by Raza Mir
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
(My wandering raises it and) the desert is hidden by dust
(For the volume of my tears) the sea bows in front of me14
Ask not how I am coping with life in your absence
Instead, watch your face change colour in front of me15
Faith compels me to stop, while infidelity pulls me forward
I vacillate thus, the Kaaba behind and the church in front of me
Admittedly, my hands have ceased to move, but my eyes still have strength
Keep the cask and the wine glass in front of me16
He shares my profession, my wine, and also my secrets
And you dare denounce Ghalib in front of me!
(7)
YE NA THI HAMAARI QISMAT
Ye na thi hamaari qismat ke visaal-e-yaar hota
Agar aur jeete rehte yahi intezaar hota
Tere vaade par jiye hum to ye jaan jhoot jaana
Ke khushi se mar na jaate agar aetbaar hota
Koi mere dil se poochhe tere teer-e neem-kash ko
Ye khalish kahaaN se hoti jo jigar ke paar hota
Ye kahaaN ki dosti hai ki bane haiN dost naaseh
Koi chaarasaaz hota koi gham-gusaar hota
Gham agarche jaaN-gusil hai pa kahaaN bacheN ke dil hai
Gham-e ishq gar na hota gham-e rozgaar hota
KahooN kis se maiN ke kya hai shab-e gham buri bala hai
Mujhe kya bura tha marna agar ek baar hota
Hue mar ke hum jo rusva hue kyon na gharq-e dariya
Na kabhi janaaza uthta na kahiN mazaar hota
Ye masaail-e tasavvuf ye tera bayaan Ghalib
Tujhe hum vali samajhte jo na baada-khvaar hota.
IT WAS NOT MY FATE
To be united with my love was not to be my fate
Had I lived longer, I would still be pining in wait
You promised and yet I lived, know I knew you had lied
Else I would have died by now, my joy would be so great
Someone should ask my heart about your poorly shot arrow
Would it have hurt so much if that dart had pierced me straight?
What sort of friendship is this that just warns and admonishes?
I would have preferred a healer, I would prefer a mate
Pain and alienation stalk us so, how can the heart escape?
If the pain of love did not hurt, labour would alienate
With whom can I share my burdens, the night of grief is long
I would welcome death, if just once I had to bear its weight
Even dying brings dishonour, why couldn’t I drown at sea?
No funeral would be needed, no grave we would create
These Sufi thoughts and that silver tongue, my dear Ghalib
Were you not a lush, we’d call you a saint and celebrate.
(8)
ZIKR US PARI-VASH KA
Zikr us pari-vash ka aur phir bayaaN apna
Ban gaya raqeeb aakhir tha jo raaz-daaN apna
Mai vo kyoN bahut peete bazm-e-ghair meiN ya Rab
Aaj hi hua manzoor un ko imtihaaN apna
Manzar ek bulandi par aur ham bana sakte
Arsh se udhar hota kaash ke makaaN apna
Dard-e dil likhooN kab tak jaaooN un ko dikhla dooN
UngliyaaN figaar apni khaama khooN-chakaaN apna
Hum kahaaN ke daana the kis hunar meiN yakta the
Be-sabab hua Ghalib dushman aasmaaN apna.
THE TALE OF THAT BEAUTY
The tale of that beauty, and on top of that, my locution
Alas my secret sharer turned into my competition!
My love prefers to get drunk with others, his mood to lighten
Just today, when not with me, do his emotions heighten17
We could have viewed a heavenly vista from on high
Had our house been built loftier than the sky!18
Should I write of my heartache, perhaps it is enough to show
My pen splattered with blood, wounded fingers that fed the flow
Neither was he accomplished nor did he with wisdom glow
For no reason, the tyrant world treated Ghalib like a foe.
(9)
KISI KO DE KE DIL
Kisi ko de ke dil koi nava-sanj-e fughaaN kyoN ho
Na ho jab dil hi seene meiN to phir moonh meiN zabaaN kyoN ho
Kiya gham-khvaar ne rusva lage aag is mohabbat ko
Na laave taab jo gham ki vo mera raazdaaN kyoN ho
Vafa kaisi kahaaN ka ishq jab sar phodna thahra
To phir ai sang-dil tera hi sang-e aastaaN kyoN ho
Qafas meiN mujh se roodaad-e chaman kahte na dar humdum
Giri hai jis pe kal bijli vo mera aashiyaaN kyoN ho
Ye keh sakte ho hum dil meiN nahiN haiN par ye batlaao
Ke jab dil meiN tumheeN tum ho to aakhoN se nihaaN kyoN ho
Yahi hai aazmaana to sataana kis ko kehte haiN
Adoo ke ho liye jab tum to mera imtihaaN kyoN ho
Nikaala chaahta hai kaam kya taanoN se tu Ghalib
Tere be-mehr kehne se vo tujh par mehrbaaN kyoN ho.
AFTER GIVING YOUR HEART TO SOMEONE
After giving your heart to someone, it does not behoove one to lament
When the heart has exited the chest, why does the tongue still move?
I was betrayed by a so-called sympathizer, may this love burn down!
Why did the one who could not keep my secrets become my confidante?
What faith? Whence passion? If I’m destined to break my head
Then, O stone-hearted one, why did it have to be at your doorstep?
Caged I may be, but do not censor news of the garden
If lightning had to fall on an abode, why did it have to be mine?
You may say I am not in your heart, but do let me know why
If my heart harbours naught but you, why are you hidden from the eye?
If this is a trial for me, then pray what is oppression?
You fell in love with my enemy, why is that a test of my forbearance?
If you seek to get things done through taunts, then O Ghalib
Why will calling someone cruel make them fall in love with you?
(10)
ISHQ MUJH KO NAHIN
Ishq mujh ko nahiN vahshat hi sahi
Meri vahshat teri shohrat hi sahi
Qat’a keeje na ta’alluq hum se
Kuch nahiN hai to adaavat hi sahi
Mere hone meiN hai kya rusvaai
Ai vo majlis nahiN khalvat hi sahi
Hum bhi dushman to nahiN haiN apne
Ghair ko tujh se mohabbat hi sahi
Apni hasti hi se ho jo kuch ho
Aagahi gar nahiN ghaflat hi sahi
Umr har-chand ki hai barq-e khiraam
Dil ke khooN karne ki fursat hi sahi
Hum koi tark-e vafa karte haiN
Na sahi ishq museebat hi sahi
Kuchh to de ai falak-e na-insaaf
Aah-o faryaad ki rukhsat hi sahi
Yaar se chhed chali jaaye Asad
Gar nahiN vasl to hasrat hi sahi.
BE IT NOT LOVE
I’m not in love, I’m mad, so be it
My madness is your fame, so be it
Break not contact with me
If enmity is all you can offer, so be it
Why would my presence disgrace you?
Meet me in private, not in public, so be it
I do not hate myself for sure19
My rival loves you, so be it
My essence derives from my existence
If not self-awareness, then self-denial, so be it20
Though life is brief and lightning-paced
I still have time to turn my heart to blood, so be it21
I never shirk from the demands of faith
Be it not love but a torment, so be it
At least grant me so
me time, O unjust sky
A brief while just to wail and cry, so be it
Keep up the flirtation with your beloved, Asad
Be it not union but mere longing, so be it.
(11)
KOI UMEED BAR NAHIN AATI
Koi ummeed bar nahiN aati
Koi soorat nazar nahiN aati
Maut ka ek din muayyan hai
Neend kyoN raat bhar nahiN aati
Aage aati thi haal-e dil pe hansi
Ab kisi baat par nahiN aati
Jaanta hooN savaab-e taa’at-o zohd
Par tabiyat idhar nahiN aati
Hai kuchh aisi hi baat jo chup hooN
Varna kya baat kar nahiN aati
KyoN na cheekhooN ke yaad karte haiN
Meri aawaaz gar nahiN aati
Hum vahaaN haiN jahaaN se hum ko bhi
Kuch hamaari khabar nahiN aati
Marte haiN aarzoo meiN marne ki
Maut aati hai par nahiN aati
Kaaba kis moonh se jaaoge Ghalib
Sharm tum ko magar nahiN aati.
NO HOPE IS CONSUMMATED
Hopelessness remains my condition
No recourse remains on the horizon
Death is predestined for a day
Why then does sleep elude you all night?
Earlier my situation made me laugh
Now I am left totally mirthless
I know the rewards of obedience and prayer
But my nature just does not point me there
It must be something that makes me hold my tongue
Do not think for a moment that I am dumbstruck
I must cry, for if I go silent, my lover wonders
‘What’s wrong, why hasn’t he wept yet?’
I am at that place where I am reduced
To seek news from others about myself
I die in my desire for death
But death, while imminent, eludes me
Making a pilgrimage, Ghalib?
What face will you show at the Kaaba?
Yet, you persevere, shamelessly.
(12)
DIL-E NAADAAN
Dil-e naadaaN tujhe hua kya hai
Aakhir is dard ki dava kya hai
Hum haiN mushtaaq aur vo bezaar
Ya ilaahi ye maajra kya hai
MaiN bhi moonh meiN zabaan rakhta hooN
Kaash poochho ke mudda’aa kya hai
Jab ke tujh bin nahiN koi maujood
Phir ye hungaama ai khuda kya hai
Sabza-o gul kahaaN se aaye haiN
Abr kya cheez hai hava kya hai
Hum ko un se vafa ki hai ummeed
Jo nahiN jaante vafa kya hai
Jaan tum par nisaar karta hooN
MaiN nahiN jaanta dua kya hai
MaiN ne maana ke kuch nahiN Ghalib
Muft haath aaye to bura kya hai.
INNOCENT HEART
Innocent heart, what should I make of thee?
Is there a cure for your disability?
I’m supplicant; yet my love is irked
O god, what is this quandary?
I too harbour a tongue in my mouth
What is my desire? Ask directly
When without you nothing does exist
Why this brouhaha, O lord, verily?
Wherefrom did this vegetation sprout?
What’s a cloud, how do winds blow merrily?
Alas, I seek allegiance from one who
Knows not the meaning of loyalty
I will sacrifice my life for you
Empty prayers? They are not for me
I admit that Ghalib is worth nothing
But how bad can it be if he’s obtained free?
Appendix 1
The Navratan: Nine of Ghalib’s Poet Contemporaries
To underscore the beauty of Urdu poetry in Ghalib’s time, I have chosen to profile nine of his contemporaries briefly, as if to provide a bejewelled setting for the Kohinoor. One can quibble at my choice, but it can be said without doubt that these nine poets, all of whom overlapped Ghalib’s life, provide a poetic context to the time and remind us how great of a poet he must have been to rise in stature above such giants. I present them in order of their birth and translate short selected verses of their work.
Mir: Despite the presence of a veritable pantheon of stalwarts of Urdu poetry, it was Mir Taqi Mir (1723–1810) who came to be known as the Khuda-e Sukhan (God of Poetry). That perhaps is a reflection of his status as a trailblazer. Poets who came after Mir reproduced his rhyme schemes or riffed off them. Mir, however, demonstrated an originality that was not beholden to an earlier tradition. Some of Mir’s life mimics Ghalib’s. A penurious childhood rendered doubly vulnerable by the early death of his father, cruelty at the hands of relatives, a move to Delhi to better his circumstances, and bitter memories of a variety of slights. He eventually moved to Lucknow, but did not flower there as a poet, finding the lifestyle of Awadh too libertine for his taste. He moved back to Delhi, where he eventually got his due as a poet and rubbed that in the face of his rivals with many a poetic boast. Mir was one of the first of Urdu poets who wrote an autobiography (albeit in Farsi), titled Zikr-e Mir (Discussing Mir), perhaps punning on his name, which meant ‘leader’. Much of his poetry affected a lugubrious mien, and he was fond of asides at religious orthodoxy. No wonder Ghalib loved him so.
The ghazal whose three verses I have chosen to translate is one of Mir’s more famous ones. It has an air of foreboding about it, perhaps remembering the brutal fate of kings in his time.
Jis sar ko ghuroor aaj hai yaaN taaj-vari ka
Kal us pe yahiN shor hai phir nauhagari ka
Le saans bhi ahista ke naazuk hai bahut kaam
Aafaaq ke is kaargah-e-sheeshagari ka
Tuk Mir-e jigar-sokhta ki jald khabar le
Kya yaar bharosa hai charaagh-e sahari ka
The head that feels so vain now that it wears a kingly crown
The proud tale of its life will soon in mournful wailing drown
Draw your breath with the utmost care, the task is delicate
Lest these brittle creations, as fragile as glass, break down
Spare a thought for heartbroken Mir, do inquire about him
He is a lamp that weakly burns, and may not last till dawn
Nazeer: Nazeer Akbarabadi (1735–1830) was a teacher who is reputed to have given Ghalib a few lessons in his childhood. Nazeer spent his life in Agra (which was also known as Akbarabad in those days) and perhaps was insulated from the isomorphic pulls of the Delhi and Lucknow schools, which gave his poetry a je ne sais quoi uniqueness. He wrote songs full of sharply etched imagery that had marvellous visual effects. Unlike the philosophical tracts of some of his contemporaries, his quotidian rhymes were populated by ordinary folk and his ballads abounded with interesting observations about human nature that were set to highly sing-able rhythms. Traders, courtesans, drug addicts and hypocrites, all found mention in his verses, which were constructed in a playful mien at odds with the classical poetry of the time. When the high-minded critics of that age such as Azad and Hali wrote their literary histories, they omitted Nazeer altogether. But time would prove to be his ally; his poems are still sung and employed in contemporary literature. His work offered the possibility of an alternative mode of poetry that in time, informed the realist poets of a later era. The noted theatre artist Habib Tanvir based his famous 1954 play Agra Bazar on Nazeer’s life. Many of Nazeer’s poems were constructed in the mukhammas style, involving a nazm with a five-line scheme, usually with four rhyming lines and a common refrain. I have chosen to translate a single verse from his most famous poem, Banjara Naama (The Gypsy’s Song). The banjara here stands for everything that is ephemeral, and will pass.
Kuch kaam na aavega tere ye laal zamurrud seem-o zar
Jab poonji baat meiN bikhregi phir aan banegi jaaN oopar
Naqqaare naubat baan nishaaN daulat hishmat faujeN lashkar
Kya masnad takiya milk makaaN kya chauki kursi takht chakar
>
Sab thaath pada rah jaayega jab laad chalega banjaara
Nothing will help you finally, ruby nor emerald, silver nor gold
The wealth that you had stored with care, you’ll see it has on the road rolled
The drums that drummed your worth, your name, the armies you had in your fold
Your throne, your palace, property, your crown, all gone, it is foretold
Your grandeur will be rendered useless, when the gypsy caravan moves on
Insha: Insha Allah Khan Insha (1757–1818) straddled the boundaries between Hindi and Urdu like few others. His poems, such as Rani Ketki ki Kahani, are read as much in the Nastaliq script as in the Devanagri. He is also credited with the first book that formalized the rules of Urdu grammar, titled Darya-e-Lataafat (Sea of Elegance). In the contemporary atmosphere where we are increasingly conditioned to see Urdu and Hindi as distinct languages, Insha’s work shatters those boundaries, instead showing Urdu as an arena for a mixing of Sanskrit and Persian. The effect is not only wonderful for our times but also suggests that it was rather unremarkable in Insha’s. Unfortunately, Insha’s life also symbolized the uncertain fate of the poet in an era where the earlier structures of patronage were fast attenuating or disappearing altogether. He fell on hard times, became a pauper and watched helplessly as a son succumbed to illness, yet again mirroring some aspects of Ghalib’s life. His best poems from his later years are masterful expressions of ineffable suffering. Insha often does not get enough due, and by way of compensation, I have chosen to translate a full ghazal.