Whenever this moment arrives, I too,
unwittingly, sometimes see,
taking off the garments of self,
somewhere the stains of reproach,
somewhere love’s floral embroidery,
somewhere streaks of tears, and
the blots of heart’s blood.
Here broke the enemy’s claw,
this is the seal of a loving friend,
these the ruddy lips of gracious beloveds,
this the gift of the foul-mouthed priest.
This tattered robe of day and night,
is to me both dear and disdained.
Sometimes, at the behest of frenzy,
I feel like tearing it to shreds
and at times, at love’s insistence,
I want to kiss it,
embrace it again.
We are Committed to Loyalty
The blood of how many do you need,
O my motherland,
so that your lustreless cheek may turn crimson?
How many sighs will soothe your heart
—and how many tears make your deserts bloom?
How many pledges lie splintered down your hallways
and how many promises that were never honoured?
How many eyes were cursed by the evil eye
and how many dreams were stoned to death
on your highways?
It matters little what suffering was the lot of love—
don’t tell her how much I endured—it’s all over now.
Lest some tyrant hold you by the scruff,
let the blood be washed off your hem—
what’s done is done.
We’re indeed committed to loyalty but, O my love,
should lovers be treated so coldly?
Let God keep your assembly going till eternity—
we’re only guests for a moment, we don’t
really matter.
Paris
The day faded away, and down the streets
and alleyways
were arrayed pallid lampposts
from whose bowls rained down
this crowded city’s frustrations.
Over there
the vestiges of past glory
began to look hazy against the skyline
and there, in front of the eye,
some shadow embraced a wall’s shadow
cherishing the faint hope for another shadow—
an everyday occurrence—
prefaces a mute comment
on the harshness of time—
and some stranger
skirting these lights, these shadows,
presses on towards his dreamless bed-chamber.
What Shall We Do?
In your eyes and mine
endless expectations—
in your body and mine
those countless broken hearts—
all the pens paralysed
due to numbness
of your fingers and mine.
Anonymous graves of your footprints and mine
in every lane
of your city and mine.
Those stars wounded, of your night and mine,
those roses ripped apart
of your morning and mine—
these are all wounds beyond healing,
these are tears beyond darning.
On some there’s the moon’s dust,
on others the dew is wasted.
Whether it is, or isn’t, you tell me!
Or is it all a mere web
woven by the spiders of my illusion and yours?
If it is—then what shall we do about it?
And if it isn’t, even then, what’s to be done?
Tell me, tell me!
Quatrains
In recompense for your beauty’s largesse
what would you expect of us, the empty-handed?
Why don’t you be kind to those afflicted
by separation?
There’ll be another time to test their patience.
These days the night ebbs, like the wine’s
wave receding.
Dawn breaks like a flower exuding colour
and fragrance.
Empty are the wine-cups; this is no way to welcome
spring—
let the heart be filled with desire, the eyes with blood.
Indeed, I have known drunkards—
die they must, finally, drinking and revelling.
And those teetotallers—has anyone seen death
pass them by?
Love’s Prisoners
Wearing the hangman’s noose, like a necklace,
the singers kept on singing day and night,
kept jingling the ankle-bells of their fetters
and the dancers jigged on
riotously.
We who were neither in this camp nor that
just stood by watching them
enviously
shedding silent tears.
Returning, we saw that the crimson
of flowers had turned pale
and on probing within, it seemed
that where the heart once was
now lingered only stabbing pain.
Round our necks the hallucination of a noose,
and on our feet the dance of fetters.
Then came love, one day,
and like the others, enchained, haltered,
we too were dragged into its caravan.
What’s To Be Done, You Tell
When in the river of pain, we
launched the boat of life,
how much vigour there was in our arms
and how red our blood was.
It seemed that just the push of two hands
and the boat would ferry right across.
But this was not to be—in every current
were unseen whirlpools,
then there were some boatmen—utter novices
and there were also some untried oars.
Now it’s for you to probe;
now you may lay any blame at our door—
though it’s the same river, the same boat.
Now, you tell us what’s to be done,
how are we to get across?
When in our bosom we’d seen the wounds
of this land, we had great faith
in our physicians, and remembered
many a prescription.
It then seemed as though in just a few days
all our troubles would be over—
all wounds healed.
It wasn’t that our ailments
were so chronic, or that our physicians
could not diagnose them—
yet all the curing went in vain.
Now it’s for you to probe,
and you may lay all blame at our door.
But it’s the same bosom, the same wounds—
now you tell us what’s to be done—
how to heal these wounds?
Nobody Around Tonight
There’s nobody near my heart tonight
Far from the eyes are open many magic portals,
several doors to the palaces of dreams within dreams—
but no inmate.
There’s nobody near my heart tonight—
no song, no fragrance, no beloved;
hope adrift like a wayfarer—
no sorrow, no ache, no misgiving, no certitude—
nothing whatsoever.
There’s nobody near my heart tonight.
If you’re there, whether near me or far away,
then every moment you are a solace for the
stricken heart.
And if you’re not anywhere, there’s nobody
around, no one—
there’s nobody near my heart tonight.
It Seems at This Moment …
It seems at this moment nothing exists—
no moon, no sun, neither darkness nor dawn.
In front of the
eyes’ windows, some beauty behind
the laced curtain
and in the heart’s shelter has come to stay some pain.
Perhaps it was some illusion, or just something
I’d heard talked about
on the street that sound of the last footfalls.
Perhaps in this dense tree, in fancy’s boughs,
no dream will ever come to seek refuge.
No estrangement, no affection, no involvement
nobody is yours, for me nobody a stranger.
It’s true that this lonesome moment is very cruel
but, O my heart, this is only one such moment.
Take courage, there’s all the time to live on.
Thoughts of Turkish Poet Nazim Hikmat
To die to live
what good fortune is this.
To live to die
what folly is this.
Walk alone
like an upright box-tree
and live in close togetherness
like the trees in a forest.
Buoyed up on hope,
I’ve strained my life to its limits—
just as I’ve been in love with you.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am deeply indebted to Amitendu Bhattacharya, a dear friend and a freelancer, and Revathi Thangavelu, my former colleague, for their invaluable editorial assistance. But, above all, I am grateful to Meru Gokhale, Editorial Director of Vintage India, for encouraging me in completing this project.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
To Urdu speakers, Faiz Ahmed Faiz needs no introduction. Winner of the Lenin Peace Prize, honoured as a member of the Order of the British Empire, nominated for the Nobel Prize, and awarded Pakistan’s highest civilian award, Faiz stands as a colossus of modern Urdu poetry. His poems, with their lyricism and commitment to justice, continue to suture wounds, foment revolutions and inspire ghazal singers.
A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATOR
Shiv K. Kumar has donned many hats and lived many lives: poet, novelist, short-story writer, playwright, translator, academic and critic. He was born in Lahore, where he received his school and college education. He obtained his doctorate in English Literature from the University of Cambridge. Prof. Kumar has published thirteen volumes of poetry, five novels, two collections of short stories and a play. His poems have appeared in several renowned newspapers and journals like the New York Times, Poetry Review (London), Western Humanities Review, among others—and been broadcast on the BBC. In 1978, he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (London). He received the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1987 for his collection of poems Trapfalls in the Sky. In 2001, he was awarded the Padma Bhushan for his contribution to literature.
The Best of Faiz Page 6