by Mir
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.
1Baat 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.
2Lagta 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.
3Shamsheer 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 deevan1. 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 Hayaat2.