The Colours of My Heart
Page 6
Let us say it today
and take away the stab of the pain
42
Ghazal
It Would Be Impossible
It would be impossible to narrate in full
the heartlessness of the times
This time around too it wasn’t possible to feast
the heart to the full
Again the same promise that couldn’t turn into a vow,
Again that same word, which couldn’t become
positive agreement
Again the same moths, who weren’t permitted martyrdom at the flame
Again those candles which didn’t reach the night
Again that feeling of life about to expire from the lips
before the life-giving taste of the wine
Again that same assembly which couldn’t grow
into a full wine-house
Again, the moment of meeting
but the eye and the power of sight thirsty for a look again
Again, the night of union: but there was no meeting
Nothing face-to-face
Again, as usual, one never knew when the door
was closed to efficacy of prayer
And again the supplication—prayer didn’t come to its end
Faiz, there was doomsday’s perdition here every day
And not one of those days could become the day of retribution
POEMS SELECTED FROM
Shaam-e Shahr-e Yaaraan
43
The Day of Death
How will it come—the day death comes?
Perhaps in the way of the bestowal of an undemanded kiss
On the mouth on the night of union?
The way the doors of magic lands begin to open all around
And somewhere far, the spring tide of strange, unknown roses
Starts suddenly to hurt the moon’s breast?
Or perhaps the way
Towards the end of the night, morning made verdant by
half-open buds
Suddenly starts to ripple in the beloved’s bedroom
And a jingling sound thrills the wires
through silent casements at the time of parting?
How will it come—the day death comes?
Perhaps the way a blood vessel touched by the point
of a spear shrieks out as it imagines the pain to come
And the vague shadow of the spear-handed pirate
Begins to roll and wave over the earth
from end to end?
Whichever way death comes, the day it comes
In a murderer’s form, or with the elegance of a beloved
The heart will utter only these words of farewell:
Praise be to God for the end earned by the heart-stricken
And a word of thanks for the lips of the sweet-tongued!
44
An Evening in Ashkabad
When the sun, as it left
The blue horizon of Ashkabad
Poured in his golden goblet
The first red of the evening
And placing that goblet before you
Spoke to you thus:
‘Salutations!
Arise
And arising from the flower bed of your body
This evening, print
A message of sweetness
To someone’s name
On the lip of the goblet.’
You perhaps consented and then
You made a gift of your rosy lips
To someone
On the lip of the goblet
Or perhaps
You, bedecked on the flower bed of your body
Were so lost in you repose
That the goblet lamp
Vainly waited for you
And its light went out
Across the blue horizon of Ashkabad
An evening laid to waste
45
If My Pain Was Given Words
My pain, soundless music
My being, a nameless atom
If my pain was given words
I would know my name, my whereabouts
If I were to get a clue to my being
I would know the secret of what makes the world go round
And if I were to plumb that secret
My silence would be granted utterance
I would be lord of the universe
I would gain the riches of the two worlds
46
Evening, Be Gracious
Evening, be gracious
Evening of the city of friends
Be gracious upon us
Hell-born noontide of tyranny
Of tyranny without cause
Noontide of pain and rage and sorrow
Of tongueless pain and rage and sorrow
Whiplashes of the hell-born noontide
Rainbow-hued, map the bodies, dividing them
In a criss-cross of arcs
The wounds are wide open
Whose scars were thought to have faded
Surely there must be something in your satchel
Spread the gentle shawl of a pain-curing salve
Over that part of the body that hurts the most
Evening, be gracious
Evening of the city of friends
Be gracious upon us
Hellish deserts of hatred
Of heartless hatreds
Shards from the eye of the jealous
Shrivelled-up sward and straw of ill will
The roads so deserted
The execution halls so densely full
Through which we have passed
Every step a new blister
Our legs are slashed so
That our paths are now shrunk
Please spread under our feet
The velvet of your clouds
Cure the travellers’ affliction
Evening, be gracious
O moon of the beloveds’ nights
O friend and companion to the wounded hearts
Talk to us please, this evening!
Evening, be gracious
Evening, be gracious
Evening of the city of friends
Be gracious upon us
47
Ghazal
No Rivals, No Counsellors, No Sharers of Grief
No rivals, no counsellors, no sharers of grief
How plentiful and how varied were our friends
when you and I were lovers
How many were the kinds of nearness we enjoyed when we weren’t together—
And how many are the kinds of distance there are when we are together!
Arrived at your doorstep, how esteemed and creditworthy I became—
Yet how many were the jeers of disreputation that I earned along the journey!
It’s just because of the submissive, humble ways of the simple-hearted fellows like me
How much and how often have the false idols lorded it over the whole world!
Sometimes I feel happy being oppressed and sometimes I’m unhappy at grace and kindness
How many ways you taught me of being cross or perverse!
48
After a Visit to Dhaka
So, we were determined to be strangers—after so much
Affability, conviviality
How many meetings would be needed
to be declared familiar friends?
When will the springtime of spotless verdure be?
How many seasons of rain will it take to wash off
the stains of blood?
They were extremely cruel
those moments of the ceasing of the pain of love
They were extremely cold and loveless the mornings
that followed the gentle loving nights
The heart was keen enough, but its breaking gave no respite
For me to submit a few plaints and reproaches after
the entreaties were over
Prepared to give away my life for her, I approached her wit
h
the idea of saying something meaningful
Unfortunately those very words remained unsaid after I’d said
all that I wanted to say
49
Do What You Must Do
Now why talk of the day
When the heart will be shattered
And all kinds of sorrow will be no more
Whatever was gained would be lost
And we’ll get what we never could get?
This day is that very first day—
The first day of love
The day we always longed for
And whose advent we always dreaded
Numerous are the times when this day came
We were settled a hundred times, plundered a hundred times
Sacked, and compensated a hundred times
Why worry now about the day
When the heart will be shattered
And all kinds of sorrow will be no more?
Pass by anxious thoughts and fears
Que sera sera—
If it’s to be laughter, then laughter it’ll be
If it’s to be tears, then tears it’ll be
Do what you must do
Whatever happens, we’ll see how it goes
50
I Spent Some of My Time Loving, Some of My Time Working
Those guys were truly lucky
Who regarded loving as a full-time job
Or used their loving for their job
Throughout my life, I was busy
I spent some of my time loving, some of my time working
My work impeded my loving all the time
And my loving ravelled my work
So then finally fed up with both
I came away with both unfinished
51
Imagination Again Seeks a Word
(1)
Imagination again seeks a word everywhere, today
A honey-filled word, a vitriol-filled word
A word that finds its target in the heart
A word full of destructive fury
Word of love, like a loving, heart-consoling glance
Which meets the eyes like a kiss on the lips
Bright like the head of a golden wave
Like the opening of the time of pleasure and song
in a lover’s company
Word of abomination, like the sword of wrath
That would destroy the cities of tyranny until eternity
without end
Dark as night on a burning ghat
It would blacken my lips if I were to utter that word
(2)
All connections break today between all notes and all ragas
Once again the voice searches for the singer it has lost
The fury of pain has ripped into shreds, like Majnun’s collar
Each and every thread in each and every wire
of every musical instrument
Today, all people, all creation demands from every wave of wind
May you live long, bring to us a song, a sound!
Let it be a keening in sorrow, or the tumult of martyrdom
Or the last trump, or doomsday’s thunder
POEMS SELECTED FROM
Mere Dil Mere Musaafir
52
My Heart, O My Wayfarer!
My heart, O my wayfarer
The command has been given again
The two of us should be banished from the homeland
And wander from street to street, calling
Travel from one city to the next
Hoping to find some trace, or clue
To a loving courier
Ask every stranger
The address where we used to live
Around the streets and dwellings of strangers
We should drag the day to night—
Picking up conversations
With this or that individual1
What can I tell you what it is?
The night of affliction and sorrow is a calamitous thing!
We could even make do with it
Were there a count, a limit
It’s never too bad to die
If it’s only once2
53
View (3)
The sky is a turbulent sea today
Cloud-ships moving about everywhere on it
On their decks masts of the sun’s rays
Wearing the long, heavy coats of the sails
Numerous dome-like islands on the Nile of the sky
And all absorbed in some sport or other
A swallow dips and bathes
A kite dives headlong—
No power testing its strength against another
No fleet displaying a country’s flag
No submarines in its depths anywhere
No rockets, no naval guns here
Though all elements display their might here
Yet how peaceful is this turbulent sea
54
A Ghazal for the Hafiz of Shiraz
The counsellor said to me, ‘What merit does love have except sorrow?’
Go away, wise master. Is there any better merit?
(Hafiz)
Candy of the mouth—just a little more
Pleasure and elegance in poetry—just a little more
Joys of the spring in the season of the fall
Jasmine petals—just a little more
Bitter song on the plight of the garden
Bird of the garden—just a little more
Breaking the heart, giving it solace
Remembrance of home—just a little more
The body’s lamp, dressed as a lampshade
The body’s beauty—just a little more
What does love have but sorrow?
My masters—just a little more
55
Ghazal
Tyranny Giving Lessons in the Fidelity of Love
Tyranny giving lessons in the fidelity of love?
That’s not how things happen
False idols leading the way to the true God?
That’s not how things happen
Take into account also the desires that were slaughtered in the body’s execution house
Dear murderer, computing the blood money?
That’s not how these things happen
Stratagems, penalties, nothing works in the world of the heart
Vow of submission, promise to always subserve?
That’s not how these things happen here
Doomsday’s tumult happening every night, every pass of the night—
Such things can be, but
With every morning should dawn the day
of reward or retribution—
No, that’s not how things happen
Well, the time’s pulse still beats, the heavens all rotate as before
And you say: Everything has come to pass, but
That’s not how things happen
POEMS SELECTED FROM
Ghubaar-e Ayyaam
56
Ash of Disunion, Blossoms of Union
Today, once again in the thread of pain and grief
I thread the blossoms of your memory
Picking from the wasteland of the act of
renunciation of love
Flowers of the months and years of loving
I adorned your doorstep with them, again
And made a sacred offering
Ash of disunion, blossoms of union
Tied in the hem of desire
57
Homage to Maulana Hasrat Mohani
They will die but will never support the tyrant
The free will never give up their tradition
What an embarrassment of riches we had when once we met!
Now there’ll never be complaining against your not meeting me
So the night is past, the day too shall pass
I’ll not speak of whatever befell, moment from moment
Poverty is enough recompens
e for my melancholy heart
I won’t demand a kingdom, I won’t rule a dominion
I am neither the sheikh, nor leader, nor courtier, nor journalist
I’ll not preach what I don’t practise
1 This recalls a verse by Mushafi, the classical Urdu poet, contemporary of Mir.
2 These lines echo a verse from a famous ghazal by Ghalib.
Notes
1. The Rawalpindi Conspiracy case was an attempt to overthrow the government of Pakistan in 1951. All the conspirators were arrested in March 1951 and sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. The conspiracy was led by Major General Akbar Khan, and included Major General Nazir Ahmad and many others from the army and the air force. Three left-oriented or communist civilians were also involved in the conspiracy. They were: Faiz Ahmed Faiz, poet; Sajjad Zaheer, critic and ideologue of the Progressive Movement; and Muhammad Husain Ata. They were defended by the famous lawyer-politician Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy, who, after becoming prime minister of Pakistan in 1956, obtained reprieve for most of the conspirators. Faiz and Sajjad Zaheer were released much earlier. Sajjad Zaheer returned to India while Faiz remained in Pakistan and continued his career as a left-wing poet and intellectual.
2. Quotations have been taken from the introductions provided in Nuskha Ha-e Wafa and translated into English by the translator herself. See: Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Nuskha Ha-e Wafa: Kulliyat-e Faiz (Delhi: Farid Book Depot, 1997).
3. Victor Kiernan, Poems by Faiz (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1971).