pall of smoke might have set in, the earth turned on its head

When her first dream-nest she was forced to destroy and forget.

The heart must have narrated to her such a complex tale

That she would have held back her tears composed and calm, but pale

But when she burned my letters in a closed room with a wail

Every word must have floated up and made her eyes more wet.

Scared, she must have avoided each recriminating gaze

But in a hundred images, she may have seen my face

When she must have moved my picture from its familiar place

She would have found me everywhere, a painful silhouette.

An innocent tease may have led emotions to overflow

Her tentative and bashful smiles would have betrayed sorrow

But when she burst into tears at my name, don’t I know

Her head on her friend’s shoulder would have stayed, upset.

If friends insisted on making her up, combing her hair,

Her saddened beauty must have seemed so barren and bare

Her face would strike no lightning awhile in hearts debonair

It would not have regained colour for days, alas not yet.

2   Makaan

Aaj ki raat bahut garm hawaa chalti hai

Aaj ki raat na footpath pe neend aayegi

Sab utho, main bhi uthoon, tum bhi utho, tum bhi utho

Koi khidki isi deewaar mein khul jaayegi

Ye zameen tab bhi nigal lene pe aamaada thhi

Paaon jab toot’ti shaakhon se utaare hum ne,

Un makaanon ko khabar hai, na makeenon ko khabar

Un dinon ki jo gufaaon mein guzaare hum ne

Haath dhalte gaye saanchon mein to thakte kaise

Naqsh ke baad naye naqsh nikhaare hum ne

Ki ye deewaar buland, aur buland, aur buland

Baam-o-dar aur, zaraa aur sanwaare hum ne

Aandhiyaan tod liya karti thhi shamon ki laven

Jad diye is liye bijli ke sitaare hum ne

Ban gaya qasr, to pehre pe koi baith gaya

So rahe khaak pe hum shorish-e taameer liye

Apni nas nas mein liye mehnat-e paiham ki thhakan

Band aankhon mein usi qasr ki tasveer liye

Din pighalta hai usi tarha saron par ab bhi

Raat aankhon mein khatakti hai siyah teer liye

Aaj ki raat bahut garm hawaa chalti hai

Aaj ki raat na footpath pe neend aayegi

Sab utho, main bhi uthoon, tum bhi utho, tum bhi utho

Koi khidki isi deewaar mein khul jaayegi

House

A hot air blows tonight

It will be impossible to sleep on the pavement

Arise everyone! I will rise too. And you. And yourself too

That a window may open in these very walls.

The earth had forever threatened to swallow us

Since we descended from trees and became human,

Neither these houses, nor their residents care to remember

All those days humanity spent in caves.

Once our arms learned the craft however, how could they tire?

Design after design took shape through our work.

And then we built the walls higher, higher and yet higher

Lovingly wrought an even greater beauty to the ceilings and doors

Storms used to extinguish the flames of our lamps

So we fixed stars made of electricity in our skies.

Once the palace was built, they hired a guard to keep us out

And we slept in the dirt, with our screaming craft

Our pulses pounding with exhaustion

Bearing the picture of that very palace in our tightly shut eyes

The day still melts on our heads like before

The night pierces our eyes with black arrows,

A hot air blows tonight

It will be impossible to sleep on the pavement

Arise everyone! I will rise too. And you. And yourself too

That a window may open in these very walls.

Sahir Ludhianvi

Before he was Sahir Ludhianvi[1], Abdul Hai (1921–80) was born in a family of Punjabi landowners. His anger at his class position led to his expulsion from college. However, even before he turned twenty-five, he had published Talkhiyan, a bestseller till date. Sahir, of course, is known in the public imagination for his incredible career as a film lyricist. A partial collection of his film lyrics titled Gaata Jaaye Banjara (And the Gypsy Sings On) outsells most poetry books in serious bookstores. Sahir has been credited with recasting class-rebellion as romantic rebellion in film songs to shoehorn his politics into the filmi idiom. However, he was strangely ignored by the intelligentsia. For example, in his analysis of Urdu literature Mohammed Sadiq, after a chapter each on Ghalib, Iqbal, and even Akbar Allahabadi, dismisses Sahir in one paragraph. His analysis begins thus: ‘Though deficient in imagination, Sahir has a strong intellectual approach.’[2]

But despite being ignored by some of the intelligentsia, the poet lives on in the public imagination. In this crowded field, let me declare that despite all his flaws, Sahir is my favourite poet, and his Parchhaiyan my favourite poem. It has to do with a variety of personal reasons, and I will not be aghast if this surprises some readers.

I have chosen to translate three poems from Sahir here. The first is his uber-famous ‘Taj Mahal’, which was sung beautifully by Mohammad Rafi in the 1964 film Ghazal. The second is a qataa that exemplifies the defiance of Sahir the poet. The third is a selection from his film work: ‘Main pal do pal ka shaayar hoon’ from the blockbuster 1976 film Kabhie Kabhie.

1   Taj Mahal

Taj tere liye ek mazhar-e ulfat hi sahi

Tujh ko is vaadi-e rangeen se aqeedat hi sahi

Meri mehboob, kahin aur mila kar mujh se!

Bazm-e shahi mein ghareebon ka guzar kya maani?

Sabt jis rah pe hon satvat-e shaahi ke nishan

Us pe ulfat bhari roohon ka safar kya maani?

Meri mehboob, pas-e parda-e tashheer-e vafaa

Tu ne satvat ke nishaanon ko to dekha hota?

Murda shahon ke maqaabir se bahalne vaali

Apne taareek makaanon ko to dekha hota?

Anginat logon ne duniya mein mohabbat ki hai

Kaun kehta hai ke sadeq na thhe jazbe un ke?

Lekin un ke liye tash-heer ka saamaan nahin

Kyon ke vo log bhi apni hi tarah muflis thhe

Ye imaaraat, vo maqaabir, ye faseelen, ye hisaar

Mutlaq-ul hukm shahenshahon ki azmat ke sutoon

Daaman-e dahr pe us rang ki gulkaari hai

Jis mein shaamil hai tere aur mere ajdaad ka khoon

Meri mehboob, unhen bhi to mohabbat hogi

Jin ki sannaai ne bakhshi hai isey shakl-e jameel

Un ke pyaaron ke maqaabir rahe benaam-o-namood

Aaj tak un pe jalaayi na kisi ne qandeel

Ye chamanzaar, ye Jamunaa ka kinaaraa, ye mahal

Ye munaqqash dar-o-deevaar, ye mehraab, ye taaq

Ek shahenshah ne daulat ka sahara le kar

Ham ghareebon ki mohabbat kaa udaayaa hai mazaaq!

Meri mehboob, kahin aur mila kar mujh se!

Taj Mahal

The Taj may be a symbol of love for you

And you may place faith in that verdant valley

But my love, please meet me elsewhere.

What is the meaning of the presence of the poor in these palaces?

On the paths, where the majesty of kings has been etched

Why should loving souls sojourn here?

My love, behind the curtain of exhibitionist romance

Do you not observe the marks of elitism?

You who are calmed in the mausoleums of dead kings

Could you not cast a look at your own dark house?

Countless people have fallen in love before

Who says their emotions were not authentic?

But this indelible memory is not for them

For they, like us, were poor.

This building, those tombs, these parapets, that fort

The signs of the grandeur of sovereign kings

Are like rose-hued writing on the face of this world

That has been coloured with the blood of your ancestors and mine.

My beloved, they too must have loved passionately

They—whose craft has given [the Taj] its beautiful visage

Their loved ones lie in unmarked graves

Where no one even lights a candle.

These gardens, these banks of the Jamuna, this palace

These intricately carved walls and doors and awnings

An emperor has used his immense wealth to mock the love of us poor.

My love, meet me anywhere but here.

2   Qataa

Vajh-e be rangi-e gulzaar kahoon to kya ho?

Kaun hai kitna gunahgaar, kahoon to kya ho?

Tum ne jo baat sar-e bazm na sun-na chaahi

Main wahi baat sar-e daar kahoon to kya ho?

Quatrain

What if I told you why the garden had no colour?

What if I outed those whose sins had caused this squalor?

Those words you do not wish whispered in civil soirées

What if those very words on the gallows I holler?

3   Main pal do pal ka shayar hoon

Main pal do pal ka shayar hoon

Pal do pal meri kahani hai

Pal do pal meri hasti hai

Pal do pal meri jawani hai

Mujh se pehle kitne shayar aaye aur aa kar chale gaye

Kuchh aahen bhar kar laut gaye kuchh naghme gaa kar chale gaye

Woh bhi ek pal ka qissa tha, main bhi ek pal ka qissa hoon

Kal tum se juda ho jaoonga, jo aaj tumhara hissa hoon

Har nasl ek fasl hai dharti ki, aaj uth-ti hai kal kat-ti hai

Jeevan vo mehngi midra hai, jo qatra qatra bat-ti hai

Pal do pal main ne sunaya hai, itni hi sa-aadat kaafi hai

Pal do pal tum ne mujh ko suna, itni hi inayat kaafi hai

Kal aur aayenge naghmon ki khilti kaliyan chunne wale

Mujh se behtar kahne wale tumse behtar sunne wale

Kal koi mujh ko yaad karey? Kyon koi mujh ko yaad karey?

Masroof zamaana mere liye kyon waqt apna barbaad karey?

Main pal do pal ka shayar hoon

I am a poet of a few moments

I am a poet of a few moments

And a few moments’ worth is my story

A few moments’ worth is my existence

And a few moments’ worth is my youth.

Before me, so many poets came and went away

Some sighed in great anguish and left; others sang their songs and left too

They were the story of a few moments

I am a story of a few moments, too

Tomorrow, I’ll be separated from you

Though I feel an integral part of you.

Every generation is a crop, grown today and harvested tomorrow

And life is that expensive liquor that is distributed by the drop

I have recited for a moment or two, this fortune is enough

You have listened for a moment or two, this favour too is enough.

Tomorrow, there will be others who will pluck the flowering buds of songs

Those who speak better than me, and those who listen better than you

Tomorrow, will someone remember me? Why at all should they remember me?

Why should this busy world waste its time for someone as inconsequential as me?

I am a poet of a few moments.

Sulaiman Khateeb

Main raste ki panti hoon, deepak hoon fan ka

Ye saara ujaala hai mere sukhan ka

Mujhe naich pehchaane logainch mere

Main anmol heera hoon Dakkan ki khan ka

I am the traveller of the path, I light the lamp of art

Through my dexterity this brightness do I impart

Alas, I remain unheeded! My people missed the signs

I am the invaluable gem of Deccan’s diamond mines.

Sulaiman Khateeb (1922–78) was indeed a true gem from the mines of the Deccan, a Koh-i-noor. He was born in present-day Karnataka, and his family was steeped in devotion to Khwaja Banda Nawaaz, the patron saint of Gulbarga. Orphaned as a baby, he managed to channel his experiences of marginality into his poetry, and wrote evocatively about the poor and oppressed, including those trapped in moribund social institutions such as oppressed daughters-in-law, impoverished widows, financially strapped parents of girls facing dowry demands, and victims of sectarian riots. The most incredible part about Khateeb’s work is that, despite its dark themes, it is witty—not smile-inwards witty, but roll-on-the-floor funny.[1] Despite his own precarious financial existence (he worked for the Karnataka State Water Works Department and yet won no patronage from the state), Khateeb managed to hold his own as a poet of repute; despite his ability to write in traditional idioms (and his fluency in Persian), he treasured and nurtured the Dakkani style of speaking and writing in his work, legitimizing it in the eyes of a broader community of poets and listeners.

The poem I have translated is a small excerpt from a longer poem titled Saas Bahu, which is structured as a dialogue between a foul-mouthed, abusive and ignorant woman and her educated, urbane daughter-in-law who has no option but to listen to her mother-in-law’s rants and reflect on her status. I wish I could have translated the whole poem with all its twists and turns; I hope this excerpt will provide a fleeting, partial sense of his turn of phrase and linguistic felicity.

Saas bahu

Saas:

Aanch ghar mein lagaa ko baithi hai

Ghar ka gampa gira ko baithi hai

Vo to potta sada ka deevana

Poora bandar banaa ko baithi hai . . .

Ujla dekha, uchhal gaya potta

Peela dekha, phisal gaya potta

Mere haatan se, kya karoon, amma

Saaf poora nikal gaya potta

Kaise jaale mein is ko pakdi hai

Admiyan khaane ki ek makdi hai

Bahu (Deevan-e Ghalib ka ek safa ulat-te hue):

Na suno gar bura kahe koi

Na kaho gar bura kahe koi

Rok lo gar ghalat chale koi

Bakhsh do gar khataa kare koi

Jab tavaqqo hi uth gaya Ghalib

Kyon kisi ka gila kare koi

Saas:

Kaun Ghalib, ye tera sagga hai?

Ki kaleje ko thham leti hai?

Itti deeda-dileri dekho ma!

Ghair mardon ka naam leti hai!

Bahu:

Baatein karti ho kis tarah ammi?

Baat heera hai baat moti hai

Baat lakhon ki laaj khoti hai

Baat har baat ko nahi kehte

Baat mushkil se baat hoti hai

Baat seene ka dagh hoti hai

Baat phoolon ka baagh hoti hai

Baat khair-o-sawaab hoti hai

Baat qahr-o-azaab hoti hai

Baat barg-e gulab hoti hai

Baat tegh-e itaab hoti hai

Baat kehte hain rabb-e arni ko

Baat ummul kitaab hoti hai

Baat bole kaleem ho jaye

Sun-ne wala nadeem hojaye

Baat khanjar ki kaat hoti hai!!

Saas:

Minje khanjar ki kaat boli na!

Minjhe kadhki so naat boli na!

Dikh ke murdon ki khaat boli na!

Ghud po pheke so taat boli na!

Minje chipkaa so chamboo boli na

Minje tadqaa so bamboo boli na!

Minje duniya ki kutni samjhee gey?

Laal mirchiyaan ki bukni samjhee gey?

Minje dammey ki dhuknee samjhee gey?

Minjhe phutti so phookni samjhee gey?

Marad aaney dey peet phodongee

Teri turbat banako ch’hodongi

Kitte jaatey hain tu bhi jaana gey

Aako khai-dast tujhe lejana gey

Ghis ke mirchiyan tujhe lagaana gey

Pooray peeraan ke haath jodonngee

Mitthe ghoday banaake ch’hodoongi

Ujlee shakkar ke chongay todoongi

Chaar nariyal mangaa ko phodoongi

Mere dil ko sukoon mil jayinga

Sukki daali pey phool khil jayinga

Bahu (aankhon mein aansoo laake):

Hum gharaane ki shaan rakhte hain

Band mutthi mein aan rakhte hain

Ghar ki izzat ka paas hai, varna

Hum bhi moonh mein zaban rakhte hain

Apni taleem rok leti hai

Baat badhte hi rok deti hai . . .

Mother-in-law, daughter-in-law

Mother-in-law:

She lit a fire in my house and relaxed

She broke our gampa[2] and relaxed

My son was always such an idiot

Now she has made him a monkey and she relaxed

He saw some white flesh and see how he slipped

He saw her ochre complexion and jumped

What can I say, friend, my own son

Is lost to me completely now

Look how she has ensnared him in her web

She is a man-eating spider, I tell you.

Daughter-in-law (turning the pages of the Deevan-e Ghalib):

Listen not if someone speaks ill

Speak not if someone speaks ill

Stop them if they go astray

Forgive those who bear ill-will

When expectation has been betrayed, Ghalib

How can one recriminate, still?

Mother-in-law:

Who, Ghalib? Is this a buddy of yours?

That you grab your heart with such feeling?

Look how forward is this wench, look

How she takes the name of unrelated men!

Daughter-in-law:

Why do you use such words, Ammi?

A word is a diamond, a word is a pearl

Not all words are worthy of being so termed

With difficulty, a word becomes a word

A word is a wound of the heart

A word is a garden of flowers

A word is a good deed, a blessing

A word is a curse, an epithet too

A word is the petal of a rose

And a sword of tyranny too

A word comes from God as well

A word is the mother of a book

The one who speaks can become a prophet

And a word can be a sword’s cut too.

Mother-in-law:

Look, she called me a sword’s cut

Look, she called me a cracked beam

Look, she called me a corpse’s bier

Look, she called me a jute rug thrown on trash

Look, she called me a battered mug

Look, she called me a broken bamboo stick

Do you think I am a crushing tool, wench?

Do you think I am crushed chilli powder, wench?

Do you think I am an asthmatic’s wheeze, wench?

Do you think I am a broken cylinder, wench?

Let my man come home, I will have your back broken

I will have your grave built today, just watch

So many die, why don’t you die too, wench?

Contract diarrhoea, and shit and vomit to death, wench!

I should smear you with crushed chillies, wench

I will beg all the saints for your death

I will fry sweetmeats when you die

I will make desserts with confectioner’s sugar

I will break four coconuts

I will be at peace at last

Like a dry branch that has suddenly flowered.

Daughter-in-law (tearing up):

I hold the dignity of the family dear

I hold our pride in my closed fist

The reputation of this house is our concern

Otherwise, I too harbour a tongue in my mouth

My education prevents me from replying

And stops me from escalating this conflict.

Habib Jalib

Habib Jalib (1928–93), the Marxist–Leninist troubadour of Pakistan—a thorn in the flesh of every dictator, and a beacon of hope for the oppressed—was best known for his open mocking of Zia-ul Haq (playing with his name ‘Zia’, which means light, and contrasting it with the word zulmat, meaning darkness):

Zulmat ko ‘Zia’, sarsar ko saba, bande ko khuda kya likhna? Kya likhna?

Patthar ko gohar, deewaar ko dar, jugnu ko diyaa kya likhna? Kya likhna?

Why write that darkness is light, that a rustle is the breeze,

That a human is God? Why?

Why call a stone a jewel, a wall a door, or call a firefly a lamp? Why?

His reward for such verses was long spells in jail under every possible dictator imaginable. His defiant verse must be read by imagining its context—that of a poet who was fully aware of the consequences of each public performance; and that of a person who had been incarcerated in brutal conditions, and would, after being released, immediately call attention to the oppressiveness of his interlocutors, and ready himself for another period in prison.

A longish documentary containing Jalib’s interviews and a few performances are available in the public domain on YouTube. The documentary showcases his personal bravery, and contains the poems I have translated below. Also, a very competent translation of ten of Jalib’s poems—of which I would highly recommend ‘Maulaana’—can also be found online.[1] The second poem I have included here contains Jalib’s avowal that his repudiation of traditional romantic themes is a personal choice: note the penultimate sher where he privileges the ‘dahr ke gham’ (the pain of the world) over ‘sarv qaamat ki javaani’ (the beauty of youth).

1   Dastoor

Deep jis ka mahallat hi mein jale

Chand logon ki khushiyon ko le kar chale

Vo jo saaye mein har maslehat ke pale

Aise dastoor ko, subh-e benoor ko

Main nahin maanta! Main nahin jaanta.

Main bhi kharij nahin takhta-e daar se

Main bhi Mansoor hoon, keh do aghyaar se

Kyon daraate ho zindaan ki deewaar se

Zulm ki baat ko, jahl ki raat ho

Main nahin maanta! Main nahin jaanta.

Tum kaho phool shaaqon pe khilne lage

Tum kaho jaam rindon ko milne lage

Tum kaho chaak seenon ke silne lage

Is khule jhoot ko zehn ki loot ko

Main nahin maanta! Main nahin jaanta.

Tum ne loota hai sadiyon hamaara sukoon

Ab na hum par chalega tumhara fusoon

Charagar dardmandon ke bante ho kyon

Tum nahin chaaragar, log mane magar

Main nahin maanta! Main nahin jaanta.

I do not abide!

That which lights lamps only in palaces

That which caters to the whims of elite classes

That flourishes in the shadow of all compromises

Such a system, such a light-starved dawn

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

I am not to be excluded from the scaffold

I am Mansoor[2] too, let the outsiders know

And how dare you scare me with talk of dungeons

This talk of tyranny, this ignorance dark as night

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

You tell me that flowers are blooming on trees

You tell me that the thirsty have found wine at taverns

You tell me that the tattered robes are now stitched

This open lie, this robbery of the senses

I do not agree with! I do not abide!

You have robbed us of our peace for centuries

But your spell has now been broken finally

Do not pretend to be the healer of wounds

You are no physician, others may believe you so, but

I do not agree! I do not abide!

2   Aur sab bhool gaye

Aur sab bhool gaye, harf-e sadaaqat likhna

Reh gaya kaam hamaara hi baghaavat likhna

Laakh kahte rahen zulmat ko na zulmat likhna

Hum ne seekha hi nahin pyaare ba-ijaazat likhna

Na sile ki na sitaish ki tamanna hum ko[3]

Haq mein logon ke hamaari to hai aadat likhna

Hum ne jo bhool ke bhi shah ka qaseeda na likha

Shaayad aayaa isi khoobi ki badaulat likhna

Us se badh kar meri tehseen bhalaa kya hogi

Padh ke naakhush hain mera saaheb-e sarvat likhna

Dahr ke gham se hua rabt to hum bhool gaye

Sarv qaamat ki javaani ko qayaamat likhna

Kuchh bhi kahte hain kahein shah ke masaahib, Jalib

Rang rakhna yahi apna isi soorat likhna

Others forgot

All others forgot to defend the word of truth, alas

To write of revolution, I was left alone at last

‘Do not write that nights are dark,’ they warned me in their fear

But I never sought to write with permission, my dear

[Like Ghalib] I crave no reward nor desire praise

But in support of the downtrodden, my voice I raise

Not even by oversight sang I an ode to the king

Perhaps this adds rhythm to my poems when I sing

What greater acclamation could this poet hope for?

Than that my writings annoyed those that were in power

I admit that I forgot amid this stark oppression

To write of youthful beauty, and call it devastation

Jalib, the king’s courtiers are free to say what they feel

None can hide the crimson colour my poems reveal.[4]

Mustafa Zaidi

Inhi pathharon pe chal kar agar aa sako to aao

Mere ghar ke raaste mein koi kahkashaan nahi hai

If you wish to come, you must take the stony road

The stars do not light up the way to my abode.

Mustafa Zaidi (1930–70) died young, and the circumstances of his death were lurid, involving extramarital liaisons, a suicide pact with a lover who survived, and dark accusations of murder. Rather unfortunately, these issues have tended to overshadow discussions about his considerable talent. Zaidi should have been seen as one of the stalwarts of the progressive movement in Pakistan in the 1960s, but his due has mostly eluded him, partly because of the rather colourful posthumous publicity that enveloped him.

Zaidi’s first book, Raushni, was published when he was merely nineteen years old, and still in India. He moved to Pakistan in the early 1950s, and after a brief stint in academia, went on to become a senior civil servant. His career ended badly when he was dismissed during Yahya Khan’s purge of 303 bureaucrats in 1970. His death shortly after led to the murder trial of his paramour, which assumed the status of a media circus. During that time, several literary journals brought out special issues on his work. Eventually, his Kulliyaat (complete works) was published in the mid 1970s, which also included some of the most superlative praise of his work by Faiz, Firaaq and Josh.[1]

I have chosen to translate two brief works. The first is a ghazal that has been sung by Abida Parveen, among others, while the second is an excerpt from his luminous poem ‘Koh-e Nida’ (hat tip to my friend Jaffar Naqvi for introducing me to this poem, and to Zaidi). The imagery of the Koh-e Nida is from the Arabian folk tale of Hatim Tai in which a mountain called out to people, who upon entering it were consumed by it. Written at the tail end of Zaidi’s life, this poem has been interpreted by many as a poetic suicide note, where Zaidi sees the world as a beckoning killer mountain.

1   Aandhi chali

Aandhi chali to naqsh-e kaf-e paa nahin mila

Dil jis se mil gaya vo dobaraa nahin mila

Aavaaz ko to kaun samajhta ke door door

Khaamoshiyon ka dard-shanasaa nahin mila

Hum anjuman mein sab ki taraf dekhte rahe

Apni tarah se koi akela nahin mila

Kachche ghade ne jeet li naddi chadhi hui

Mazboot kashtiyon ko kinara nahin mila

The storm

So intense was the storm, even footprints were wiped out

To lose those I desired—that’s been my fate throughout

Who could have recognized that voice, no one had the gift

That could feel the painful cadence of a silent shout

I locked eyes with everyone in that public soirée

Alas I found none as lonely as me, without a doubt

The clay pitcher survived the swells of flooded rivers

It reached the shore, while the storm shattered ships strong and stout.

2   Koh-e Nida

Ayyohan-naas chalo koh-e nida ki jaanib

Kab tak aashufta-sari hogi naye naamon se

Thhak chuke honge kharabaat ke hangaamon se

Har taraf ek hi andaz mein din dhalte hain

Log har shehr mein saaye ki tarah chalte hain

Ajnabi khauf ko seenon mein chhupaae hue log

Apne aaseb ke taaboot uthaaye hue log

Zaat ke karb mein bazaar ki rusvaai mein

Tum bhi shamil ho is anboh ki tanhaai mein

Tum bhi ek baadiya paimaa ho khala ki jaanib

Ayyohan-naas chalo koh-e nida ki jaanib

Raat bhar jaagte rehte hain dukaanon ke charaagh

Dil vo sunsaan jazeera, ke bujha rehta hai

Lekin is band jazeere hi ke ek goshe mein

Zaat ka baab-e tilismaat khula rehta hai

Apni hi zaat mein pasti ke khandar milte hain

Apni hi zaat mein ek koh-e nida rehta hai

Sirf us koh ke daaman mein mayassar hai najaat

Aadmi varna anaasir mein ghira rehta hai

Aur phir in se bhi ghabra ke uthaata hai nazar

Apne mazhab ki taraf, apne khuda ki jaanib

Ayyohan-naas chalo koh-e nida ki jaanib

The calling mountain

My fellow humans, let’s go answer the mountain’s call.

How long will we use new names to conceal our distress?

You too must be tired of this misfortune and stress

Everywhere the new day brings similar tired woes

In each city folk move strangely like zombie shadows

In their hearts they conceal strange fears camouflaged as cares

Demons disguised as idols, this strange multitude bears

Private pains of existence, the market’s public shame

Don’t you judge this crowd, you too have played this lonely game

Like barren promises, into this void let us fall

My fellow humans, let’s go answer the mountain’s call.

The bright lamps of shops stay lit all night, garish and stark

The heart, though, is that silent island that remains dark

But in every corner of this island, near and far

The magic door of selfhood remains open, ajar

In our self, we see lowly ruins of hurt and pain

In our own self we see the cursed beckoning mountain

In that mountain’s caves—that is where our salvation lies

Else humans stay trapped in webs of relations and ties

And fearful of those too, they slowly raise up their eyes

They summon their God, enveloped in religious thrall

My fellow humans let’s go answer the mountain’s call.

Ahmed Faraz

Ahmed Faraz (1931–2008) wrote such exquisite Urdu ghazals that it is almost impossible to believe that he was not a native speaker but rather a Pashtoon who grew up speaking Hindko. Like Jalib, he too suffered incarceration and exile under the Zia-ul Haq regime, but continued to write critically about the regime. Unlike Jalib’s plebeian verses though, Faraz favoured highly stylized language in his compositions.

In a rehabilitation of sorts, Faraz was feted in his later years, and even awarded the prestigious Hilal-e Imtiaz by the government in 2004. However, in 2006, in protest against Pervez Musharraf’s anti-democratic policies, Faraz returned the award, and died in 2008, unheralded by institutional awards but with a unique place in the hearts of Pakistanis, Urdu-lovers and lovers of freedom of expression everywhere. The public domain contains many of his performances, including the famous ‘Mohaasara’ (‘Siege’), written in direct defiance of Zia-ul Haq.[1] The poem describes a besieged individual under attack from a powerful army, which sends him an invitation to surrender, to which he predictably responds defiantly.

The first ghazal[2] I have translated here (a traditional poem, but one for which he got some flak from conservatives for a direct reference to nudity) stands in stark contrast to the heartbreaking lyricism of Faraz’s best-known ghazal, ‘Ranjish hi sahi’[3]. I include that ghazal along with two more snippets from Faraz’s poetry.

1   Sunaa hai

Sunaa hai log use aankh bhar ke dekhte hain

So uske shahr mein kuchh din thahar ke dekhte hain

Sunaa hai rabt hai us ko kharaab haalon se

So apne aap ko barbaad kar ke dekhte hain

Sunaa hai us ko bhi hai sher-o-shaayiri se sharaf

So hum bhi mojize apne hunar ke dekhte hain

Sunaa hai bole so baton se phool jhadte hain

Ye baat hai to chalo, baat kar ke dekhte hain

Sunaa hai us ke shabistaan se muttasil hai bahisht

Makeen udhar ke bhi jalve idhar ke dekhte hain

Kise naseeb ke be-pairahan use dekhen

Kabhi kabhi dar-o-deevar ghar ke dekhte hain

Ab us ke shahr mein thehren, ke kooch kar jaayen

Faraz aao, sitaare safar ke dekhte hain

It has been said

My love is the cynosure of eyes, everyone says

Why not stay in this city for just a few more days?

They say that the bereft receive his consideration

Let us destroy ourselves in this anticipation

It has been said that good poetry is close to his heart

So let us try to showcase miracles of our art

They say when my lover speaks, flowers fall from their stalks

Let us speak then, and see what transpires in our talks

Across from my lover’s bedroom, they say heaven lies

Dwellers of the other side this way have cast their eyes

Who is fortunate enough to see my lover nude?

Only his walls and roof, that too rarely, we conclude

Should we stay in my lover’s city, or should we pass?

Let us leave that decision to the stars, dear Faraz.

2   Chand naadaan, Chand deevane

Raat ke jaan-gudaaz zulmat mein

Azm ki mashaalen jalaaye hue

Dil mein le kar baghaawaton ke sharaar

Vahshaton ke muheeb saaye mein

Sar-bakaf, jaan-ba lab, nigaah-ba qasr

Surkh-o-khooni alam uthhaaye hue

Badh rahe hain junoon ke aalam mein

Chand naadaan, chand deevane

A few passionate novices

In the murderous darkness

Having lit the torches of their determination

Carrying sparks of rebellion in their hearts

In the intimidating shadows of danger

Heads high, lives in the balance, and eyes on the palace

Carrying red, bloodstained banners

They march with frenzy

A few passionate novices.

3   Ranjish hi sahi

Ranjish hi sahi, dil hi dukhaane ke liye aa

Aa phir se mujhe chhod ke jaane ke liye aa

Pehle se maraasim na sahi phir bhi kabhi to

Rasm-o-rah-e duniya hi nibhaane ke liye aa

Kis kis ko bataayenge judaai ka sabab hum

Tu mujh se khafaa hai to zamaane ke liye aa

Kuchh to mere pindaar-e muhabbat ka bharam rakh

Tu bhi to kabhi mujh ko manaane ke liye aa

Ek umr se hoon lazzat-e giriyaa se bhi mehroom

Ai raahat-e jaan, mujh ko rulaane ke liye aa

Ab tak dil-e khush-fahm ko tujh se hain ummeeden

Ye aakhri sham-en bhi bujhaane ke liye aa

Be it unpleasantness alone

Be it unpleasantness alone, just to hurt my heart, come

Come if only to reprise your spurning and leave, come

I know our relations are no longer what they were

But to fulfil empty social obligations, won’t you come?

How many times should I explain why we chose to part?

Be angry with me, but for appearances’ sake, do come

For once at least allow your lover one moment of pride

For once let me be angry, and to placate me, come

For an age, I have been deprived of the sweetness of grief

O solace of my life! Even to make me weep, do come

My foolish optimistic heart still harbours hopes of you

This last lamp remains lit, to extinguish it, please do come.

Gulzar

Gulzar (b. 1934) has served Urdu in multiple ways. His film songs have always been infused with the most elaborate of Persianized rhythms that jostle with more Sanskritic patterns to produce the true Ganga–Jamuna effect of Urdu. His metaphors are unique—my favourite is ‘ek baar waqt se, lamha gira kahin’ (‘once a moment fell from time’), invoking a leaf falling from a tree.[1] He has also written several non-film poems and short stories in Urdu; his anthology Raavi Paar (Across the Raavi River) is especially notable, as is his recent collection titled Neglected Poems, which elevates the quotidian to poetic heights. In addition, he has served the cause of Urdu poetry through his magnificent 1988 TV serial Mirza Ghalib, which was the entry point to the work of Ghalib for a new generation.

Gulzar has won seven National Awards, twenty Filmfare trophies, the Sahitya Akademi Award and the Padma Bhushan. His song ‘Jai Ho’ won the Oscar for best lyrics in 2009. He currently serves as the chancellor of Assam University, and was awarded the Indira Gandhi Award for National Integration in 2012.

I have included three non-film poems here, and one film-based composition, which in my opinion exemplifies the innovative language he deploys in his verse.[2]

1   Tanhaa

Zindagi yoon hui basar tanhaa

Qaafila saath, aur safar tanhaa

Apne saaye se chaunk jaate hain

Umr guzri hai is qadar tanhaa

Raat bhar bolte hain sannaate

Raat kaate koi kidhar tanhaa

Din guzartaa nahin hai logon mein

Raat hoti nahin basar tanhaa

Hum ne darvaze tak to dekhaa tha

Phir na jaane gaye kidhar tanhaa

Alone

Thus I led my life solitary, alone

The caravan alongside, the journey alone

Startled am I by my own shadow

I have spent my days to this degree alone

All night long, they speak to me

The silences, they never leave me alone

Though I cannot abide people by day

I’m loath to spend nights sans company, alone

I saw them off at my doorway and then

They left, and went on their odyssey alone.

2   Aadatan

Aadatan tum ne kar diye vaade

Aadatan hum ne aitbaar kiya

Teri raahon mein baar-haa ruk kar

Hum ne apnaa hi intezaar kiya

Ab na maangenge zindagi yaarab

Ye gunaah hum ne ek baar kiya

Sheer habit

Out of sheer habit, you made a promise

And similarly, habitually, I trusted you

Tarrying continually by your paths

I kept on awaiting myself, I guess

Never again will I seek life, O Lord

I have made this mistake once; that is enough.

3   Is mod se jaate hain

Is mod se jaate hain

Kuchh sust-qadam raste, kuchh tez-qadam raahen

Patthar ki haveli ko, sheeshe ke gharaundon mein

Tinkon ke nasheman tak, is mod se jaate hain

Aandhi ki tarah ud kar, ek raah guzarti hai

Sharmaati hui koyi qadmon se utarti hai

In reshmi raahon mein, ek raah to woh hogi

Tum tak jo pahunchti hai

Is mod se jaati hai

Ek door se aati hai, paas aake palat-ti hai

Ek raah akeli si, rukti hai na chalti hai

Ye soch ke baithhi hoon, ek raah to woh hogi

Tum tak jo pahunchti hai

Is mod se jaati hai

From this bend in the road

From this bend in the road

Go some slow-paced paths

And some fast highways

To the stone palace, the glasshouse and the nest of little debris

All paths go from this bend.

One path flies along like a hurricane

Another moves with shy footsteps

On these velvet roads, there must be at least one path

That reaches you; that too starts from this bend.

One path comes from really far away, and turns just as it reaches here

And one path, alone, neither stops nor moves

And I sit here, thinking, there must be at least one path

That reaches you

That too starts from this bend in the road.

4   Makaan ki oopri manzil pe ab koi nahin rehta

Makaan ki oopri manzil pe ab koi nahin rehta

Vo kamre band hain kab se

Vo chaubi seedhiyaan un tak pahunchti thhin

Vo ab oopar nahin jaatin

Makaan ki oopri manzil pe ab koi nahin rehta

Vahaan kamron mein itna yaad hai mujh ko

Khilone ek purani tokri mein bhar ke rakhe the

Bahut se to uthhane phenkne rakhne mein choor ho gaye

Vahaan ek balcony bhi thhi

Jahaan ek beth ka jhoola latakta thha

Mera ek dost thha tota

Vo roz aata thha, us ko hari mirchi khilaata thha

Usi ke saamne chhat thhi

Jahaan ek mor baitha aasmaan pe raat bhar

Meethe sitaare chugta rehta thha

Mere bachhon ne vo dekha nahi

Vo neeche ki manzil pe rehte hain

Jahaan par piano rakha hai

Purane Parsi style ka

(Fraser se khareeda thha)

Magar kuchh besuri aavaazen karta hai

Ke us ki reeds saari hil gayi hain

Suron par doosre sur chhad gaye hain

Usi manzil pe ek pushtaini baithak thhi

Jahaan purkhon ki tasveeren latakti rehti theen

Main seedha karta thha, havaa phir tedha kar jaati

Bahu ko moochhon vale saare purkhe cliché lagte the

Mere bachhon ne aakhir un ko keelon se utaara

Purane newspaper mein unhe mehfooz kar ke rakh diya thha

Mera ek bhaanja le jaata hai filmon mein kabhi

Set par lagaata hai

Kiraya milta hai un se

Meri manzil pe mere saamne mehmaan-khaana hai

Mere potay kabhi Amreeka se aayen to rukte hain

Alag size mein aate hain vo jitni baar aate hain

Khuda jaane vohi aate hain ya har baar koi doosra aata hai

Vo ek kamra jo peeche ki taraf band hai

Jahaan batti nahin jalti

Vahaan ek rosary rakhi hai, vo us se mehakta hai

Vahaan vo dayi rehti thhi

Jis ne teen bachhon ko bada karne mein

Apni umr de di thhi

Mari to main ne dafnaaya nahin

Mehfooz kar ke rakh diya us ko

Aur us ke baad, ek do seedhiyan hain

Neeche tehkhaane mein jaati hai

Jahaan khamoshi raushan hai

Sukoon soya hua hai

Bas itni si pehloo mein jagah rakh kar

Ke jab main seedhiyon se neechen aaoon

To usi ke pehloon mein baazoo pe sar rakh kar

Gale lag jaaoon

So jaaoon

Makaan ki oopri manzil pe ab koi nahin rehta

No one lives on the top floor of the house any more

No one lives on the top floor of the house any more

Those rooms have long been shut

The wooden staircase that reached them

Has decayed.

No one lives on the top floor of the house any more

In those rooms, I do remember,

Was an old basket full of toys

Many must be crushed by now in the constant moving and shifting.

There was a balcony there

Where a wicker-swing swung,

A parrot friend of mine

Used to swoop down and I would feed it a green chilli

And there was the rooftop, right there

Where a peacock used to sit

And eat sweet stars from the sky all night long.

My children never saw all that

They used to live on the lower level

Where there used to be a piano

Old Parsi style

(We had bought it from Fraser’s)

But now it makes strange sounds

For all its reeds are now shaken up

And on old tunes, some new tunes have mounted.

On that level, there was an old ceremonial drawing room

Where the photos of the ancestors used to hang

I used to straighten them out, only for the wind to make them crooked again

My daughter-in-law always found the mustachioed ancestors to be clichés

My children finally took those pictures down from those nails

And wrapped them in old newspapers

My nephew sometimes takes them to movie sets

Rents them out for money.

On my floor, there is a guest-room in front of mine

When my grandchildren visit from America, they stay there

Every time they come, they are a different size

God knows if the same children come, or if there are different ones every time!

There is a room at the back, closed

No light shines there

It has a rosary, which exudes fragrance

A nanny used to live there

Who, while raising my three children,

Gave away her whole life

When she died, I did not bury her

But kept her safe there.

And then, there are a few stairs

That descend into a basement

Silence shines there

And peace is asleep.

With just enough room

That when I descend those stairs

I should find room to nestle into it

Embrace it

And fall asleep.

No one lives on the top floor of the house any more.

Shahryar

Akhlaq Muhammad Khan Shahryar (1936–2012) is best known in the popular realm for his film songs in the 1981 movie Umrao Jaan, which in my opinion is a matter of repute, given their poetic quality. However, he must also be celebrated as an academic and a philosopher, who headed the Urdu Department at the Aligarh Muslim University and edited Sher-o-Hikmat (Poetry and Philosophy), a prestigious Urdu journal. He published several books of poetry, and is the only Urdu poet to have won both the Sahitya Akademi Award (1987) and the Jnanpith Award (2008). His death in February 2012 robbed Urdu literature of a classical talent, one whose deep philosophical insights never compromised the poetic quality of his nazms.[1]

I have translated two of his poems here, both of which made their way into the film world. The first, ‘Seene mein jalan’, is a marvellous poetic rendition of urban anomie, and is featured in the 1978 movie Gaman. It was set to music beautifully by Jaidev and sung by Suresh Wadkar. The second ghazal was immortalized in Umrao Jaan, wonderfully rendered by Asha Bhonsle and aided by Khayyam’s music.

1   Seene mein jalan

Seene mein jalan, aankhon mein toofan sa kyon hai

Is shahr mein har shakhs pareshaan sa kyon hai

Dil hai to dhadakne ka bahaana koi dhoonde

Patthar ki tarah behis-o-bejaan sa kyon hai

Tanhaai ki ye kaun si manzil hai rafeeqo

Taa hadd-e nazar ek bayaaban sa kyon hai

Hum ne to koi baat nikaali nahin gham ki

Vo zood pashemaan pashemaan sa kyon hai

Kya koi nayi baat nazar aati hai hum mein

Aaina hamen dekh ke hairaan sa kyon hai

Heart afire

Why is the heart aflame, why do eyes harbour a storm?

Why does everyone in this city appear forlorn?

If there be a heart, it should seek reasons to beat on

Why is it so lifeless and unfeeling like a stone?

What is this stage of empty solitude, my dear friend?

Why do my eyes see naught but a desert end to end?

I hadn’t brought up an issue melancholy or sad

Why does that quick repenter appear to feel bad?

My face reflects something strange, perhaps a hurt

that’s new?

For the mirror appears surprised at my visage too.

2   In aankhon ki masti

In aankhon ki masti ke mastaane hazaaron hain

In aankhon se vaabastaa afasaane hazaaron hain

Ek tum hi nahin tanhaa ulfat mein meri rusvaa

Is shahr mein tum jaise deevane hazaaron hain

Ek sirf hami mai ko aankhon se pilaate hain

Kehne ko to duniyaa mein maikhaane hazaaron hain

Is sham-e farozan ko aandhi se daraate ho

Is sham-e farozan ke parvaane hazaaron hain

These fanciful eyes

These eyes have caught the fancy of dreamers’ dreams a thousand times

Yes, these eyes have been linked with stories and themes a thousand times

It is not you alone who has been destroyed by this lost love

My beauty has foiled many a lover’s schemes a thousand times

I am that unique cupbearer who serves wine by the eyeful

This unique tavern drives drinkers to extremes a thousand times

How dare you try and scare this flame with your talk of the tempest

This flame has won suicidal moths’ last esteems a thousand times.

Asif Raza

Chand pe jaa kar raushan raushan patthar lane waale log

Kitne thande thande hain ye aag churaane wale log

They who go to the moon, and bring back bright, shiny stones

How cold indeed are these people of the fire-stealer clan![1]

Asif Raza (b. 1942) comes from a family of poets. His father, Manzoor Hussain Shore, was a part of Aligarh’s golden generation, and a respected poet of the progressive tradition. Raza, however, inhabits a different aesthetic, more akin to French symbolists like Baudelaire and the surrealists, and exhibits hints of German existentialist influences, particularly from Friedrich Nietzsche and Karl Jaspers. He taught sociology in the United States; but after the runaway success of his 2008 collection of poems Bujhe Rangon ki Raunaq (The Splendour of Faded Colours) and his recent retirement, his poetry has enjoyed a renaissance of sorts and he is at work on a new collection.

The poem I have translated here reflects the strong European and surrealist influence in Raza’s poetry, where on a coral island (a symbol of transcendental beauty rather than a quotidian existence), seven beautiful women live trapped, watching the crashing waves mock their confinement, as they try to lure sailors to the island. But the mystery of the island and the impossible beauty of the seven sisters paradoxically strike terror in the heart of the pusillanimous sailors who hear them, rather than evoking desire, thus accentuating the disjuncture between the two worlds. The non-linear construction of the poem lends itself to multiple interpretations, each one as disquieting as the previous.

Saat behnen

Ek marjaani jazeere par, areez

Saat behnen, shabkharaami ki mareez

Subah-dam, khwaab-e shabaana ke ta-aaqub mein davaan

Ek sang-e surkh ko apna banaa kar deedban

Jaaiza pur-shauq leti hain khalaa-e bahr ka

Phailta hai jhaag sahil par palat-ti lehr k

Qad kasheeda saat behnon ke sunehre baal hain

Kapkapaate baakira lab laal hain

Tegh jaisa abruon ka un ke mehraabi hai kham

Mauj-zan seenon mein ek toofan hai na-mukhtatum

Hadd-e faasil khenchti dehleez-e aab

Eestaada dekhti rehti hain khwaab

Kaundti hain in ki aankhon mein jawaahar ki chamak

Shaahraah-e aab lekin be-lachak

Dekhti hain vo ke na aabaad hai, tasveer-e yaas

Door uftaada ufaq par baadbaan ka iltebaas!

Muthiyon se un ke girte hain samandar ke aqeeq

Qa’ar leta hai jinhe vaapas, ameeq

Barbat-e zarreen utha kar haft taar

Chhedti hain vo tilaai shaahkar

Goonjti un ki sawaahil par sada sat-sargami

Neelgoon choti pe apni baad-e khezan hai thami

Sun ke un ka geet istemraar mein

Be-sada aabi jaras hai, ghaar mein

Baaz-gashtaana hai un ke purghina paighaam mein

Aab-e nuqradar ka vaada tilaai jaam mein

Lamha-e Iqbal ka muzhda (bataur-e armaghan

Pesh karta hai sadaf moonh dhaanp kar la’al-e giraan)

Ediyan un ki gulaabi choom kar jal ki tahen

Barhami khote hue apni thamein

Ek zarreen rau ke istefsaar par

Sar-nigoon ho kar chatakti hai chataanon ki kagar

Varta-e majhool ki na-vaqifi

Pech aabi khol ke karta hua apni nafi

Munhamik bizzaat ek itlaaf mein hai mubtela

Subha sath-e aab ko deti hui rang-e tila

Neelgoon gehraaiyon hain un ki aankhon ki attah

Taif ghaltaan jin mein lete hain panaah

Nuqrai shaakhon se zarreen seb seenon par dhare

Dekhti rehti hain kohre ke pare

Sahil-e dahshat se lekin ehteraaz

Aabna-e bahr mein daakhil nahin koi jahaaz

Simt-e manzil hai khamoshi se ravaan

Taajiron ka kaarbardaari se bojhal kaarvaan

Haath mathon par tikaye, raah kosh

Kaalbud mastool par hain, tez chashm-o-tez gosh

Zer-e lab sargoshiyon mein zikr-e bandargaah hai

Pesh been rooh-e amal hai, isteraahat khwah hai

Seven sisters

On a vast coral island

Seven sisters, somnambulist,

As the day dawns, pursue their nightly dreams

A red rock becomes their lookout

As they gaze at the wide expanse of the ocean

And espy no more than the foam of returning waves.

Tall of stature, and blond, all seven

Their virgin red lips aquiver

Their eyebrows arched like scimitars

An unending storm rages in their breasts

The threshold of the waterfront marks their limit

All that breaches it is their dream.

Their eyes suddenly sparkle like diamonds

But alas, the highway of water is desolate

Their eyes resume their bleak expression

As the hint of a sail recedes from their view

The rubies they hold fall from their hands

Which return into unquestioning depths.

They pick up their golden lyres, with the seven strings

And sing their golden masterpiece

Their seven-octaved voices reach the shores

On the blue-tipped mountaintops, the wind stops

The watery bell stops ringing in its cave.

Their returning song carries promises of untold riches

Of golden chalices bearing silvery draughts

And intimations of eternal moments

(A seashell shyly promises a priceless pearl)

The waves touch their pink heels

And are rendered silent.

As if responding to a question from an undertow

The craggy cliff bows its head and shatters

A maelstrom announces its ignorance

By unspooling its watery negations;

As if engaged in a ritual of self-ruination

The morning scatters its gold on the surface of the sea.

In the blue depths of their eyes

Only ghosts seek sanctuary

Silver apples pressed to their bosoms

They peer toward the foggy horizon in expectation

But terror-struck sailors

Enter not the bay.

Toward its destination, bears on silently,

A caravan of trading ships, laden with commodities

Hands on foreheads, tracing a straight course

The dark silhouettes sharp of eyes and ears

In whispers speak of a known harbour

And the promise of rest

Before their journey to another harbourage.

Iftikhar Arif

Iftikhar Arif (b. 1943) was born in India, and moved to Pakistan in 1965. His first book, Mehr-e Doneem (Sliced Moon), was published in 1983, and his most recent book, Kitab-e Dil-o-Duniya (The Book of the Heart and the World), in 2009. He has won a variety of literary awards, including the prestigious Hilal-e Imtiaz in 2005. He is also a well-known literary critic, whose work on Faiz has garnered praise.

Arif’s work cuts across genres, as my two selections here show.[1] In the first, Arif produces a qaseeda in praise of Imam Husain (the figure of the Battle of Karbala), who is very popular among Shias, and among Urdu-lovers. The last sher here is significant, because it conjures up a sense of Husain’s power as one who can intercede on behalf of sinners. In two lines, the poet is able to sketch a complex scenario. We are introduced to a moment during the Day of Judgement, where Ali intercedes on the poet’s behalf to Prophet Mohammed, also known as the shafa-e mehshar (one who will heal on Judgement Day), imploring the Prophet to let Arif into heaven, because, despite being a sinner, he belongs to Husain.

In stark contrast, the second selection is a straight-up poem constituting a lover’s wish-list. In it, Arif deftly juxtaposes irony with desire to produce a confessional effect.

1   Sharaf ke shahr mein

Sharaf ke shahr mein har baam-o-dar Husain ka hai

Zamaane bhar ke gharaanon mein ghar Husain ka hai

Kahaan ki jang, kahaan jaa ke sar hui hai ke ab

Tamaam aalam-e khair-o-khabar Husain ka hai

Zameen kha gayi kya kya buland baala darakht

Hara bhara hai jo ab bhi, shajar Husain ka hai

Savaal bayat-e shamsheer par javaaz bahut

Magar jawaab wahi mo’tabar Husain ka hai

Muhabbaton ke havaalon mein zikr aane lagaa

Ye fazl bhi to mere haal par Husain ka hai

‘Huzoor Shaafa-e mehshar,’ Ali kahen ke ye shakhs

‘Gunaahgaar bahut hai magar Husain ka hai’

In the city of privilege

In the city of privilege, every roof and wall belongs to Husain

Of all clans, there is none like the house that belongs to Husain

When was this war fought, when was it won? Someone say!

For it appears that all this world of good belongs to Husain

The earth has long since swallowed such big forests but still

The lush and verdant tree is the one that belongs to Husain

The question of obeisance was made legitimate by the sword

But the reply, confident and courageous, belongs to Husain

That my name began to crop up in legends of love

This bestowal on my being also belongs to Husain

On Judgement Day, Ali will speak to Mohammed and say

‘Pardon him; though a great sinner, this one belongs to Husain.’

2   Dayaar-e Noor mein

Dayaar-e noor mein teera-shabon ka saathi ho

Koi to ho jo meri vahshaton ka saathi ho

Main us se jhooth bhi boloon to mujh se sach bole

Mere mizaaj ke sab mausamon ka saathi ho

Vo mere naam ki nisbat se mo’tabar thehre

Gali gali meri rusvaaiyon ka saathi ho

Main us ke haath na aaoon vo mera hoke rahe

Main gir padoon to meri pastiyon ka saathi ho

Vo khvaab dekhe to dekhe mere havaale se

Mere khayaalon ke sab manzaron ka saathi ho

In these moments of light

In these moments of light, a friend for darker days I seek

Someone to comfort me during my panicked phase I seek

Even if I lie constantly, he should speak naught but truth

A mate for all my capricious moods and ways, I seek

His fortitude should outlast my golden ‘glory days’

His support, when I lie forlorn in a shamed haze, I seek

I may become elusive but he should remain mine

If I fall to abjection, his arms to raise me, I seek

If he must dream, all his fancies should have me as referent

That my wonder and delight should leave him amazed, I seek.

S.M. Shahed

Syed Mohammed Shahed (b. 1944) exemplifies the neorealist tradition of progressive Urdu poetry in its most raw form, with sweeping broadsides against organized religion, class prejudice and unreason. He sacrifices the rigour of rhyme and metre for a naked directness that brings to mind the works of Soviet modernists like Mayakovsky, and the early Pablo Neruda.

Trained as a mechanical engineer, Shahed kept his craft on hold during his career, but his art has seen a blossoming since his retirement. His work is archived online at the website UrduShahkar[1], where he has included several translations of progressive poets along with his own work. My favourite is the set of painstaking translations of the marsiyas of Josh Malihabadi, who had used the stories of Imam Husain as metaphors for contemporary social issues. Shahed’s translations are works of painstaking annotation, reminding one of Martin Gardner’s translations of the works of Lewis Carroll.

Here, I have translated one of Shahed’s recent poems ‘Fikr’ (‘Thought’). In this poem, he links the Abrahamic sacrifice of his son, a cornerstone of Islamic and Judeo-Christian faith, to the sacrifices of Sita and Ekalavya in Hindu mythology. He finds both traditions unreasonable and exploitative and invites humanity into a realm that rejects blind faith in favour of a reason-based scepticism of religious iconography.

Fikr

Khwabon ki basharat ki sadaqat mat puchh

Andhe ahkam ki andhi ye ita’at mat puchh

Qurban ho javaani eeman ke naam par

Bandhi jo ankh pe patti tha parda aql par

Dhobi ki baat dharm ka farmaan ban gayi

Sita ki baat vahm ka ilzam ban gayi

Chalne se aag par bhi na mushkil hui asaan

Neeti dharam ke naam pe Sita hui qurban

Yakta tha Eklavya bhi apne kamal mein

Phaansa is liye use jati ke jaal mein

Neeti dharam pe dhabba lagega ye dar jo tha

Kaata angotha ta kahen adna janam jo tha

Andhi neeti, andha imaan, ta’at bhi hai andhi kyoon

Khudgharzi ka jal banaya chhupi hui hai baat ye kyoon

Kab tak apni aql ko insaan band kivad mein rakkhega

Kab tak neet, dharam, eeman ko andha ban kar poojega

Neeti, rivaj, hukm-e khuda sab hi kya vajib ham par

In ki sazish bani siyasat aur jamaya hukum ham par

Neeti, rivaj, hukm-e Khuda sab ka bol bana mutlaq

Bol ke peechhe apna maqsad chhup ke kiya pura bahaq

Tod den is andhi ita’at ka tassalut

La-diniyat se hai hamein ye fikr ki davat

Vo fikr jo khoon-e javani ko yoon qurbaan na kare

Vo fikr jo andhe rivayat ki hami na bhare

Vo fikr jo mizaan mein dharam ko tole

Vo fikr jo har neeti kasauti pe kase

Vo fikr khudai ke jo farmaan jaanche

Vo fikr jo khwabon ki basharat se bache

Vo fikr jo tahqeeq ki koshish to kare

Vo fikr jo inkar ki jura’at bhi kare

Vo fikr jo ankh pe patti na bandhe, aql pe parda

Thought

Ask not of the veracity of revealed dreams

Ask not of blind obeisance to blind orders

That youth be sacrificed at the altar of faith

The blindfold on the eyes, a curtain draped on the intellect.

A washerman’s throwaway line launches a religious edict

And Sita is enveloped in a suspicious accusation

A walk across fire fails to prove her purity

Sita is sacrificed in the name of dharma.

Ekalavya, unique at the apex of his skill

But he too is ensnared in the web of caste

Fearful that tradition and faith might be stained

Is tricked to cut his own thumb, circumscribed by low birth.

Blind tradition, blind faith, why is obeisance blind too?

Why does the self-serving snare remain hidden?

How long will humans trap their intellect in locked rooms?

How long will they pray blindly to traditions?

All these traditions made compulsory by God’s will

A conspiracy this, to rule over us

All these traditions made inevitable by God’s will

Hidden is the motive that underlies them

Let us break this cycle of blind devotion

Impiety invites us into the realm of reason:

The thought that refuses to sacrifice youth

The thought that rejects blind folklore

The thought that puts religion on the scale

The thought that tests tradition on a touchstone

The thought that re-examines godly commands

The thought that sidesteps revealed dreams

The thought that at least attempts to question

The thought that even dares to refuse

The thought that neither blindfolds the eye nor curtails the intellect.

Javed Akhtar

After Sahir and Majrooh, the expression of the progressive aesthetic as well as the use of Urdu vocabulary in Hindi films is a responsibility that has been shouldered admirably by Javed Akhtar (b. 1945). Akhtar’s film poetry has been close to the traditions established by his PWA predecessors, but he has maintained his poetic originality.

In 1995, Akhtar’s book of poetry Tarkash hit the shelves, and became an instant hit in multiple languages. One hopes for similar success for his new book Lava, which was published in 2012. David Matthews has competently translated Tarkash into English in a well-laid-out book.[1] Akhtar’s poetry is infused with a delectable use of Persian vocabulary—not many current lyricists would use ‘posheeda’ (hidden) and ‘khwabeeda’ (dreamy) in a movie song, as in a song from the 1998 movie Wajood. His lyrics ingeniously emphasize the common heritage of Hindi, Urdu and Hindustani. Take, for instance, how this purveyor of Persian words effortlessly and unselfconsciously inserts khadi boli and Sanskritized Hindi in the songs of the 2001 hit Lagaan (Tax): ‘Bijuri ki talwaar nahin, boondon ke baan chalaao’ (‘Not the sword of lightning, use the bow of raindrops’) or the Ramleela imagery in the 2005 film Swades (My Country): ‘Pal pal hai bhaari vo bipta hai aayi’ (‘Each moment is weighty, such is my misfortune’). It is an interesting and welcome sidelight that, apart from being highly competent, Akhtar is a very ‘conscious’ lyricist, who not only pays attention to situations, tonalities, dialects and an overall narrative motive while writing his songs, but is very articulate in his ability to dissect and explain his choice of words and metre. Akhtar’s personal website contains several video clips of him reciting his work.[2]

In an earlier book, Ali Mir and I have devoted a chapter to Akhtar’s non-film poetry, and have also analysed his film songs.[3] In this volume, I translate three of his poems: ‘Mother Teresa’, ‘Aasaar-e Qadeema’ (‘Ancient Remnants’) and ‘Ye Khel Kya Hai’ (‘What Game Is This?’). The first two are from Tarkash, while the third is from Lava.

1    Mother Teresa

Ai ma Teresa

Mujh ko teri azmat se inkar nahin hai

Jaane kitne sookhe lab aur veeran aankhen

Jaane kitne thhake badan aur zakhmi roohen

Koodaghar mein roti ka ek tukda dhoondte nange bachhe

Footpathon par galte sadte buddhe kodi

Jaane kitne beghar bedar bekas insan

Jaane kitne toote kuchle bebas insan

Teri chhaon mein jeene ki himmat paate hain

Inko apne hone ki jo sazaa mili hai

Us hone ki sazaa se thhodi si hi sahi, mohlat paate hain

Tera lams maseeha hai

Aur tera karam hai ek samandar

Jis ka koi paar nahin hai

Ai ma Teresa

Mujh ko teri azmat se inkar nahin hai

Main thehra khudggarz

Bas ek apni hi khatir jeena wala

Main tujh se kis moonh se poochhoon

Tu ne kabhi ye kyon nahin poochha

Kis ne in bad-haalon ko bad-haal kiya hai?

Tu ne kabhi ye kyon nahin socha

Kaun si taaqat insanon kofootpathon aur koodagharon tak pahunchati hai

Tu ne kabhi ye kyon nahin dekha

Wahi nizam-e zar

Jis ne in bhookon se roti chheeni hai

Tere kahe par bhookon ke aage

Kuchh tukde daal raha hai

Tu ne kabhi ye kyon nahin chaaha

Nange bacche, buddhe kodi, bebas insaan

Is duniya se jeene ka haq maangen

Jeene ki khairaat na maange

Aisa kyon hai

Ik jaanib mazloom se tujh ko hamdardi hai

Doosri jaanib zaalim se bhi aar nahin hai?

Lekin sach hai

Aisi baaten main tujh se kis moonh se poochhoon?

Poochhoonga to mujh pe bhi vo zimmedari aa jaayegi

Jis se main bachta aaya hoon

Behtar hai, khamosh rahoon main

Aur agar kuchh kehna hai to yehi kahoon main

Ai ma Teresa

Mujh ko teri azmat se inkar nahin hai

Mother Teresa

O Mother Teresa

Your greatness, I am not one to deny

Wonder how many dry lips and desolate eyes

Wonder how many tired bodies and wounded souls

The naked children who root around garbage dumps seeking a piece of bread

Lepers rotting on pavements

Wonder how many homeless, rootless, hopeless people

Wonder how many broken, trampled, helpless people

Enter your hearth and find the courage to live

The punishment that is their existence

From that, they find respite, however fleeting

Your touch is a messiah

And your kindness an ocean

That is boundless

O Mother Teresa

Your greatness, I am not one to deny.

I am but a selfish person

Who lives only for himself

With what face can I ask you—

Why did you never ask

Who has rendered these pitiful people so pitiful?

Why did you never think

What power consigns human beings to lives on pavements and garbage dumps?

Why did you never see

That the same elite regime

That has stolen the food from these hungry mouths

Is, on your bidding,

Throwing a few scraps their way?

Why did you never wish

That these naked children, these old lepers, these helpless people

Demand from this world the right to live

Not the permission, the largesse to live?

Why is it so

On one hand you love the oppressed

But the oppressor too, you do not decry?

But it is true

With what face can I ask that of you?

If I did ask

The whole responsibility would become my task

Which, so far, I have chosen to avoid.

Better that I should hold my peace

And if I have to open my mouth, I should say please

O Mother Teresa

Your greatness, I am not one to deny.

2   Aasaar-e Qadeema

Ek patthar ki adhuri moorat

Chand taambe ke puraane sikke

Kaali chaandi ke ajab se zevar

Aur kai kaanse ke toote bartan

Ek sehra mein mile zer-e zameen

Log kehte hain ke sadiyon pehle

Aaj sehra hai jahaan

Wahin ek shehr hua karta thha

Aur mujh ko ye khayaal aata hai

Kisi taqreeb, kisi mehfil mein

Saamna tujh se mera aaj bhi ho jaata hai

Ek lamhe ko, bas ik pal ke liye

Jism ki aanch, uchat-ti si nazar

Surkh bindiya ki damak

Sarsaraahat tere malboos ki, baalon ki mehak

Bekhayaali mei kabhi lams ka nanha sa phool

Aur phir door tak vahi sehra

Vahi sehra ke jahaan

Kabhi ik shehr hua karta thha

Ancient remnants

A shattered stone statue, old copper coins

Strange ornaments of blackened silver

And several broken bronze vessels

Were found underground in a desert.

And people divined that centuries ago

A city had existed there.

And I remember

Seeing you by chance in a gathering, a party

For a moment, just for a second

The warmth of your body, your momentary gaze

The shine of red vermilion, the rustle of your clothes

The smell of your hair, and unconsciously, a tiny flower of touch

And again, that unending desert

That desert where once

There used to be a city.

3   Ye khel kya hai

Mere mukhaalif ne chaal chal di hai

Aur ab

Meri chaal ke intezaar mein hai

Magar main kab se

Safed khaanon

Siyaah khaanon mein rakkhe

Kaale safed mohron ko dekhta hoon

Main sochta hoon

Ye mohre kya hain

Agar main samjhoon

Ki ye jo mohre hain

Sirf lakdi ke hain khilone

To jeetna kya hai haarna kya

Na ye zaroori

Na vo aham hai

Agar khushi hai na jeetne ki

Na haarne ka bhi koi gham hai

To khel kya hai

Main sochta hoon

Jo khelna hai

To apne dil mein yaqeen kar loon

Ye mohre sach-much ke baadshah-o-vazeer

Sach-much ke hain piyaade

Aur in ke aage hai

Dushmanon ki vo fauj

Rakhti hai jo mujh ko tabaah karne ke

Saare mansoobe

Sab iraade

Magar main aisa jo maan bhi loon

To sochta hoon

Ye khel kab hai

Ye jang hai jis ko jeetna hai

Ye jang hai jis mein sab hai jaayaz

Koi ye kehta hai jaise mujh se

Ye jang bhi hai

Ye khel bhi hai

Ye jang hai par khiladiyon ki

Ye khel hai jang ki tarah ka

Main sochta hoon

Jo khel hai

Is mein is tarah ka usool kyon hai

Ki koi mohra rahe ke jaaye

Magar jo hai baadshah

Us par kabhi koi aanch bhi na aaye

Vazeer hi ko hai bas ijaazat

Ke jis taraf bhi vo chaahe jaaye

Main sochta hoon

Jo khel hai

Is mein is tarah ke usool kyon hai

Piyaada jab apne ghar se nikle

Palat ke vaapas na aane paaye

Main sochta hoon

Agar yahi hai usool

To phir usool kya hai

Agar yahi hai ye khel

To phir ye khel kya hai

Main in savaalon se jaane kab se ulajh raha hoon

Mere mukhalif ne chaal chal di hai

Aur ab meri chaal ke intezaar mein hai

What game is this?

My opponent has made a move

And now

Awaits mine.

But for ages

I stare at the black and white pieces

That lie on white and black squares

And I think

What are these pieces?

Were I to assume

That these pieces

Are no more than wooden toys

Then what is a victory or a loss?

If in winning there are no joys

Nor sorrows in losing

What is the game?

I think

If I must indeed play

Then I must believe

That these pieces are indeed king and minister

Indeed these are foot soldiers

And arrayed before them

Is that enemy army

Which harbours all plans evil

All schemes sinister

To destroy me

But were I to believe this

Then is this a game any longer?

This is a war that must be won

A war in which all is fair

It is as if somebody explains:

This is a war

And a game as well

It is a war, but between players

A game between warriors

I think

If it is a game

Then why does it have a rule

That whether a foot soldier stays or goes

The one who is king

Must always be protected?

That only the minister has the freedom

To move any which way?

I think

Why does this game

Have a rule

That once a foot soldier leaves home

He can never return?

I think

If this is the rule

Then what is a rule[4]?

If this is the game

Then what is the name of the game[5]?

I have been wrestling for ages with these questions

But my opponent has made a move

And awaits mine.

Fahmida Riaz

It delighted my parochial heart to find that Fahmida Riaz (b. 1946) had spent some childhood time in Hyderabad before migrating to Pakistan. Her first book was published at the precociously young age of twenty-two. Called Patthar ki Zaban (The Language of Stones), it launched her as a voice to be reckoned with in Urdu poetry. Her second volume Badan Dareeda (The Body, Exposed) led to conservative outcry, but provided a completely new idiom to Urdu poetry. It was her outspoken political views that forced her to go into exile; she lived in India, but has since returned to Pakistan.[1]

My favourite translation of a Riaz poem, other than her own efforts, is of ‘Chadar aur Chaardiwaari’ (‘The Veil and the Four Walls of Home’), translated by my brother Ali Mir.[2] In this anthology, I include three small poems/excerpts. The first expressed her disillusionment at the Indian nuclear blasts of 1998, comparing the silliness of that decision to that of her own country’s. The second is a stunningly evocative poem on the practice of stoning adulterers, and is inspired by a historical account of a stoning in which, while a couple was being stoned to death, the man kept trying to shield his doomed lover from the stones that would eventually take both their lives. The final poem—a franker expression of female sexuality—refers to the Biblical/Islamic tale in which Cain slew Abel when his sacrifice of a goat was not accepted by Allah. In some versions, Cain had desired his sister Aqleema for himself although she was forbidden to him.

1   Naya Bharat

Tum bilkul hum jaise nikle

Woh moorakhta, woh ghaamadpan

Aakhir pahunchi dwaar tumhaare

Prait dharam ka naach raha hai

Saare ulte kaarya karoge

Tum bhi baithe karoge socha

Kaun hai Hindu, kaun nahin hai

Ek jaap sa karte jao

Kitna veer mahaan tha Bharat

New India

You turned out just like us

The same silliness, the same obstinacy

Has finally reached your doorstep as well.

Now that the mad ghost of religion has begun to dance

You will do everything wrong

You will ask—Who is a true Hindu? Who is not?

Now go and start chanting

How great, how glorious was Bharat once!

2   Rajm

Paagal tan mein kyon basti hai

Ye vahshi tareek aarzoo

Bahut qadeem, udaas aarzoo

Taareeki mein chhup jaane ki

Ek lamhe ko

Ek lamhe ko

Rab-e Qahhar! Ye mojiza kya hai?

Tera khalq kiya hua Aadam

Lazzat-e sang ka kyon khwaahaan hai?

Is ki sahr-zada cheekhon mein

Ye kis barzakh ka naghma hai?

Kya thhi badan ke zakhm ki lazzat?

Betaabi se yoon raqsaan hai

Har bun-e moonh se surkh-o-siyaah lahu ka darya ubal pada hai

Stoning

In the mad heart does reside

A wild, dark desire

An ancient desire, ineffably sad

To be one with the blackness

For a moment

A moment.

My overpowering God! What is this miracle

That your creation, this Adam

Seeks the pleasures of this mortal stoning?

In which limbo was this song born?

Why did the body seek these wounds?

It is as if it dances, impatient

While every wound froths with red and black blood.

3   Aqleema

Aqleema

Jo Habeel aur Qabeel ki maajaai hai

Maajaai

Magar mukhtalif

Mukhtalif beech mein raanon ke

Aur pistaanon ki ubhaar mein

Aur apne pet ke andar

Aur kookh mein

In sab ki qismat kyon hai

Ik farba bhed ke bachhe ki qurbani

Vo apne badan ki qaidi

Tapti hui dhoop mein jalte

Teeley par khadi hui hai

Patthar par naqsh bani hai

Is naqsh ko ghaur se dekho

Lambi raanon se oopar

Ubharte pistaano se oopar

Pecheeda kookh se oopar

Aqleema ka sar bhi hai

Allah, kabhi Aqleema bhi kalaam kare

Aur kuchh poochhe

Aqleema

Aqleema

Who was the sister of Abel and Cain

Sister

But different

Different between her thighs

And in the swell of her breasts

And inside her stomach

And in her womb

And the fate of all these body parts

Was linked to the sacrifice of a fattened goat.

She, a prisoner of her body,

Stands on a hillock

And burns in the hot sun

As if she has been drawn on stone

Look at this drawing carefully

Move above the long thighs

And the swell of the breasts

And above the complicated womb—

There is Aqleema’s head

Allah, talk to Aqleema sometimes

Ask her something.

Parveen Shakir

Vo to khushboo hai, hawaaon mein bikhar jaayega

Mas’ala phool ka hai, phool kidhar jaayega

He is fragrance, and into the winds he will flow

The problem lies with the flower, where will it go?

Parveen Shakir (1952–94) was a civil servant in Pakistan, who enjoyed immense fame before her untimely death in an automobile accident. Her first book of poems, Khushboo, was published when she was twenty-four.[1] Her use of feminine tropes in the ghazal tradition marked her as an innovator in the form; for example, she is considered a pioneer in the deployment of the term ‘khushboo’ (fragrance), or in referring to the protagonist of the ghazal as ‘ladki’ (girl). Her poetry was self-conscious in rebelling against patriarchy. For example, consider the following verse:

Aks-e khushboo hoon, bikharne se na roke koi

Aur bikhar jaaoon to mujh ko na samete koi

I am fragrance, nobody stop me from diffusing

And if I diffuse, nobody try to corral me.

Despite these obvious female-centric tropes, her poetry was still written mostly in the classical mode, and did not seem to aspire to the more consciously feminist aesthetic that her contemporaries in Pakistan like Kishwar Naheed, Fahmida Riaz, Ishrat Afreen and others pioneered. The ghazal I have chosen to translate here reflects this.[2]

Kuchh to hava bhi sard thhi

Kuchh to hava bhi sard thhi kuchh thha tera khayaal bhi

Dil ko khushi ke saath saath hota rahaa malaal bhi

Baat vo aadhi raat ki raat vo poore chaand ki

Chaand bhi ain chait kaa us pe teraa jamaal bhi

Sab se nazar bachaa ke vo mujh ko aise dekhta

Ek dafaa to ruk gayi gardish-e maah-o-saal bhi

Dil to chamak sakega kya phir bhi tarash ke dekh lo

Sheeshaa-garaan-e shahr ke haath ka ye kamaal bhi

Us ko na paa sake the jab dil ka ajeeb haal tha

Ab jo palat ke dekhiye baat thi kuchh muhaal bhi

Meri talab tha ek shakhs vo jo nahin milaa to phir

Haath dua se yoon gira bhool gaya savaal bhi

Shaam ki na’samajh hava, poochh rahi hai ek pata

Mauj-e hava-e koo-e yaar kuchh to meraa khayaal bhi

Us ke hi baazuon mein aur us ko hi sochte rahe

Jism ki khwaahishon pe thhe rooh ke aur jaal bhi

Partly the breeze was cold

Partly it was that the breeze was cold

And partly that I was thinking of you

Slowly that night, as my happiness grew

I felt a sharp twinge of that hurt old.

Let us talk then of that late night

That moment illuminated in the moon

The best of months, the moon of June

Illuminating your beauty in its light

Secretly, my love fixed me with his glance

While affecting a casual, insouciant air

It did seem once for a moment there

Time had stopped; the earth had ceased its dance.

How can you make a sad thing shine

But try you must to do your part

Can you brighten my broken heart

Dear jewellers of this city of mine?

My heart’s sadness I could not quell

When I realized I’d never win him

But now that I reflect on my whim

The quest was quite impossible.

There was only one for whom I did care

When I could not have him, it transpired

That my hands at my sides stayed fixed, mired

No longer could I lift them in prayer.

The evening zephyr, so naive,

Seeks its destination till the end

Dear breeze of the street of my friend

Have some consideration for me.

In his embrace I did lay quiet

And all I did was think of him

Dominating my body’s whim

My soul was a spiderweb, tight.

Jameela Nishat

Jameela Nishat (b. 1955) was born in the old city of Hyderabad, and still lives and works there. She runs a resource centre for women, while fulfilling other commitments. An English teacher by training and profession, she imbues her poetry with a frank description of what it means to be a Muslim woman in a world where the twin forces of patriarchy and Islamophobia are ascendant.

Nishat’s poetry was featured in the influential volume Women Writing in India (edited by Susie Tharu and K. Lalita). Her language is often infused with the idiom of her native Dakkani. The poem below speaks of the experience of Muslim women whose clothing leads them to be identified racially, almost as if it were an extension of their bodies, their selves. The poem hinges on a young Muslim girl who is driven away from the cinema hall by a danda (stick). This refers perhaps to the moral police that tries to prevent devout women from watching movies.

Burqa

Burqa pehan kar nikli

Degree bhi main ne li

Computers main ne seekha

Doosron se aage

Main ne khud ko paaya

Ammi bhi bahut khush thhi

Abba bhi bahut khush

Haathon mein apne

Main ne

Koh-e Toor uthaya

Zamaane ko raund daloon

Ye dil mein main ne thhana

Ban jaaoongi Sikandar

Kali naqaab ke andar

Har saans ne pukaara

Mauj masti main karne nikli

Theatre mein joonhi pahunchi

Dande ne mujh ko roka

Burqa mana hai ladki

Kaale naqaab mein kaala dhuaan sa uthha

Us waqt

Vahin par

Main ne

Burqa utaar phenka

Burqa

I stepped out in a burqa

And yet graduated from college

Learned computer programming

And found myself

Head and shoulders ahead of my peers

My mother was thrilled

And my father, he was ecstatic

In my hands,

I held Mount Sinai

I could conquer this world

So my heart believed

I would be Alexander in a black veil

Every breath screamed.

One day I stepped out to have fun

And as I entered a cinema hall

Was accosted by a stick

‘Girl, no burqas allowed here!’

From under the black veil arose the black smoke of fury

At that very moment

I

Threw away my burqa.

Ishrat Afreen

Ishrat Afreen (b. 1956) moved from Pakistan to India and then to the USA, and currently teaches at the University of Texas. She has her own official website[1], and has been publishing her poems since she was fifteen. Two of her collections have been published, one in the 1980s and one, more recently, in 2005: Dhoop Apne Hisse Ki (My Share of Sunlight). One can watch her perform her poetry in the public domain. Her poems published in Rukhsana Ahmed’s anthology, Beyond Belief: Contemporary Feminist Urdu Poetry (1990), deployed a rawness that consciously gendered the poetic experience.[2]

Here, I include two poems. The first is one of my favourites for its ‘take-no-prisoners’ attitude and its direct evocativeness. The second poem positions her more in the tradition of the progressive writers, especially Makhdoom, who sought to see beauty in labour and valued women’s labour through traditional invocations of beauty. Afreen takes the metaphors much further, though, positioning them directly against the ephemeral concept of beauty associated with privilege.

1   Intesaab

Mera qad

Mere baap se ooncha nikla

Aur meri maa jeet gayi

Dedication

I grew taller than my father.

My mother had won.

2   Gulaab aur kapaas

Kheton mein kaam karti hui ladkiyaan

Jeth ki champai dhoop ne

Jin ka sona badan

Surmayi kar diya

Jin ko raaton mein os aur paale kaa bistar mile

Din ko sooraj saron par jale

Ye hare lawn mein

Sang-e marmar ke benchon pe baithi hui

Un haseen mooraton se kahin khoobsoorat

Kahin mukhtalif

Jin ke joode mein joohi ki kaliyan sajee

Jo gulaab aur bele ki khushboo liye

Aur rangon ki hiddat se paagal phiren

Khet mein dhoop chunti hui ladkiyaan bhi

Nai umr ki sabz dehleez par hain magar

Aaina tak nahin dekhteen

Ye gulaab aur dezi ki hiddat se naa-aashna

Khushboo-on ke javan-lams se bekhabar

Phool chunti hain lekin pahanti nahin

In ke malboos mein

Tez sarson ke phoolon ki baas

Un ki aankhon mein roshan kapaas

Roses and cotton

These girls who toil in the fields

Whose golden skin has been dyed dark by the sun

Who sleep on beds of frost and dew at night

And are burned by the sun in the day.

They are much prettier than those statues

Sitting on marble benches

On green lawns

Prettier and more different

Than those whose tresses are adorned with roses and jasmine buds

And who run wild in a sharp profusion of colours.

The girls who pluck sunlight in the farms

Are also at the green threshold of the new era, but

Do not even look at mirrors

They are unfamiliar with the sharpness of rose and juhi

They pluck the flowers, but do not wear them

Their clothes carry the pungent scent

Of mustard flowers instead

And their eyes the brightness of cotton.

Zeeshan Sahil

Zeeshan Sahil (1961–2008) was an accomplished poet whose untimely demise deprived Urdu of a remarkable voice. I include him here as a representative of the ‘caged beasts’—seven remarkable new voices that were introduced to English-speaking readers in a 1999 book titled An Evening of Caged Beasts: Seven Postmodernist Urdu Poets[1]. His poems on the city of Karachi were remarkable in their use of rhythms of children playing to invoke the city’s resilience and terror, even as it attempted to preserve its own sanity in an era when lawlessness was the order of the day. In his own words:

It is a lie that in Karachi, after the rain, the sprouting grass doesn’t have blades deep green and soft. Or that the trees do not give shade without the help of clouds . . . With us in Karachi live birds who fly from trees through the sound of bullets and bombs; perch on walls; always they gather somewhere to pray. Our books don’t wait inside cupboards for termites. Now our hearts swim these seas where once our eyes searched for golden flowers and our hands tear down the walls that once buried us alive.[2]

The first short poem I have translated below reflects Sahil’s ability to show (with such economy of language) how categories are the product of human thought. The poem turns around the poetic rhyme of ‘rasta’ (path) and ‘basta’ (the wanderer’s bag), and the idea of forgetful humans, wandering without realizing that they have the moon and the stars in their bags. The second poem beautifully invokes the joy of the quotidian: how a mere bus journey with a friend or the memory of a lover’s modest room can be the basis of joy and reflection, and how memory imposes itself on the consciousness through minor, slight observations.

1   Nazm

Zindagi adhoori hai

Lekin us mein har lamha

Khwaab aur mohabbat ki

Aarzoo zaroori hai

Khwaab aur mohabbat hi

Aadmi ke chalne ko raaste banaate hain

Chaand aur sitaaron ko

Aaasmaan se laakar

Zindagi ke raste mein

Aadmi ke baste mein

Rakh ke bhool jaate hain

Poem

Life is incomplete

But in it, every moment

Needs the desire

Brought by dreams and love

For it is dreams and love

That transform human wandering

Into ordered paths

And bring the moon and the stars

From the skies

To the path that life takes

Into the rucksacks that humans carry around

Who having placed them there

Forget about them.

2   Tumhaare liye ek nazm

Hamesha rehne ke liye

Ye duniya kitni na-munasib jagah hai

Aur zindagi har roz

Pehle se ziyaada na qaabil-e bardaasht

Lekin Saiduddin ke saath

Bus mein safar karne waali khushi

Aur tumhaare dressing table par

Jalne waali batti se behta hua mom

Aur aaine par jamne waala dhuaan

Har cheez ki jagah le lete hain

Meri kitaabon mein band phool

Khwaabon ke jangal ban jaate hain

Tum Formica par jami gard pe

Apni ungliyon se bahut se

Raaste banaati ho

Beshumaar khaali raaston waale shahr mein

Raat gehri hone par tumhaari

Door-uftaada maujoodgi

Sitaaron ko ghair-zaroori, chaand ko faaltu

Aur samandar ko izaafi cheez banaa deti hain

Tumhaari yaad, aur apne dil par

Badhte hue dabaao se ghabraa kar

Main dua maangta hoon

Shaayaron se khuda ki musalsal naaraazgi

Ke baavujood meri dua

Hamesha tum se shuroo hoti hai

A poem for you

As a place to stay in continually

This world is so undesirable

And life, every day,

Becomes ever more unbearable.

But some pleasures abound.

The journey on the bus with Saiduddin

And that congealed wax on your dressing table

From the worn-down candle

And the residue of smoke on your mirror

Take the place of all else.

The pressed flowers in my books

Become the deep forests of dreams.

You draw many paths with your fingers

On the dust that settles on the Formica

And when night settles on that city of countless empty paths

Your distant presence makes stars unnecessary, the moon useless

And turns the sea into something redundant.

Your memory and the heaviness in my heart scare me

And I begin to pray.

Despite God’s unceasing anger toward poets

My prayer always begins with you.

Notes

Foreword

1.  When I approached Gulzar Saheb to write a foreword, he was kind enough to suggest that he write it as a poem, and I obviously accepted that idea gratefully. I enclose the Urdu version of his introductory paragraph here: ‘Urdu zaban apne aap mein ek riyasat hai. Vo jahaan jaati hai, apni zameen bana leti hai. Hindustan mein paida hui, magar sirf Hindustan ki nahin. Pakistan ki sarkari zaban hai. Lekin sirf Pakistan ki nahin. Oslo (Norway) gayi to vahaan bas gayi. Bartaniya gayi to vahaan bhi apni jagah bala li. Canada gayi to ek aur basti bas gayi. Amreeka gayi to vahaan ki ho gayi. Raza Mir ne god le liya.

‘Sach to ye hai ke agar “god lena” ki jagah aisa koi muhaavra hota to kahte: “labon pe le liya.” Jahaan jaati hai, seene se lag jaati hai. Vo rivayat ho jaati hai. Dastoor ho jaati hai. Urdu ek tehzeeb ki awaaz hai.’

Preface

1.  My teachers over time have included such stalwarts as Amar Dehlavi (who published the Amar Publications chapbooks of Urdu poets); K.C. Kanda (whose translations of Urdu ghazals and nazms are veritable labours of love); Nita Awatramani’s Urdu Poetry Archive (www.urdupoetry.com); older bulletin boards like rec.music.indian.misc and alt.language.urdu.poetry (both of which are now Google groups); Victor G. Kiernan’s translations of Faiz and Iqbal—Poems by Faiz (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1971) and Poems from Iqbal (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 1999); Khushwant Singh’s translations of Rajinder Singh Bedi [I Take This Woman (Delhi: Penguin India, 1994)], Iqbal [Shikwa and Jawab-i-Shikwa: Iqbal’s Dialogue with Allah (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997)] and Mirza Hadi Ruswa [The Courtesan of Lucknow: Umrao Jan Ada, translated by Khushwant Singh and M.A. Husaini (New Delhi: Orient Paperbacks, 1961)]; Frances W. Pritchett’s awesome website http://www.columbia.edu/~fp7 that includes translations of the Deevan-e Ghalib as well as Mir’s ghazals; C.M. Naim and M.U. Memon’s editorship of the Annual of Urdu Studies (http://urdustudies.com/); Mehr Afshan Farooqi’s two-volume history of Urdu literature—The Oxford India Anthology of Modern Urdu Literature, 2 vols (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2008); and numerous others. A recent site that I would recommend highly is www.urdushahkar.org, which is maintained by S.M. Shahed, and which provides accessible translations for a variety (and increasing corpus) of poems, and includes transliteration, Urdu script versions, and audio files with performance and exegesis.

Introduction: The Flutter of Angel Wings

1.  Refers to the debt incurred by anyone who eats salt in another’s home.

2.  Refers to the debt incurred by anyone who eats salt in another’s home.

3.  Na ho jab = if there is no; phir = then; kyon = why; yaqeenan = certainly; milawat = adulteration; shab ko = to the night.

4.  In the interests of full disclosure, I am a great partisan of the Progressive Writers’ Association, and believe that the best poetry in Urdu was produced during the progressive phase. I have co-authored with Ali Husain Mir a book on the topic titled Anthems of Resistance: A Celebration of Progressive Urdu Poetry (New Delhi: Roli Books, 2006).

5.  I have dealt extensively with this phenomenon elsewhere: ‘“Voh Yar Hai jo Khusbu ki Tarah / Jis ki Zuban Urdu ki Tarah”: The Friendly Association Between Urdu Poetry and Hindi Film Music,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 15 (2000), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/15/18mir.pdf.

6.  See Akbar Hyder, ‘Urdu’s Progressive Wit: Sulaiman Khatib, Sarvar “Danda” and the Subaltern Satirists Who Spoke Up,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 20 (2005), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/20/07AkbarHyder.pdf.

7.  Online portals have proved to be a treasure trove of the work of these poets, and I would urge you to seek out the performances of some of their verses on sites like YouTube.

8.  Those wishing to start reading right away on this issue may consider starting with Carla Petievich’s essay ‘Feminine Authorship and Urdu Poetic Tradition: Baharistan-i Naz vs. Tazkira-i Rekhti,’ in A Wilderness of Possibilities: Urdu Studies in Transnational Perspective, edited by Kathryn Hansen and David Lelyveld (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2005). Also see Gail Minault’s ‘Other Voices, Other Rooms: The View from the Zenana,’ in Women as Subjects, edited by Nita Kumar (Calcutta: Stree, 1994); and Ruth Vanita’s Gender, Sex, and the City: Urdu Rekhti Poetry in India, 1780–1870 (New York: Macmillan, 2012). Minault’s essay—‘Begamati Zuban: Women’s Language and Culture in Nineteenth-Century Delhi,’ in India International Centre Quarterly 11, no. 2 (1984): 155–70—is also instructive. An Urdu article from the 1930s, Nasiruddin Hashmi’s ‘Khavatin-e Dakkan ki Urdu khidmaat,’ Sabras 1, no. 1: 120–24, mentions three thirteenth-century women poets of Hyderabad, named Chanda Bai, Sharfunnisa and Fatima, who may be available in print—I’m on the prowl . . .

9.  The four-volume set was produced bilingually and titled Vazahat-e Urdu Kitabiyat (Imrani Uloom) in Urdu, and Annotated Urdu Bibliography (Social Sciences) in English. Both were published by the Educational Publishing House in New Delhi in 2008.

Amir Khusrau

1.  My selection unfortunately throws his more serious work in the shadows, but the Khusrau enthusiast may find a lot more joy at ‘Amir Khusrau Website,’ compiled by Yousuf Saeed, http://www.angelfire.com/sd/urdumedia/index.html.

Quli Qutub Shah

1.  For more on Quli Qutub Shah, see Narendra Luther’s appreciative essay, ‘A Multi-faceted Prince,’ Narendra Luther Archives, http://narendralutherarchives.blogspot.com/2006/12/multi-faceted-prince.html.

Mirza Sauda

1.  This verse has been beautifully performed by singers like Ustad Salamat Ali Khan and Tina Sani. Recordings of both these performances are available on YouTube.

Khwaja Mir Dard

1.  The interested reader who wishes to follow up on Dard will find a lot in Ian Bedford’s paper on the difficulties of translating from Dard’s eighteenth-century Urdu idiom into English, which includes a competent translation of twelve of his best-known ghazals: ‘Approaching Khvaja Mir Dard,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 22 (2007), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/22/04IanBedford.pdf; or in Homayra Ziad’s essay, ‘The Nature and Art of Discourse in the Religious Writings of Khvaja Mir Dard,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 20 (2005), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/20/10Ziad.pdf. Both commentators seem to agree that Dard’s spiritual (Sufi) leanings influenced his poetry greatly.

Mir Taqi Mir

1.  While one could dedicate several books to Mir’s work, the true enthusiast is directed to the page maintained most painstakingly by F.W. Pritchett, ‘A Garden of Kashmir,’ Columbia University, http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00garden/index.html; as well as to C.M. Naim’s translation of Mir’s autobiography, which is itself a marvel of literary merit and an extraordinary exposition of a chequered life—C.M. Naim, Zikr-i Mir: The Autobiography of the Eighteenth Century Mughal Poet: Mir Muhammad Taqi ‘Mir’ (1723–1810) (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1999), excerpts from which are published in ‘Mir on His Patrons,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 14 (1999), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/14/08naimcMiron.pdf, along with Naim’s analysis in ‘Mir and His Patrons,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 14 (1999), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/14/07naimcMirand.pdf.

2.  For example, this verse shows his love for a young man: ‘Mir kya saade hain, beemar hue jis ke sabab, Usi attar ke bete se dawaa lete hain’ (‘Mir is so simple-minded, he seeks medicine from the very apothecary’s son, who has caused him to fall ill’).

3.  Of its many renditions in the public domain, I like the one by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan a lot, but recommend the one by Shishir Parkhie even more strongly. Both versions are available on YouTube.

Insha

1.  See Christopher Shackle and Rupert Snell’s exposition of the poem and their discussion of Insha’s life at ‘Insha Allah Khan, Rani Ketki ki Kahani (c. 1803),’ Columbia University, http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00urduhindilinks/shacklesnell/302insha.pdf.

Mir Anees

1.  The interested reader may find much more about Anees at ‘Mir Anees: A Poet Extraordinaire,’ edited by Abu Talib Rizvi, http://www.miranees.com/. A longer marsiya has been translated by David Matthews, and is available in the public domain at http://razarumi.com/?p=794.

Bahadur Shah Zafar

1.  Those who are interested in the poet-king would do well to visit ‘Bahadur Shah Zafar,’ http://www.kapadia.com/zafar.html—a website that contains a trove of information about him, including history, poetry and even a photograph (the sole photograph of a Mughal emperor!).

Zauq

1.  In order to access the deevan electronically, see Malik-ul Shaura, Khaqani-e Hind and Shaikh Ibrahim Zauoq, ‘Deewan-e Zauq,’ Allama Iqbal Urdu Cyber Library, http://www.urducl.com/Urdu-Books/969-416-207-003/.

2.  See Mohammad Husain Azad, Aab-e Hayaat: Shaping the Canon of Urdu Poetry, translated and edited by F.W. Pritchett and Shamsur Rahman Faruqi (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2001).

3.  In particular, I’d recommend Begum Akhtar’s rendition of ‘Laayi hayaat aaye’ and Jagjit Singh’s version of ‘Ab to ghabraa ke’, both of which are available on YouTube.

4.  The prophet Khizr is known to have lived for an inordinately long time.

Mirza Ghalib

1.  For some interesting commentary, see F.W. Pritchett, ‘“The Meaning of the Meaningless Verses”: Ghalib and his Commentators,’ in A Wilderness of Possibilities, 251–72; it can be read at http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00fwp/published/ghalib_commentary2.pdf. Pritchett marshals a variety of expositions of this sher from multiple sharahs and commentaries, and rightly concludes that the search for definitive meanings in poetry is simultaneously futile, arrogant and reductive.

2.  Other places to look for Ghalibiana on the Internet include Pritchett’s work on Ghalib’s deevan (available on the web at ‘A Desertful of Roses: The Urdu Ghazals of Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”,’ F.W. Pritchett and Columbia University, http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00ghalib/index.html); and ‘Wine of Passion: The Urdu Ghazals of Ghalib,’ http://ghalib.org/, maintained by Dr Sarfaraz Niazi.

3.  I would recommend Jagjit Singh’s rendition of ‘Aah ko chahiye’. Mohammad Rafi does a great job of rendering ‘Bas ke dushwaar’ in his trademark clean style, and also does justice to ‘Bazeecha-e atfaal’. Begum Akhtar sings ‘Sab kahaan kuchh’ in breathtaking fashion (the version I heard at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqp_27apaVA included a bonus reading of a snippet from one of Ghalib’s letters in Kaifi Azmi’s dreamy voice). I would recommend a return to Jagjit Singh for ‘Hazaaron khwaahishein’.

4.  This refers to a folk reference that some raindrops, when they fall into the sea, are swallowed by oysters and become pearls. It is a metaphor for the difficulties that are encountered in the journey toward fulfilment.

5.  For Muslims, the sign of the new moon announces the festival, and here, Ghalib connects the curve of the executioner’s scimitar to the curve of the moon, to describe a martyr’s passion.

6.  Ghalib is being ironical here.

7.  Lovers eventually find their clothes torn or bloodstained.

8.  Agha Shahid Ali translated this ghazal rhythmically; it can be read at ‘Agha Shahid Ali: “Not All, Only A Few Return” (After Ghalib),’ golempoem, http://matthewsalomon.wordpress.com/2007/12/28/agha-shahid-ali-not-all-only-a-few-return-after-ghalib/.

9.  Perhaps Ghalib is extolling nightlife here. The constellation referred to is the Banatunnash (literally, ‘the daughters of the bier’, a name for the constellation Ursa Major, usually associated in Urdu poetry with beautiful women).

10. The poet’s feelings provided the material for the nightingale’s songs, so he thinks of himself as a teacher here.

11. Why would you want to be the scribe to letters written by your lover? Curiosity, jealousy, or a Cyrano de Bergerac–style attempt to communicate your own feelings through other suitors? You be the judge. In this day and age, Ghalib may have written verses about peeking into his lover’s Facebook page!

12. Referring to one’s love as infidel is an old practice in the ghazal tradition; it indicates that, at its peak, love begins to resemble worship, and so produces religiously undesirable effects.

13. Over the course of time, Ghalib’s poetry has occasionally been infiltrated, sometimes by people who deleted a few verses, and at others by those who inserted a few ‘rogue verses’ in it. Purists swear that this is one such rogue verse that Ghalib never wrote. This, however, is not a book for purists, and I also include it to highlight this delightful phenomenon of plagiarism-in-reverse.

14. Ghalib at his best. Without my parenthetic comments, the words sound cryptic. But once illuminated, the sher shows myriad possibilities. For example, what does it mean to say that a desert is hidden by dust? Ghalib deploys the metaphor of ‘being left in the dust’ to indicate an upstaging. The desolation of the poet shames the dryness of the desert, just as his tears upstage the oceans in their volume.

15. This is the recrimination of the dumped lover, who accuses the beloved (who is presumably either pale or red-faced, you decide).

16. The poet, at death’s door, seeks to remain close to his killer libations. You may choose to read this as a denunciation of habit, or a celebration of faithfulness, or . . . knock yourself out!

Momin

1.  A very good rendition of this ghazal can be found in the 1981 film Kudrat. I would also urge you to listen to Begum Akhtar’s beautiful rendition. Both can be found on YouTube.

Dagh Dehlavi

1.  Some of his poems with English translations can be read at ‘Daagh Dehlvi: Famous Poet at Allpoetry,’ Kevin, http://allpoetry.com/Daagh_Dehlvi.

2.  ‘Lutf voh’ was performed by Noorjehan and is available on YouTube. While ‘Sabaq aisa’ was set to music by A.R. Rahman for the 2003 film Tehzeeb, and sung evocatively by Madhushree, my favourite is Shruti Shadolikar’s composition, set to Raag Kaafi (in Dadra Taal, for the cognoscenti), which is, again, available on YouTube.

Mohammed Iqbal

1.  See Muhammad Suheyl Umar, ‘Iqbal—Poet-Philosopher,’ Iqbal Academy Pakistan, http://allamaiqbal.com/.

2.  See Kiernan, Poems from Iqbal.

3.  The poem first appeared in Iqbal’s Baal-i Gibreel (Gabriel’s Wing) in 1935. For a translation and discussion of that poem, see Varis Alavi, ‘Gabriel and Lucifer,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 20 (2005), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/20/04AlaviLucifer.pdf.

4.  Iqbal here references the love between Mahmud of Ghazni and his slave Ayaz. This is a metaphor for the ideal love that breaks all boundaries of class and status (and, incidentally, decentres heterosexual normativity).

Brij Narain Chakbast

1.  These poems have been well analysed by Neil Krishan Aggarwal in ‘The Rama Story of Brij Narain Chakbast,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 22 (2007), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/22/11AggarwalChakbast.pdf.

2.  This is an excerpt from the eponymous poem.

Jigar Moradabadi

1.  I have used the male and female pronouns in consecutive shers to highlight that there is no default gender in many ghazals. Indeed, more often than not, the object of the poet’s affection is male.

Firaaq Gorakhpuri

1.  For elaboration, see Ruth Vanita and Salim Kidwai, Same Sex Love in India: Readings from History and Literature (New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 2008), 264–66.

Josh Malihabadi

1.  Refers to the 1757 Battle of Plassey, in which Robert Clive defeated Nawab Sirajuddowlah, through the connivance of his general, Mir Jafar.

2.  Bahadur Shah Zafar’s two sons were beheaded and their heads sent to him as a punishment for his role in the 1857 war. Zafar died in Rangoon, which is referred to later in the poem.

3.  Metiaburj was where Wajid Ali Shah, the king of Avadh, was imprisoned; he died and was buried in Qaisar Bagh, nearby. Wajid Ali Shah’s takhallus was Akhtar, which is referred to in the poem.

4.  Josh may not be referring to Reginald Dyer, who perpetrated the Jalianwala Bagh massacre (he died in 1927) but to Michael O’Dwyer, the lieutenant governor of Punjab in the JB massacre days, who supported Dyer’s actions, and was alive then (he was assassinated by Udham Singh in 1940).

5.  In Islamic history, Husain is the ultimate symbol of the righteous person who suffered injustice; Yazid and Shimr are the paradigmatic dispensers of tyranny and injustice.

Makhdoom Mohiuddin

1.  Of the many renditions of this poem, the best perhaps is the version sung by Jagjit Singh and Asha Bhonsle, which is available on YouTube.

Majaz

1.  A rendition of the whole poem in Majaz’s own voice can be found on YouTube.

2.  This is an excerpt from the eponymous poem.

3.  Chengiz Khan and Nadir Shah are notorious in Indian history as raiders and despoilers of local wealth.

4.  A gathering of kings in Hindu mythology. Serves here as a metaphor for an assembly of the elite.

N.M. Rashid

1.  For an analysis of one of his poems titled ‘Samandar ki Tah mein’ (‘Under the Sea’), see Muhammad Hasan Askari’s piece ‘A Poem by Rashid: An Analysis,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 24 (2009), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/24/10AskariRashid.pdf. Rashid’s friend Miraji analysed two of his poems, translations of which can be found in ‘Two Poems by Rashid: An Analytical Reading,’ by Riyaz Latif in Annual of Urdu Studies 24 (2009), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/24/11MirajiRashid.pdf.

Faiz

1.  See the official web site of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, http://faiz.com/.

2.  See Kiernan, Poems by Faiz. For a more freewheeling translation of his poems, one could enjoy Agha Shahid Ali’s The Rebel’s Silhouette (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1995), and see one of its poems, ‘The Dawn of Freedom’, translated by Shahid in Annual of Urdu Studies 11 (1996), http://urdustudies.com/pdf/11/06dawn.pdf. I would also recommend Pritchett’s essay on the craft of translation using Faiz as an example, ‘The Sky, the Road, the Glass of Wine: On Translating Faiz,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 15 (2000), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/15/07pritchett.pdf.

3.  Ted Genoways discusses Faiz’s prison poetry as reflected in his book Dast-e Saba in ‘“Let Them Snuff Out the Moon”: Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s Prison Lyrics in Dast-e Saba,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 19 (2004), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/19/07GenowaysFaiz.pdf.

4.  ‘Aaj bazaar mein’ is available on YouTube, both in Faiz’s own voice as well as sung by Nayyara Noor. ‘Tum aaye ho na shab-e intezaar guzri hai’ sung by Noorjehan is also available on YouTube. In Nandita Das’s 2008 movie Firaaq, Naseeruddin Shah declaims ‘Ye dagh dagh ujaala’. Everyone loves Noorjehan’s rendition of ‘Mujh se pehli si mohabbat’, but let me also recommend the Fariha Parvez rendition, both of which are available on YouTube.

5.  Faiz’s metaphor reflects his incarceration, and he reads signs of his garden’s (country’s) fate from the breeze that eventually reaches his cage (prison cell).

Miraji

1.  Geeta Patel’s exhaustive book on Miraji combines context, biography and literary criticism: Lyrical Movements, Historical Hauntings: On Gender, Colonialism, and Desire in Miraji’s Urdu Poetry (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002).

Ali Sardar Jafri

1.  Sardar Jafri Foundation, ‘Ali Sardar Jafri: Centenary Celebration of Ali Sardar Jafri,’ http://www.sardarjafri.com/.

2.  Syed Akbar Hyder, Reliving Karbala: Martyrdom in South Asian Memory (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006) 185–87.

3.  This is an excerpt from the eponymous poem.

Jan Nisar Akhtar

1.  Akhtar is also well known as the muse for some remarkably beautiful literary output; his wife Safiya’s letters to him, well translated by Mehr Afshan Farooqi, are available at ‘Letters to Jan Nisar Akhtar’ by Safiya Akhtar, Annual of Urdu Studies 20 (2005), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/20/18SafiaAkhtar.pdf.

2.  A recording of this can be accessed on YouTube.

3.  This is an excerpt from a longer poem by the poet.

Majrooh Sultanpuri

1.  One can view a recording of Majrooh’s performance of this very ghazal at a mushaira on YouTube.

2.  This is a classic progressive trope, condemning those who do not join the movement for social change. Kaifi had said: ‘Jo door se toofan ka karte hain nazaara / Un ke liye toofan yahaan bhi hai, vahaan bhi’ (‘Those who watch the storm from afar / For them, the storm is both here and there’).

Kaifi Azmi

1.  There is an official web page—http://www.kaifiyat.in—as well as a web page dedicated to him by the Library of Congress New Delhi Office at the South Asian Literary Recordings Project—http://www.loc.gov/acq/ovop/delhi/salrp/kaifiazmi.html. There are also assorted places like the website dedicated to the play Kaifi aur Main—http://www.kaifiaurmain.com/.

2.  A translation of his poems into English by Pavan K. Varma was published in 2001 (Penguin).

Sahir Ludhianvi

1.  In our book Anthems of Resistance, Ali Mir and I devote a chapter to Sahir which we have titled ‘An Exemplary Progressive’. Also, see my article titled ‘The Poetry of “No”,’ Outlook magazine (July 2004), http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?224642.

2.  Muhammad Sadiq, A History of Urdu Literature, 2nd ed. (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1984).

Sulaiman Khateeb

1.  In ‘Urdu’s Progressive Wit: Sulaiman Khatib, Sarvar “Danda” and the Subaltern Satirists Who Spoke Up’, Akbar Hyder suggests that not only were the Dakkani poets stigmatized by classicists in the field of Urdu poetry, but their progressive counterparts also undermined their work, implicitly censoring all that was not written in a certain officialized Urdu. A new website dedicated to him—http://sulaimankhateeb.com/—contains a few audio and video files.

2.  A gampa (untranslatable in English) is a multipurpose household appliance, a receptacle for carrying heavy stuff. Construction labourers carry sand and concrete on their heads in gampas.

Habib Jalib

1.  See ‘Ten Poems by Habib Jalib,’ Revolutionary Democracy 9, no. 1 (April 2003), http://www.revolutionarydemocracy.org/rdv9n1/jalibpoems.htm.

2.  Mansoor Hallaj was a Sufi mystic of Iran, who was famously executed in the tenth century by the Abbasid king Al-Muqtadir for putative heresy. Mansoor had proclaimed that God existed inside him, which was equated with polytheism. In Socratic fashion, Hallaj was executed for his steadfast refusal to recant his words. He is the patron saint of all martyr poets, after a fashion.

3.  Here, Jalib shows how the progressive poets never abandoned the classical metaphors, especially Ghalib. These words come from a sher in a Ghalib ghazal, where he taunts those who do not understand him: ‘Na sitaish ki tamanna, na sile ki parvaah / Gar nahin hai mere ash’aar mein maani, na sahi’ (‘I desire neither praise nor recompense / And if my verses mean naught to you, so be it’). In the maqta as well, the term shah ka masaahib is derived from a Ghalib sher.

4.  Implying they are written in the poet’s blood.

Mustafa Zaidi

1.  Laurel Steele’s doctoral dissertation on Zaidi, titled ‘Relocating the Postcolonial Self: Place, Metaphor, Memory and the Urdu Poetry of Mustafa Zaidi (1930–1970)’ (University of Chicago, 2005) remains the definitive word on Zaidi in English. Her brief article on Zaidi, along with translations of six of his poems and an elegy by Salam Machhlishahri can be found in the Annual of Urdu Studies 17 (2002), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/17/18_Steele.pdf.

Ahmed Faraz

1.  Ali Mir’s obituary of Faraz, ‘Remembering Ahmad Faraz’, containing a translation of a brief snippet from the poem, was published in the web section of Outlook magazine on 11 September 2008 at http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?238364.

2.  This can be heard in Faraz’s own voice on YouTube.

3.  Mehdi Hasan’s rendition of this ghazal is considered to be the best. I would like to provoke the wrath of the purists and declare that I like Asha Bhonsle’s version better. You can compare for yourselves as both renditions are available on YouTube.

Gulzar

1.  This appears in the song ‘Aane wala pal’ in the 1979 movie Gol Maal, and can be viewed on YouTube.

2.  The song ‘Is mod se jaate hain’ is from the 1975 film Aandhi. Gulzar’s own rendition of the last poem was performed at the Vishwa Hindi Sammelan in New York in July 2007. Both are available on YouTube.

Shahryar

1.  Qurratulain Hyder also won both awards, for fiction. A brief biography of Shahryar, followed by a translation of some of his poems by Rakhshanda Jalil, can be found in the Annual of Urdu Studies 17 (2002), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/17/19_Shahryar.pdf; while a recent obituary by Mehr Afshan Farooqi, ‘Farewell, Shahryar’, published in the web section of Outlook magazine on 21 February 2012, can be read here: http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?279957.

Asif Raza

1.  This sher is from Asif Raza’s poem ‘Amreeka’, and includes a reference to the legend of Prometheus, who was of course condemned for stealing the gods’ fire.

Iftikhar Arif

1.  Both poems have been performed by well-known artistes. The first qaseeda has been performed by Ali Haidar, and the second is a poem sung by Noorjehan; both performances can be viewed on YouTube.

S.M. Shahed

1.  See: ‘UrduShahkar,’ http://urdushahkar.org/. The site also contains audio files of Shahed reciting his poems, including the one I have translated here. For his recitation of ‘Fikr’, see ‘Shahed: UrduShahkar,’ http://urdushahkar.org/category/khudkalami/shahed/.

Javed Akhtar

1.  Javed Akhtar, Quiver, translated by David Matthews (London: HarperCollins, 2001). Javed Akhtar’s website, ‘Javed Akhtar: Film Writer, Lyricist, Poet,’ http://javedakhtar.com, is a great source of information and poetry about him. One must also recommend Nasreen Munni Kabeer’s two books on him titled Talking Films: Conversations on Hindi Cinema with Javed Akhtar (New Delhi and New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), and especially Talking Songs: Javed Akhtar in Conversation with Nasreen Munni Kabeer and Sixty Selected Songs (New Delhi, Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 2005); the latter has many of Akhtar’s film songs translated and transliterated.

2.  See www.javedakhtar.com

3.  See ‘Javed Akhtar’s Quiver of Progressive Arrows: A Legacy Survives,’ in Anthems of Resistance, 174–199, for an analysis of the non-film poetry, and chapters 6 and 7 for discussions of film lyrics.

4.  The poet uses a pun, where ‘usool’ can mean ‘rule’, but also connotes a sense of fairness and justice. The implied line is: ‘if this is the rule, where is the justice?’

5.  Another subtle pun—the term ‘khel kya hai’, in regular usage, implies ‘what is really going on?’.

Fahmida Riaz

1.  The English translations of her selected poems were published as Four Walls and a Black Veil (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2004); other than poetry, her novella Godavari achieved great success, as did her volume of short stories, Khat-e Marmuz.

2.  It appears in Anthems of Resistance [see 208–11. Also see 218–20 for long excerpts of her ‘Kya Tum Poora Chaand Na Dekhoge?’ (‘Will You Not See the Full Moon?’)]. Her recent poem ‘Bhagat Singh ki Moorat’ is available in Romanized script at ‘Bhagat Singh ki Moorat by Fahmida Riaz,’ Uddari Weblog, http://uddari.wordpress.com/2008/08/26/bhagat-singh-ki-moort-by-fahmida-riaz/, with an English translation by Riaz herself. Those wishing to see Riaz perform her own work can do so via YouTube.

Parveen Shakir

1.  Five of her poems appear in competent English translation by Alamgir Hashmi at Cipher Journal, http://www.cipherjournal.com/html/hashmi.html. Do also read C.M. Naim’s review article, ‘Parveen Shakir: A Note and Twelve Poems,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 8 (1993), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/08/20shakir.pdf.

2.  There are several recordings of Parveen Shakir performing her own work, including the ghazal I have translated, that can be accessed on websites like YouTube.

Ishrat Afreen

1.  See the official website of Ishrat Afreen, http://www.ishratafreen.com/.

2.  One may read the translation of two of her poems along with a review essay by Nuzhat Abbas: ‘Conversing to/with Shame: Translation and Gender in the Urdu Ghazal,’ Annual of Urdu Studies 14 (1999), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/14/11abbasn.pdf.

Zeeshan Sahil

1.  An Evening of Caged Beasts: Seven Postmodernist Urdu Poets, selected and introduced by Asif Farrukhi and translated by F.W. Pritchett and Asif Farrukhi (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 1999). A selection is available in the Annual of Urdu Studies 8 (1993), http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/08/15evening_caged.pdf. Other than Sahil, the group comprised Afzal Ahmad Syed, Azra Abbas, Sarwat Hussain, Sara Shagufta, Tanveer Anjum and Saiduddin.

2.  See: Zakintosh, ‘Zeeshan Sahil: Lonely No More!’ Windmills of My Mind, http://kidvai.blogspot.com/2008/04/evening-with-zeeshan-sahil-was-event.html. Also, five of Sahil’s poems have been translated by Raza Ali Hasan and Christopher Kennedy for the Annual of Urdu Studies 21 (2006), and are available at http://www.urdustudies.com/pdf/21/16Zeeshan.pdf. I found a very brief audio clip of Sahil’s voice at http://www.kidvai.com/windmills/Media/ZeeshansWish.mp3.

Copyright Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge gratefully the following for giving me permission to reproduce and translate some of the poems in this book. Gulzar, Javed Akhtar, Jameela Nishat, Ishrat Afreen, Fahmida Riaz, Iftikhar Arif, Asif Raza and S.M. Shahed permitted me to use their own work. In addition, I obtained permission from Fariha and Sambreen Rashed (for N.M. Rashid’s poem); Saba Zaidi (for Mustafa Zaidi’s poems); Tamkeen Khateeb (for Sulaiman Khateeb’s poem); Shabana Azmi (for Kaifi Azmi’s poems); Javed Akhtar (for Jan Nisar Akhtar’s and Majaz’s poems); Ali Nazim Jafri (for Ali Sardar Jafri’s poems); Faridoon Shahryar (for Shahryar’s poems); Ali Madeeh Hashmi and the Faiz Foundation (for Faiz’s poems); Syed Abid Raza (for Zeeshan Sahil’s poems); Parveen Qadir Agha, the Perveen Shakir Trust and Murad Publications (for Parveen Shakir’s poem); Shibli and Saadi Faraz (for Ahmed Faraz’s poems); and Andalib Sultanpuri (for Majrooh’s poems).

While every possible effort has been made to contact the heirs of deceased poets, it has not been possible in all cases; I would be happy to include and acknowledge the heirs of any missed poets in future editions.

THE BEGINNING

Let the conversation begin ...

Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@PenguinIndia

Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/PenguinIndia

Like ‘Penguin Books’ on facebook.com/PenguinIndia

Find out more about the author anddiscover more stories like this

at penguinbooksindia.com

PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd, 7th Floor, Infinity Tower C, DLF Cyber City, Gurgaon 122 002, Haryana, India

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia

Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Johannesburg 2193, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Penguin Books India 2014

www.penguinbooksindia.com

Anthology copyright © Penguin Books India 2014

Introduction and Translation copyright © Raza Mir 2014

Foreword copyright © Gulzar 2014

The copyright for the individual poems vests with the respective poets or their heirs/estates

Copyright Acknowledgements is an extension of the copyright page

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-0-143-42118-4

This digital edition published in 2014

e-ISBN: 978-9-351-18725-7

For sale in the Indian Subcontinent only

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above-mentioned publisher of this book.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Contents

About the Author

Foreword

Preface

Introduction

A Note on Poetic Form

POEMS

Amir Khusrau

Quli Qutub Shah

Wali Dakkani

Mirza Sauda

Khwaja Mir Dard

Mir Taqi Mir

Nazeer Akbarabadi

Insha

Mir Anees

Mirza Dabeer

Bahadur Shah Zafar

Zauq

Mirza Ghalib

Momin

Dagh Dehlavi

Maulana Hali

Akbar Allahabadi

Mohammed Iqbal

Brij Narain Chakbast

Jigar Moradabadi

Firaaq Gorakhpuri

Josh Malihabadi

Makhdoom Mohiuddin

Majaz

N.M. Rashid

Faiz

Miraji

Ali Sardar Jafri

Jan Nisar Akhtar

Majrooh Sultanpuri

Kaifi Azmi

Sahir Ludhianvi

Sulaiman Khateeb

Habib Jalib

Mustafa Zaidi

Ahmed Faraz

Gulzar

Shahryar

Asif Raza

Iftikhar Arif

S.M. Shahed

Javed Akhtar

Fahmida Riaz

Parveen Shakir

Jameela Nishat

Ishrat Afreen

Zeeshan Sahil

Notes

Copyright Acknowledgements

Follow Penguin

Copyright