by Mir
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.
1Faqiraana 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?
2Hasti 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.
3Ulti 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.
1Insha-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.
2Kamar 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