The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry

by Mir

  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.

  1Laayi 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 Khizr4, 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?

  2Ab 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 hi
s 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

  1Aah 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 stage4?

  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.

  2Bas 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

  3Sab 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 few8

  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, disrobed9.

  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.

  4Hazaaron 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.

  5Baazeecha-e atfaal

  Baazeecha-e atfaal hai duniya mere aage

  Hota ha
i 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’).