The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry

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.