Faiz - Do Ishq

An ever-vigilant reader has shaken me awake to the shameful realisation that I missed the centenary of Faiz' birth, on 13 February, with nary a comment!  

Inexcusable in itself, the crime is compounded by the fact that I had been quite conscious of the momentous occasion ever since a kind soul directed me, a few weeks back, to a special commemorative edition of the Himal magazine, which celebrates the cementing of Faiz's status, in the century since his birth, as the 'poet of the sub-continent' (http://himalmag.com/component/magazine/tblcontent/2011/1.html. Scroll down to the section titled 'cover'). 

In belated tribute, therefore, the following nazm, which appeared in Faiz's 1952 work dast-e-sabaa, is offered as a salute to the man and his memory.  While it is a tough ask to choose just one of his poems as a symbol of his genius, I settled on this one because it presents, in an exceptionally 'de-constructed' manner, the characteristic feature that defines, for a lot of people, Faiz's oeuvre  - namely his transposition of the classical ghazal's worship of the Beloved (whether earthly or astral) to a deification of a social/political motherland.  As we have seen in the past, this is a recurrent theme in Faiz's poetry, but is usually couched in allusions and hints.  This particular poem, however, makes explicit this equation, right from the title.

Do Ishq

taazaa hai.n abhi yaad mei.n, ai saaqi-e-gulfaam
vo aks-e-rukh-e-yaar se lahke hue aiyaam
vo phuul si khiltii huii diidaar kii saa'at
vo dil saa dhaRaktaa huaa ummiid kaa ha.ngaam

ummiid ki lo jaagaa gham-e-dil kaa nasiibaa
lo shauq kii tarsii huii shab ho gayii aakhir
lo duub gaye dard ke be-khwaab sitaare
ab chamkegaa be-sabr nigaaho.n kaa muqaddar
is baam se niklegaa tere husn kaa khurshiid
us kunj se phutegii kiran rang-e-hinaa kii
is dar se bahegaa teri raftaar kaa siimaab
us raah pe phuulegii shafaq terii qabaa kii


phir dekhe.n hai.n vo hijr ke tapte hue din bhii
jab fikr-e-dil-o-jaa.n mei.n fughaa.n bhuul gayii hai
har shab vo siyaa bojh ki dil baith gayaa hai
har subh kii lau tiir sii siine mei.n lagii hai
tanhaii mei.n kyaa kyaa na tujhe yaad kiyaa hai
kyaa kyaa na dil-e-zaar ne DhunDii hai.n panaahe.n
aankho.n se lagaayaa hai kabhii dast-e-sabaa ko
Dalii hai.n kabhii gardan-e-mehtaab mei.n baahe.n

----

chaahaa hai isii rang mei.n lailaa-e-watan ko

taRpaa hai isii taur se dil uskii lagan mei.n

DhunDii hai yuu.n hii shauq ne aasaa'ish-e-manzil

rukhsaar ke kham mei.n, kabhii kaakul kii shikan mei.n

us jaan-e-jahaa.n ko bhii yuu.n hii qalb-o-nazar ne

ha.ns-ha.ns  ke sadaa dii, kabhii ro ro ke pukaaraa

pure kiye sab harf-e-tamannaa ke taqaaze

har dard ko ujyaalaa, har ek gham ko sa.nwaaraa

wapas nahi.n pheraa koii farmaan junuu.n kaa

tanhaa nahi.n lauTii kabhii aawaaz jaras kii

khairiyat-e-jaa.n, raahat-e-tan, sehhat-e-daaman

sab bhuul gayii.n maslahate.n ahl-e-hawas kii

is raah mei.n jo sab pe guzartii hai vo guzrii

tanhaa pas-e-zindaa.n, kabhii ruswaa sar-e-baazaar

garze hai.n bahut sheikh sar-e-goshaa-e-minbar

kaRke hai.n bahut ahl-e-hukm bar sar-e-darbaar

chhoRaa nahi.n ghairo.n ne koii naavak-e-dushnaam

chhuTii nahi.n apno.n se koii tarz-e-malaamat

is ishq na us ishq se naadim hai magar dil

har daagh hai is dil mei.n ba-juz daagh-e-nadaamat

दो इश्क़

ताज़ा हैं अभी याद में, ऐ साकी-ए-गुलफाम
वो अक्स-ए-रुख-ए-यार से लहके हुए अय्याम
वो फूल सी खिलती हुई दीदार की सा'अत
वो दिल सा धड़कता हुआ उम्मीद का हंगाम
उम्मीद कि लो जागा ग़म-ए-दिल का नसीबा
लो शौक़ की तरसी हुई शब् हो गई आखिर
लो डूब गए दर्द के बे-ख्वाब सितारे
अब चमकेगा बे-सब्र निगाहों का मुक़द्दर
इस बाम से निकलेगा तेरे हुस्न का खुर्शीद
उस कुंज से फूटेगी किरन रंग-ए-हिना की
इस दर से बहेगा तेरी रफ़्तार का सीमाब
उस राह पे फूलेगी शफ़क़ तेरी क़बा की

फिर देखें हैं वो हिज्र के तपते हुए दिन भी
जब फ़िक्र-ए-दिल-ओ-जान में फुगाँ भूल गई है
हर शब् वो सिया बोझ कि दिल बैठ गया है
हर सुब्ह की लौ तीर सी सीने में लगी है
तन्हाई में क्या क्या न तुझे याद किया है
क्या क्या न दिल-ए-ज़ार ने ढूंडी हैं पनाहें
आँखों से लगाया है कभी दस्त-ए-सबा को
डाली हैं कभी गरदन-ए-महताब में बाहें 

----

चाहा हैं इसी रंग में लैला-ए-वतन को
तड़पा है इसी तौर से दिल उसकी लगन में
ढूंडी है यूं ही शौक़ ने आसा'इश-ए-मंज़िल
रुखसार के ख़म में, कभी काकुल की शिकन में
उस जान-ए-जहां को भी यूंही क़ल्ब-ओ-नज़र ने
हंस हंस के सदा दी, कभी रो रो के पुकारा
पूरे किये सब हर्फ़-ए-तमन्ना के तकाज़े
हर दर्द को उज्याला, हर एक ग़म को संवारा
वापस नहीं फेरा कोई फरमान जुनूं का
तनहा नहीं लौटी कभी आवाज़ जरस की
खैरियत-ए-जान, राहत-ए-तन, सेहत-ए-दामन
सब भूल गयीं मसलहतें अहल-ए-हवस की 

इस राह में जो सब पे गुज़रती है वो गुज़री
तनहा पस-ए-ज़िन्दां, कभी रुसवा सर-ए-बाज़ार
गरजे हैं बहुत शेख सर-ए-गोशा-ए-मिन्बर
कड़के हैं बहुत अहल-ए-हुक्म बर सर-ए-दरबार  
 
छोड़ा नहीं ग़ैरों ने कोई नावक-ए-दुशनाम
छूटी नहीं अपनों से कोई तर्ज़-ए-मलामत
इस इश्क़ न उस इश्क़ पे नादिम है मगर दिल
हर दाग़ है इस दिल में ब-जुज़ दाग़-ए-नदामत

دو عشق

تازہ ہےں ابہی یاد میں اے ساقی گلفام
وہ عکس رخ یار سے لحکے ہوے ایام
وہ پہول سی کہلتی ہوی دیدار کی ساعت
وہ دل سا دہڑکتا ہوا امید کا ہنگام
امید کہ لو جاگا غم دل کا نصیبہ
لو شوق کی ترسی ہوی شب ہو گی آخر
لو ڈوب گے درد کے بےخواب ستارے
اب چمکےگا بے صبر نگاہوں کا مقددر
اس بام سے نکلےگا ترے حسن کا خورشید
اس کنج سے پہوٹےگی کرن رنگ حنا کی
اس در سے بحےگا تری رفتار کا سیماب
اس راہ پہ پہولےگی شفق تری قبا کی 

پہر دیکہے ہیں وہ ہجر کے تپتے ہوے دن بہی
جب فکر دل و جاں میں فغاں بہول گی ہے
ہر شب وہ سیہ بوجہ کہ دل بیٹہ گیا ہے
ہر صبح کی لو تیر سی سینے میں لگی ہے
تنہای میں کیا کیا نہ تجہے یاد کیا ہے
کیا کیا نہ دل زار  نے ڈہونڑی ہیں پناہیں
 آنکہوں سے لگایا ہے کبہی دست صبا کو
 ڈالی ہیں کبہی گردن مہتاب میں باہیں
 

----

چاہا ہے اسی رنگ میں لیلا ے وطن کو
تڑپا ہے اسی طور سے دل اس کی لگن میں
ڈہونڈی ہے یوں ہی شوق نے آسائش منزل
رخسار کے خم میں کبہی کاکل کی شکن میں
اس جان جہاں کو بہی یوں ہی قلب و نظر نے
ہنس ہنس کے صدا دی کبہی رو رو کے پکارا
پورے کیے سب حرف تمننا کے تقاضے
ہر درد کو اجیالا ہر اک غم کو سنوارا
واپس نہیں پہیرا کوی فرمان جنوں کا
 تنہا نہیں لوٹی کبہی آواز جرس کی
خیریت جاں راحت تن صحت داماں
سب بہول گییں مصلہتیں اہل ہوس کی
اس راہ میں جو سب پہ گزرتی ہے وہ گزری
تنہا پس زنداں کبہی رسوا سر بازار
گرجے ہےں بہت شیخ سر گوشہ منبر
کڑکے ہیں بہت اہل حکم بر سر دربار
چہوڑا نہیں غیروں نےکوی ناوک دشنام
چہوٹی نہیں اپنوں سے کوی طرز ملامت
اس عشق نہ اس عشق پہ نادم ہے مگر دل
ہر داغ ہے اس دل میں بہجز داغ ندامت

Two loves

(they) are still fresh in (my) memory, o rose-like saaqii
those days (that) glowed with the reflection of the Beloved's face
that hour of meeting, that (would) bloom like a flower
that moment of hope, that throbbed like a heart

a hope, which (said), 'behold! the destiny of heart's pain has awakened'
(which said), 'behold! love's parched night is finally done'
(which said), 'there, pain's sleep-less stars have (finally) dimmed'
'(and) now the destiny of impatient eyes will take shine'

(that promised that) from this roof would rise the sun of your beauty
from that corner would break forth a ray of henna's colour
through this door would flow your quicksilver gait
(and) on that path would bloom the sunset-glow of your robe

then again, (i have) seen also those scorching days of separation
when (even) cries were forgotten in worries of heart and life
(when) every night was so dark-laden that the heart would sink (under them)
(and) the flame of every morn would pierce the breast like an arrow


In how many ways did (I) remember you, in solitude
How many refuges did the weakened heart seek
at times, i touched the zephyr's hand to (my) eyes
at times, clasped my arms around the moon's neck

----

(and) in the same way have (I also) loved the Beloved (that is my) country
in the same fashion has (my) heart yearned in her ardour (also)
in like manner has (my) passion searched for the peace of a journey's end
(sometime) in the curve of (her) cheek, sometime in the bend of (her) curl

To that sweetheart also, (my) heart and eye have
at times laughingly called out, at times weepingly summoned

(I) fulfilled the demand of every word of desire (of hers)
(I) lightened every pain, embellished every sorrow

never (did i) turn away any dictat of passion
no toll of the bell ever returned unaccompanied
the well-being of life, the comfort of flesh, the soundness of dress
all (these) counsels of sensible people were forgotten


(and) what befalls everyone on this path, also befell (me)
(at times) lonely behind a prison (wall), at times dishonoured in public.
The holies thundered a lot from the corners of (their) pulpits
men of power boomed often in (their) courtrooms
no arrow of blame was spared by strangers
(nor did) intimates let any manner of rebuke pass

but (my) heart is shamed neither by this love, nor by that (one)
there is every stain on this heart, save the stain of regret

Since this nazm is so 'explicit' in what it says, it doesn't need much by way of additional explication.  Faiz airs out the 'love of his life' openly - personifying his love for an idealised motherland in a heart-achingly haunting fashion.  The first part of the poem, which sublimely chronicles the elation that is felt in the possibility of a Beloved's coming, or the despair that accompanies the certainty of separation from  her, forms, in the latter half, the context for the 'personification' of the country Faiz yearns for.  

I absolutely adore the bit that goes, "kyaa kyaa na dil-e-zaar ne DhuunDii hai.n panaahe.n; aankho.n se lagaayaa hai kabhii dast-e-sabaa ko; Daalii hai.n kabhii gardan-e-mehtaab mei.n baahe.n".  It conjures up such an endearing picture of a desperately lonely lover, seeking messianic comfort or friendly companionship from just about anything or anybody he encounters.   Another totally haunting line is "DhuunDii hai yuu.n hii shauq ne aasaa'ish-e-manzil; rukhsaar ke kham mei.n, kabhii kaakul kii shikan mei.n".  Such a typically Faiz 'sound' to it, isn't it?

And what a totally haunting line the poem signs off with, too...!

Some interesting words:  gulfaam uses the common persian suffix 'faam', which denotes resemblance or verisimilitude, most often used to denote similarity in colour. Ayyaam is arabic for 'days', 'times' or 'season'.  Aasaa'ish is from the same word root at aasaan and means 'repose' 'comfort' or 'tranquillity'.  Ahl-e-hawas is actually ahl-e-hawaas, here shortened for metrical reasons.  hawaas, which we are used to seeing in compound expressions like bad-hawaas or hosh-o-hawaas, means 'sense', (literally, as in 'the five senses').  Tarz is arabic for 'form' or 'style of conduct'.  Malaamat is farsi for reproach, accusation or opprobrium.  Naadim and nadaamat are both from a common farsi root signifying repentance or shame.

Faiz - Jame gii kaise bisaat yaaraa

Yet another exceptionally melodious ghazal from Faiz's 1965 work, dast-e-tah-e-sang.  There's a popular rendition of a part of it by Farida Khanum, which merits a hear.

jamegii kaise bisaat-e-yaaraa.n ke shiishaa-o-jaam bujh gaye hai.n
sajegii kaise shab-e-nigaaraa.n, ke dil sar-e-shaam bujh gaye hai.n 

जमेगी कैसे बिसात-ए-यारां कि शीशा-ओ-जाम बुझ गए हैं 
सजेगी कैसे शब्-ए-निगारां, कि दिल सर-ए-शाम बुझ गए हैं 

جمے گی کیسے بساطِ یاراں کہ شیشہ و جام بُجھ گئے ہیں
سجے گی کیسے شبِ نگاراں کہ دل سر شام بُجھ گئے ہیں

how will the gathering of friends/lovers be organised? For the wine-glasses have dimmed themselves... 
how will the adorned night be embellished? For, (already) on evenfall, the hearts have dimmed themselves...

bisaat is literally something that is 'spread out' or 'laid out', used for goods and merchandise, as well as beds and carpets.  A specific usage is in the context of a 'game board' such as one for chess.  In this context, a 'bisaat-e-yaaraa.n' is possibly a convivial get together with friends, or a union of lovers...  

sar-e-shaam would be the onset, or the early part, of the evening. 

vo tiiragii hai rah-e-butaa.n mei.n, chiraagh-e-rukh hai na sham'a-e-vaada
kiran koii aarzuu kii lao, ke sab dar-o-baam bujh gaye hai.n 

वो तीरगी है रह-ए-बुतां में चिराग़-ए-रुख है न शम-ए-वादा 
किरन कोई आरज़ू की लाओ, कि सब दर-ओ-बाम बुझ गए हैं
وہ تیرگی ہے رہِ بُتاں میں چراغِ رُخ ہے نہ شمعِ وعدہ
کرن کوئی آرزو کی لاؤ کہ سب در و بام بُجھ گئے ہیں

such darkness (fills) the path to idols; there is neither the lamp of a face, nor the flame of a promise
call for some ray of desire, for all doors and roofs have dimmed themselves 

Indeed, what, save longing, can light these treacherously obscure paths to the Beloveds...?  They certainly wouldn't deign to provide any assistance - either by allowing their radiant faces to guide one's steps, or by dangling incandescent promises as street lamps...!
 
bahut sambhaalaa wafaa kaa paimaa.n magar vo barsii hai ab ke barkhaa
har ek iqraar miT gayaa hai, tamaam paighaam bujh gaye hai.n

बहुत संभाला वफ़ा का पैमां, मगर वो बरसी है अब के बरखा 
हर एक इक़रार मिट गया है, तमाम पैगाम बुझ गए हैं
بہت سنبھالا وفا کا پیماں مگر وہ برسی ہے اب کے برکھا
ہر ایک اقرار مٹ گیا ہے تمام پیغام بُجھ گئے ہیں

The pact of faithfulness (I) tried much to guard, but such was the rain this time
(that) every acknowledgement were obliterated, all messages have dimmed themselves


Nice, isn't it?  What hope can mere devotion, howsoever desperate, have against these forces of nature...?!




qariib aa ai mah-e-shab-e-gham, nazar pe khultaa nahii.n kuchh is dam
ke dil pe kis-kis kaa naqsh baakii hai, kaun se naam bujh gaye hai.n

करीब आ ऐ मह-ए-शब्-ए-ग़म, नज़र पे खुलता नहीं कुछ इस दम 
के दिल पे किस-किस का नक्श बाक़ी है, कौन से नाम बुझ गए हैं
قریب آ اے مہِ شبِ غم ، نظر پہ کُھلتا نہیں کچھ اس دم
کہ دل پہ کس کس کا نقش باقی ہے ، کون سے نام بُجھ گئے ہیں


come closer, o moon of the night of pain, (for) nothing is apparent to the eye now
whose portraits still remain on the heart, (and) which are the names that have dimmed themselves


This is a sublime one!  It sort of caps, in triumphant manner, the recurring imagery of a vision-challenging darkness that snakes like a leitmotif throughout this ghazal.  Finally, the moon that presides over the night of separation is called upon for assistance, with a request to bend a little closer... to shed a little light on the wounded heart... so the poet can see which of his memories still remain etched on the cardiac walls, after all its dark palpitations...!


bahaar ab aa ke kyaa karegii, ke jin se thaa jashn-e-rang-o-naghma
vo gul sar-e-shaakh jal gaye hai.n, vo dil tah-e-daam bujh gaye hai.n

बहार अब आ के क्या करेगी, के जिन से था जश्न-ए-रंग-ओ-नगमा
वो गुल सर-ए-शाख जल गए हैं, वो दिल तह-ए-दाम बुझ गए हैं
بہار اب آکے کیا کرے گی کہ جن سے تھا جشنِ رنگ و نغمہ
وہ گل سرِ شاخ جل گئے ہیں ، وہ دل تہِ دام بُجھ گئے ہیں

What will the spring achieve by coming now? Those (because of) whom there was celebration of colour and song
all those flowers have withered on branches, (all) those hearts have fallen dim (trapped) in snares


Hmm... has such a lovely rhythm to it, doesn't it?  So typically Faiz.  And what an endearingly petulant irritation the sher wears, at the offer by the spring to make an 'oh-so-belated' appearance!

Faiz - ye jafaa-e-gham ka chaara

Faiz wrote this short poem in 1959, while incarcerated in Lahore jail. It appears in his 1965 publication dast-e-tah-e-sang. While broadly in ghazal format, it lacks a strict radif.  Once again, it has that enjoyable metrical rhythm so typical of Faiz. 


ye jafaa-e-gham ka chaara, vo nijaat-e-dil kaa aalam
teraa husn dast-e-iisaa, terii yaad ruu-e-mariyam

ये जफा ए ग़म का चारा वो निजात ए दिल का आलम
तेरा हुस्न दस्त ए ईसा तेरी याद रू ए मरियम

یہ جفاے غم کا چارہ، وہ نجات دل کا عالم
ترا حسن دست عیسا، تری یاد رُوے مریم

This, the cure for pain's oppression; that, a state of heart's deliverance
your beauty, the hand of Christ; your memory, the face of Mariyam

Nothing too deep here, but the sher pays its tribute to the Beloved with such beauty, doesn't it?  Her glimpse, her memories, have a curative, even a messianic, ability to soothe, to redeem...  Nijaat (or, more correctly, najaat) means escape, salvation or deliverance.



dil-o-jaa.n fidaa-e-raahe, kabhii aa ke dekh hamdam
sar-e-kuu-e-dil-figaaraa.n, shab-e-aarzuu kaa aalam

दिल-ओ-जां फ़िदा-ए-राहे कभी आ के देख हमदम
सर-ए-कू-ए-दिल-फिगारां, शब्-ए-आरज़ू का आलम

دل و جاں فداے راہے کبھی آ کے دیکھ ہمدم
سرِ کوے دل فگاراں شبِ آرزو کا عالم
hearts and lives (are) sacrificed on paths; do come and see sometime, friend
the state (that prevails on every) night of desire, in the lane of the broken-hearted,

Lovely!  There is such a nicely conversational touch to that challenging invitation to the Beloved - to come and see for herself how the 'night of desire' plays out, the spectacle that prevails, in the neighbourhoods of those smitten in her ardour... 

Fidaa in its original meaning is 'to be given in ransom', but has come to be used in the general sense of being sacrificed towards something, also for being completely devoted to something.  Figaar means 'wounded', used also in the sense of 'afflicted' or 'crippled'.


terii diid se siwaa hai, tere shauq mei.n bahaaraa.n
vo chaman jahaa.n girii hai, tere gesuo.n kii shabnam

तेरी दीद से सिवा है तेरे शौक़ में बहारां 
वो चमन जहां गिरी है तेरे गेसुओं की शबनम

تری دِید سے سوا ہے ترے شوق میں بہاراں
وہ چمن جہاں گِری ہے تری گیسوؤں کی شبنم

Other than your glimpse, in your love (what) are springs
The garden (is) where the dew of your tresses has fallen


Despite expressing a fairly standard tribute to the Beloved, the sher does manage an exceptional sonorous beauty, doesn't it?  The water droplets that the Beloved shakes out of her wet ringlets determine where gardens will sprout - what indeed can spring mean in such a state, other than a glimpse of her?!


ye ajab qayaamate.n hai.n, terii rahguzar mei.n guzraa.n
ne huaa ki mar miTe.n ham, na huaa ki jii uTHe.n ham

ये अजब क़यामतें हैं तेरी रहगुज़र में गुजरां

न हुआ कि मर मिटें हम, न हुआ कि जी उठें हम

یہ عجب قیامتیں ہیں تری رہگزر میں گزراں
نہ ہُوا کہ مَر مِٹیں ہم، نہ ہُوا کہ جی اُٹھیں ہم
such wondrous calamities are lived on your lane!
to die away was not to be, to come alive was not to be

Once again, the sher itself doesn't make a particularly original point, but has an engaging aural ring to it that is recognisably 'Faiz'.  Guzraan karnaa is a multivalent expression, used in many related senses, one of which is "to pass life, to live".  Ajab, of course, means something that evokes wonder or astonishment - it shares word root with ta'ajjub, which means surprise or admiration.

lo sunii gayii hamaarii, yuu.n phire.n hai.n din ki phir se
vahii gosha-e-qafas hai, vahii fasl-e-gul kaa maatam

लो सुनी गयी हमारी, यूं फिरे हैं दिन कि फिर से 
वही गोशा ए कफ़स है, वही फ़स्ल ए गुल का मातम

لو سُنی گئی ہماری، یُوں پھِرے ہیں دن کہ پھر سے
وہی گوشہ قفس ہے، وہی فصلِ گُل کا ماتم
There - (my pleas) have been heard! So has (my) fate turned, that again
there is that same corner of the cage; that same mourning for the flowering season!


Isn't that a lovely note to sign off with?!  Deliciously ironical, the sher harks back, in that impossibly sublime second line, to the stylised ghazal images of a caged bird and a spring-deprived garden.  Gosha is a corner or a nook.

Faiz - Toofaan-ba-dil hai har koi dildaar dekhnaa

When I promised on the last post that this sonorous Faiz ghazal would be next, i hadn't intended such an inexcusably long hiatus to intervene! Regrets and apologies.  A constellation of circumstances conspired to keep me away from here -  some frantic flurries of activity at work, a bout of illness and hospital stay, followed by hassles of having to shift base across countries...

As mentioned earlier, the following ghazal appears in Faiz' Sar-e-Vadii-e-Seena, dating from the late 60s.  Though not among his best known ones, it wears a nice conversational air, while retaining Faiz's trademark 'political' overtones.



Toofaa.n-ba-dil hai har koi dildaar dekhnaa
gul ho na jaaye mash'al-e-rukhsaar dekhnaa

तूफां-ब-दिल है हर कोई दिलदार देखना
गुल हो न जाए मश'अल-ए-रुखसार देखना
طوفاں بہ دل ہے ہر کوئی دلدار دیکھنا
گل حونہ جاۓ مشعل رخسار دیکھنا


Look sweetheart - everyone has a storm in (his) heart
Watch out, lest the lantern of (your) face gets blown out!
The sher wears a nicely mocking tone which works equally well whether it is seen, in traditional ghazal terms, as directed against an incandescently beauteous Beloved who inspires 'storms' in hearts, or (as intended) against a symbol of power/authority who believes himself immune to popular sentiment...




aatish-ba-jaa.n hai har koi sarkaar dekhnaa
lau de uThe na turrah-e-tarraar dekhnaa

आतिश-ब-जां है हर कोई सरकार देखना
लौ दे उठे न तुर्रा-ए-तर्रार देखना
آتش بہ جاں ہے ہر کوئی سرکار دیکھنا
لو دے اٹھے نہ طرّہ طرار دیکھنا

Look Your Majesty, everyone's soul is alight,
Watch out, lest (your) curled forelock catches the flame!

More of the same.  The second line is exceptionally cute - the fashionably curled forelock of the Beloved, or the tasselled plume worn on a regal turban, would both be equally susceptible to incendiary contact...!




jazb-e-musaafiraan-e-rah-e-yaar dekhnaa
sar dekhnaa na sang na deewaar dekhnaa

जज़्ब-ए-मुसफिरां-ए-रह-ए-यार देखना
सर देखना न संग न दीवार देखना
جزب مسافران رہ یار دیکھنا
سر دیکھنا نہ سنگ نہ دیوار دیکھنا

Look at the absorption of the travellers (on) the Beloved's lane!
(they) see neither their heads, nor the stones, nor (even) the walls!


Doesn't that second line have a lovely flow to it?!  And such endearing simplicity of words!  One can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the besotted souls shuffling dazedly, zombie like, around the Beloved's threshold, oblivious to projectiles directed against them, or to the obstacles they run into!




kuu-e-jafaa mei.n qaht-e-khariidaar dekhnaa
ham aa gaye to garmii-e-baazaar dekhnaa

कू-ए-जफा में कहत-ए-खरीदार देखना
हम आ गए तो गर्मी-ए-बाज़ार देखना
کوۓ جفا میں کہط خریدار دیکھنا
ہم آ گۓ تو گرمی بازار دیکھنا
See the paucity of buyers in the lane of oppression
(but) watch how the market heats up once I get there!

And the 'Koo-e-Jafaa', which was populated by determinedly masochistic souls in the last sher, now becomes devoid of 'customers'... until the Poet gets there, of course!  Qaht is used in the sense of 'dearth' or 'lack'; also used to denote a famine or drought.


us dilnawaaz shahar ke atwaar dekhnaa
be-iltifaat bolnaa bezaar dekhnaa

उस दिलनवाज़ शहर के अतवार देखना
बे-इल्तिफ़ात बोलना बेज़ार देखना
اس دلنواز شہر کے اطوار دیکھنا
بے التفات بولنا بیزار دیکھنا

look at the manners of that heart-soothing city
uncivil speech, (and) vexed looks!

Dil-Nawaaz would be literally 'heart soothing' or 'heart cherishing', though it is used in the sense of 'Beloved'.  But here, the literal meaning contrasts more enjoyably with the boorish unfriendliness of the Beloved's town!   Atwar is used for 'mode of behaviour' or 'dealings'; Iltifaat denotes respect or consideration.  Both come from Arabic roots.


khaalii hai garche masnad-o-mimbar niguu.n hai khalk
ru'aab-e-kabaa va haibat-e-dastaar dekhnaa

खाली हैं गरचे मसनद-ओ-मिम्बर निगूं है ख़ल्क़
रौब-ए-क़बा व हैबत-ए-दस्तार देखना
 خالی ہیں گرچھ مسند و منبر نگوں ہے خلق
رعب قبا و ہیبت دستار دیکھنا

albeit the throne and pulpit are empty, creation (still) stands bowed
see the clout of the robe, and the dread of the turban!

Oh very nice!  This one is pure politics!  'Symbols' of power can cow down humanity, even when they are held by 'vacuous' people!  Don't you love the way Faiz manages to take on both secular and scriptural figures of authority here?  
 Mimbar is a pulpit or rostrum, Masnad denotes a cushion or a royal seat.  Niguu.n is, of course, the state of 'hanging' or 'drooping', often used to denote abjectness. Dastaar is the muslin cloth used to tie a turban. Haibat is used for fear or intimidation or awe...




jab tak naseeb thaa teraa diidaar dekhnaa
jis simt dekhnaa gul-o-gulzaar dekhnaa

जब तक नसीब था तेरा दीदार देखना
जिस सिम्त देखना गुल-ओ-गुलज़ार देखना
جب تک نصیب تھا تیرا دیدار دیکھنا
جس سمت دیکھنا گل و گلزار دیکھنا

Until (I) used to be afforded your glimpse
in whichever direction I looked, I perceived (only) flowers and flower-gardens

Somewhat ho-hum, this one, no...? 




phir ham tamiiz-e-roz-o-mah-o-saal kar sake.n
ai yaad-e-yaar phir idhar ek baar dekhnaa

फिर हम तमीज़-ए-रोज़-ओ-मह-ओ-साल कर सकें
ऐ याद-ए-यार फिर इधर एक बार देखना
پھرہم تمیز روز و مہ و سال کر سکیں
اے یاد یار پھر ادھر ایک بار دیکھنا

(so that) I can again distinguish days from months, months from years,
O beloved's memory, glance back (at me) one more time!

Oh, much nicer!  One who is abandoned not only by the Beloved, but even by her memory, would indeed lose the markers, the perspectives, of time.  Doesn't that second line capture a truly poignant plea...?

Faiz - Hum ke Thehre ajnabii

This lovely ghazal exemplifies, yet again, Faiz's uncanny ability to clothe the contemporary politics of his times in the hoary poetic idiom of another age - without compromising on either the beauty, or the topicality, of his mesmerising words. 



Hum ke Thehre ajnabii itnii mudaaraato.n ke baad
phir banenge aashnaa kitnii mulaaqaato.n ke baad

हम के ठहरे अजनबी इतनी मुदारातों के बाद
फिर बनेंगे आशना कितनी मुलाकातों के बाद

ہم کہ ٹھہرے اجنبی اتنی مداراتوں کے بعد
پھر بنیں گے آشنا کتنی ملاقاتوں کے بعد

We, who remain strangers, (even) after so many courtesies;
(We) shall become acquaintances (again), after how many (more) encounters?

Wonderful.  

Mudaaraat is Farsi for the act of treating someone with overt courteousness and politeness - it also has nuances of circumvention and dissimilitude.  The Beloved may well favour the Poet with socially prescribed courtesies, but retains her distance and remains unapproachable, for all practical purposes. 

The phir in the second line could be read in the sense of 'again', which would hint at the possibility that the Poet might have enjoyed a more intimate acquaintance with the Beloved at an earlier time (aashnaa can be used to mean 'lovers' just as easily as 'acquaintances'), but is denied it now.  Alternatively, the phir could be read simply as 'then' to make the second line something like "so, after how many meetings will we become acquaintances then?"   

Seeing the lines as addressed to a Celestial Beloved only serves to make the implied irony of the sher even more biting.





kab nazar mein aayegii be-daagh sabze kii bahaar
khoon ke dhabbe dhule.nge kitnii barsaato.n ke baad

कब नज़र में आएगी बे-दाग़ सब्ज़े की बहार
खून के धब्बे धुलेंगे कितनी बरसातों के बाद

 کب نظر میں آے گی بے داغ سبزے کی بہار
خون کے دھببے دھلینگے کتنی برساتوں کے بعد



when shall the bloom of unsullied verdure meet the eye (again)?
after how many downpours will the blood stains get washed?

In the stylised ghazal universe, the idea of the colours of the chaman, the garden, being tainted with blood would evoke the oft-used imagery of either the birds or the blooms having been visited by the hands of calamity.  What loveliness Faiz captures in this sher, doesn't he, despite the extreme simplicity of his words?!  




the bahut be-dard lamhe khatm-e-dard-e-ishq ke
thii.n bahut be-meher subhe.n meherbaa.n raato.n ke baad

थे बहुत बे-दर्द लम्हे ख़त्म-ए-दर्द-ए-इश्क के
थीं बहुत बे-महर सुबहें महरबां रातों के बाद
 


تھے بہت بے درد لمحے ختم درد عشق کے
تھیں بہت بے مہر صبحیں مہربان راتوں کے بعد 


they were very heartless, those moments when love's agony ebbed
they were very merciless (/sun-less), those mornings after the merciful nights

Once again, the sheer beauty of the words almost blinds one to their meaning.  There is some clever word-play here too, since mihr (or mehr) is used in Farsi not only for 'kindness' or 'favour' but also 'the sun' (or for the time of the year that corresponds to the solar equinox).  Hence the be-mehr subhen of the second line could be read as 'sunless mornings', which gives the line a wonderful piquancy, especially as the expression comes after mehr-baan raaton!





dil to chaahaa par shikast-e-dil ne muhlat hii na dii
kuchh gile shikwe bhii kar lete, munaajaato.n ke baad

दिल तो चाहा पर शिकस्त-ए-दिल ने मोहलत ही न दी
कुछ गिले शिकवे भी कर लेते, मुनाजातों के बाद

دل تو چاہا پر شکست دل نے مہلت ہی نہ دی
کچھ گلے شکوے بھی کر لیتے مناجاتوں کے بعد



The heart did want to, but the heart's debacle gave no respite (for it)
(or else, one) could have indulged in a few complaints too, after the prayers (were over)

Divine!  Isn't that second line absolutely brilliant?!  Which but - earthly or astral - could fail to be moved by such endearing petulance?!  The sher captures such a sighing regret at the feebleness of the heart - which didn't allow the poet to use the opportunity of 'the audience' to put on record the litany of his complaints, instead of having 'wasted' the occasion in pointless prayers!




unse kahne jo gaye the faiz jaa.n sadkaa kiye
ankahii hii rah gayii vo baat sab baato.n ke baad

उनसे कहने जो गए थे फैज़ जां सदका किये
अनकही ही रह गयी वो बात सब बातों के बाद

 ان سے جو کہنے گئے تھے فیض جاں صدقہ کئے
ان کہی ہی رہ گئی وہ بات سب باتوں کے بعد  


That which I had gone to say to her, putting (my) life on the line
that very thing remained unsaid, after all else had been said

And the maqtaa, like all of Faiz's, is a pearl!  Reminds one strongly of the penultimate sher of one of the earliest Faiz ghazals we looked at . 

Even if one didn't know the context in which the above ghazal was written, one would still be bowled over by its beauty, by the resonant melody of its words, and by its perfect 'fit' in standard ghazal stylisations, wouldn't one?  

But consider this - the ghazal, which appears in Faiz's 1979 book shaam-e-sheher-e-yaaraan, was written in 1974 under the title Dhaaka se waapsii par (on return from Dhaka).  

Let us recall the context - Pakistan had just got split, with Bangladesh having emerged as a new fledgling nation, and the sane voices in the subcontinent still dazed at the bloody events of  '71 and the barbarism that preceded them.  In this charged climate, Faiz, despite the criticisms and death-threats of detractors in both Pakistan and Bangladesh, chose to visit Dhaka, almost on a mission of sanity and reconciliation.  And the above ghazal captures the distillate of that visit - the frustrations, the pain, the poignant consciousness of a historical wrong.  

Now let's go back and re-read the whole thing - doesn't each sher, right down to that lovely maqtaa, acquire an entirely new meaning?!

Faiz - na ganwaao naawak-e-niimkash

This one's a short, sweet masterpiece by Faiz, very likable for its conversational simplicity and its almost musical lyricism. There is also an admirable unity of approach in the entire Ghazal, with Faiz remaining true to the 'voice from behind the grave' theme in every sher.

Incidentally, after jumping through some hoops, I have managed a half-baked solution to reproducing nasta'liq on Blogger! It takes some tedious steps, and I doubt if I shall have the energy to persist with it in the longer poems, but you would agree that the poetry looks so much more authentic when written out this way...


na ga.nwaao naawak-e-niimkash, dil-e-rezaa-rezaa ga.nwaa diyaa
jo bache hai.n sang sameT lo, tan-e-dagh-dagh luTaa diyaa

न गंवाओ नावक-ए-नीमकश, दिल-ए-रेज़ा रेज़ा गंवा दिया
जो बचे हैं संग समेट लो, तन-ए-दाग़ दाग़ लुटा दिया

Don't waste (your) half-drawn arrows, (for I have) squandered (my) heart away, piece by piece
Gather up the stones that remain, (for I have) let (my) body be pillaged, wound by wound


A simple sher, that archly advises the poet's detracters against wasting their energies in demolishing him, since he has done the job himself! The words could be addressed to the baleful Beloved, to zaalim zamaanaa or to a perverse Celestial being - they work well in any of these senses.

The second line, that begins with an ironically solicitous 'save your stones!' has a particularly delicious ring to it. There is such an air of perverse triumph in having thwarted the assailants - It seems to evoke an image of someone expecting to be robbed, and taking 'preventive measures' by scattering all his money among swarming mendicants!

The verb luTaanaa is used in several nuanced ways, all conveying a sense of deliberately frittering away some possession. Rezaa is derived from the Farsi verb Rekhtan (which means 'to scatter') and is used mainly in compounded noun forms like in the first line of this sher. Interestingly, Rekhtan is also the root of the adjective Rekhta, which means 'scattered', or 'mixed up', and was an alternative name given to the Urdu language in times of yore - the tongue was seen to be a mix of native Indian dialects and classical Farsi. Niim-kash, as I think we've seen before, describes a bow that is loosely strung, or one that is lightly pulled while shooting the arrow, so as to release the projectile at a lower velocity (and thus cause it to lodge in the victim's body rather than pass through it). Naawak is a small sized arrow.



mere chaaragar ko nawed ho, saf-e-dushmana ko khabar karo
jo vo karz rakhte the jaan par, vo hisaab aaj chukaa diyaa

मेरे चारागर को नवेद हो, सफ़-ए-दुश्मना को खबर करो
जो वो क़र्ज़ रखते थे जान पर, वो हिसाब आज चुका दिया

Convey the glad tidings to my healer, let the ranks of enemies be informed
That debt they held on (my) life - (well), the accounts have been squared today


This one's sublime too, isn't it? The soft irony, the classy metaphorical touch... I love the way both the healer and the detractors are seen as creditors holding IOU's on the poet's existence. And there is such lofty grandeur in the announcement that the debts have been discharged honourably!

Nawed (or Nawiid) is Farsi for 'good news', and is also used for a 'wedding-invitation'. Saff is a rank of soldiers, arranged in military formation - a phalanx. [Saf-aaraaii is the military art of making battle-arrays, of marshalling one's men on the battlefield].



karo kaj jabii.n pe sar-e-kafan, mere qaatilo.n ko gumaa.n na ho
ki guroor-e-ishq ka baa.nkpan, pas-e-marg hamne bhulaa diyaa





करो कज जबीं पर सर-ए-कफ़न, मेरे कातिलों को गुमां न हो
की गुरूर-ए-इश्क़ का बांकपन, पस-ए-मर्ग हम ने भुला दिया

tilt the shroud on (my) forehead (jauntily), let not my killers delude themselves
that, after death, I have forgotten the foppishness of love's pride

Cutely brilliant! The Poet is loathe to shed his persona of a cockily confident Corinthian even after death, imploring that his shroud should be placed fashionably askew on his head, lest his detractors think he has become unmindful of 'style' because of mere death!

A baankaa is a man given to sartorial indulgences - a dandy, a coxcomb. Pas is Farsi for 'after' or 'behind'. [The compound pas o pesh, which is literally 'behind and before', describes a state of nervous indecision]. Kaj or Kajh means 'crooked' or 'bent'.




udhar ek harf ki kushtanii, yahaa.n lakh uzr tha guftanii
jo kahaa to sun ke uDaa diyaa, jo likhaa to paDh ke miTaa diyaa




उधर एक हर्फ़ कि कुश्तनी, यहाँ लाख उज़्र था गुफ्तनी
जो कहा तो सुन के उड़ा दिया, जो लिखा तो पढ़ के मिटा दिया

Over there, a single word was worthy of slaughter, (while) here, a million excuses were fit to be said
whatever (I) said, (she) heard and ignored, whatever (I) wrote, (she) read and wiped off


Nice - an amusing delineation of the helplessness of the lover, the perversity of the Beloved, the asymmetry of their power equation.

Note that the 'uDaa' and 'miTaa' of the second line could indicate not just the treatment that the Beloved reserves for the poet's words (whether spoken or written) but also for himself - to indicate that his apologetic words - whether spoken or written - are enough to anger her into 'blowing him away' or 'wiping him out'.

Kushtanii is an adjective used to denote someone who deserves to be killed, or an animal destined for slaughter. Guftanii is something fit to be said, or told. Uzr is Arabic for an 'excuse', a 'pretext' or an 'apology'.




jo ruke to koh-e-garaa.n the ham, jo chale to jaa.n se guzar gaye
rah-e-yaar hamne kadam-kadam tujhe yaadgaar banaa diyaa





जो रुके तो कोह-ए-गरां थे हम, जो चले तो जां से गुज़र गए
रह-ए-यार हम ने क़दम क़दम, तुझे यादगार बना दिया

When we paused, we were the heaviest of mountains; when we moved, we left life (itself) behind
On every step, O Beloved's lane, we rendered you memorable

Just Lovely! The first line is an all-time classic, and was much used, immediately after Faiz's death, as a preamble to his obituaries. Just for the grandness of its announcement, for the balance of its cadences, for the way it sums up a lifetime, it ranks as one of my favourites.

Giraa.n or Garaa.n means, in Farsi, something 'heavy' or 'great & important' or 'burdensome & difficult'. Koh is a mountain or a hill.

Faiz - Paas raho

This heart-tugging nazm by Faiz, which appeared under the title 'Paas raho' in his 1965 work dast-e-tah-e-sang, seems like a good way to resuscitate this long comatose site.

In the longish interregnum since the last post, I notice that Google has added a way to type urdu script from the English keyboard (though one doesn't have the facility directly within blogger yet). The system is somewhat buggy, and doesn't work anywhere as smoothly as the transliteration into devnagri - understandably, given the far more idiosyncratic and less phonetic nature of Urdu script. But for what it's worth, I'm adding a (somewhat imperfect) Naskh version. Would have much preferred a Nata'liq font - for aesthetic enjoyment, if nothing else - but I can't get one to work on Blogger!

A visitor on one of the earlier posts had suggested that it would be helpful to also have a transliterated version in Roman script, hence that is included too...

tum mere paas raho
mere qaatil, mere dildaar, mere paas raho
jis ghaRii raat chale
aasamano.n ka lahu pee kar siyah raat chale
marham-e-mushq liye, nashtar-e-almaas liye
bain karatii hui, hansti hui, gaatii nikale
dard ke kaasani paazeb bajaatii nikale
jis ghaRii sino.n me.n doobe huye dil
aastiino.n me.n nihaa.n haatho.n ki rah takne lage.n
aas liye
aur bachcho.n ke bilakhane ki tarah qul-qul-e-may
bahr-e-naasudagi machle to manaaye na mane
jab koi baat banaaye na bane
jab na koi baat chale
jis ghaRii raat chale
jis ghaRii maatamii, sunsaan, siyah raat chale
paas raho
mere qaatil, mere dildaar, mere paas raho

तुम मेरे पास रहो
मेरे क़ातिल, मेरे दिलदार, मेरे पास रहो
जिस घड़ी रात चले
आसमानों का लहू पी कर सियह रात चले
मरहम-ए-मुश्क़ लिए, नश्तर-ए-अल्मास लिए
बैन करती हुई, हंसती हुई, गाती निकले
दर्द के कासनी पाज़ेब बजाती निकले
जिस घड़ी सीनों में डूबे हुए दिल
आस्तीनों में निहां हांथों की रह तकने लगें
आस लिए
और बच्चों के बिलखने की तरह कुल-कुल-ए-मय
बह्र-ए-नासूदगी मचले तो मनाये न मने
जब कोई बात बनाए न बने
जब न कोई बात चले
जिस घड़ी रात चले
जिस घड़ी मातमी, सुनसान, सियह रात चले
पास रहो
मेरे कातिल, मेरे दिलदार, मेरे पास रहो


تم مرے پاس رہو
مرے قاتل مرے دلدار مرے پاس رہو
جس گھڑی رات چلے
آسمانوں کا لہو پی کے سی سسیہ رات چلے
مرہم مشک لئے نشتر الماس لئے
بین کرتی ہو ی ہنستی ہو ی گاتی نکلے
درد کے کاسنی پازیب بجاتی نکلے
جس گھڑی سینوں میں ڈوبتے ہوئے دل
آستینوں میں نہاں ہانتھوں کی رہ تکنے لگیں
اور بچچوں کے بلاکھنے کی طرح قل-قل-مے
بہر ناسودگی مچلے تو مناے نہ منے
جب کوئی بات بناہے نے بنے
جب نہ کوئی بات چلے
جس گھڑیرات چلے
جس گھڑی ماتمی سنسان سسیہ رات چلے
پاس رہو
مرے قاتل مرے دلدار مرے پاس رہو


stay close to me
my assassin, my beloved...stay close to me
(at) the moment when night sets out
(when), having drunk the blood of skies, the inky night sets out
(armed) with a diamond-lancet, carrying the salve of musk
(as she) passes by, wailing..., laughing..., singing...,
(as she) passes by, tinkling (her) lilac anklets of pain
(and) when hearts (that lie) sunken in chests
start looking out for hands concealed within sleeves
with hope...
and the gurgling of wine (being poured) is like the sobs of children
inconsolable in their restlessness
when no endeavours can be made to succeed
when conversation flags
when (only) night stalks
when the gloomy, silent, inky night stalks
stay close to me
my assassin, my beloved...stay close to me

In the charged political firmament of mid-60s Pakistan, these words were inevitably seen as an incisive commentary on the state of affairs, as they were undoubtedly meant to be. However, even without any contextual props, what a hauntingly desperate plea it is, isn't it?

'almaas' is Farsi for a diamond, also used in adjective form to describe something shaped into angles or facets (as a well-cut diamond), and hence a fitting description for a lance. In this case, of course, the diamond-lancet evokes a starry night... a night that perversely also carries fragrant ointments to soothe the wounds it has set out to inflict.

'Kaasnii' is the white chiccory (Cichorium endivia), and hence also describes the lilac colour of the chiccory flower:


The colour is often used to figuratively describe the bluish tinge that finely wrought silver wears.





The characterisation of hearts searching, with forlorn hope, for 'hands that lie hidden in sleeves' evokes not just a conspiratorial image of concealed daggers about to be whipped out, but also harks back to the stylised chak-e-girebaan imagery.


'Bahr' is a Farsi preposition that is used in the sense of 'on account of' or 'for the sake of'. 'Naasuudgii' is the negated form of 'aasuudgii', which connotes contentment, ease, tranquility, etc.

Faiz - Mere Dil mere musaafir

And this one is brilliant too! Another astounding tribute to Ghalib by Faiz, where he manages, with admirable innovativeness, to incorporate an entire sher from the Ghalib ghazal "yeh naa thii hamaarii kismat", which we've looked at earlier, towards the end of this nazm.

This particular nazm is among the last few works of Faiz. It appeared under the title 'dil-e-man, musaafir-e-man' [which is Farsi for 'heart of mine, traveller of mine'], as part of a compilation whose name was identical to the first line of the nazm i.e. 'mere dil, mere musaafir' and which was published in 1981, while Faiz was in semi-voluntary exile (following Zia's coup) in Beirut and London, editing the Afro-Asian Writers' magazine Lotus. The poem is a touching account of the pangs of exile from one's homeland.

Mere dil, mere musaafir

huaa phir se huqm saadir

ke watan-badar ho.n ham tum

de.n galii galii sadaaye.n

kare.n rukh nagar nagar kaa

ke suraag koii paaye.n

kisii yaar-e-naamaabar kaa

har ek ajnabi se puunchhe.n

jo pataa thaa apne ghar kaa

sar-e-kuu-e-aashnaayaa.n

hamei.n din se raat karnaa

kabhii is se baat karnaa

kabhii us se baat karnaa

tumhe kyaa kahuu.n ke kyaa hai

shab-e-gham burii balaa hai

hamei.n ye bhii thaa ganiimat

jo koii shumaar hotaa

hamei.n kyaa buraa thaa marnaa

agar ek baar hotaa


मेरे दिल, मेरे मुसाफिर
हुआ फिर से हुक्म सादिर
की वतन-बदर हों हम तुम
दें गली गली सदायें
करें रुख नगर-नगर का
कि सुराग कोई पायें
किसी यार-ए-नामाबर का
हर एक अजनबी से पूँछें
जो पता था अपने घर का
सर-ए-कू-ए-ना-आशनायाँ
हमें दिन से रात करना
कभी इस से बात करना
कभी उस से बात करना
तुम्हें क्या कहूं की क्या है
शब-ए-गम बुरी बला है
हमें ये भी था गनीमत
जो कोई शुमार होता
हमें क्या बुरा था मरना
अगर एक बार होता


My heart, my traveller
the order is again passed
that you and I be exiled
(that we) may call out from street to street
(that we) may turn from town to town
(in the hope ) that (we) can find some clue
of a Beloved messenger
(that we) may ask every stranger
the address that used to be our home

In the middle of alien streets
we (must) turn our days to nights
sometimes talking to this one
sometimes making conversation to that one

what shall I tell you (about) how it is
the night of pain is (truly) a trial
(but) even this would be welcome to me
if there was some count to it
(for) when did I object to dying
if it were to happen (only) once?


watan badar is literally 'outdoor from the country' [badar is a conjunct: ba+ dar]. A sadaa is a cry or call, often used for the street-calls of a mendicant (which is the sense meant in the poem). Ganeemat is literally something that one obtains by good fortune (the exact meaning is 'booty' from war) used here to denote something regarded as fortuitous or as a blessing.

Faiz - Raushan kaheen bahaar ke imkaan hue to hain

What gems you pick! It is one of my most favourite Faiz ghazals; a piece of poetic brilliance that just throbs with hope...!

Published in dast-e-saba, this ghazal appeared under the title 'August 1952', and shows that in the early phase of his trial in the Rawalpindi Conspiracy case, Faiz still retained an astonishingly positive frame of mind, and an almost desperate confidence that things were on the verge of improving... .

Like many of Faiz's poems, this one poses severe problems of translation because of the specific linguistic device it uses to convey its very particular nuance of emphasis - one which is almost impossible to capture in English, for want of an equivalent verbal qualifier. The radif of this poem is 'hue to hain' - where the crucial 'तो ' adds, to the second line of every sher, a sense that can be captured at best inadequately in English through phrases like "At least this much has happened", or "this much has admittedly happened". Because of this qualifying word, each sher can be seen as words of encouragement offered to someone who is losing hope...where the 'someone' can, of course, be the poet himself too.

Raushan kahii.n bahaar ke imkaa.n hue to hai.n
gulshan mei.n chaak chand girebaa.n hue to hai.n

रौशन कहीं बहार के इम्काँ हुए तो हैं

गुलशन में चाक चंद गरेबाँ हुए तो हैं

Somewhere, the possibilities of spring have shone out
A few collars have been rent in the rose garden


Imkaan, in Arabic, means a 'reality' that is still in the realm of the potential or possible, that depends on some other condition being satisfied to come into existence [It is distinguished from wujoob, which is a reality that is already mandated or made necessary by the circumstances and is thus bound to occur; or from wujood, which is a reality that is already in existence]. The word is, therefore, used to denote the 'possibility' of something happening - or figuratively for the 'hint' or 'suggestion' of something about to happen. Its use in the sher above is quite inspired, suggesting a spring that is not yet actually there, but trembles tantalisingly in the realm of the possible. And the second line's beautiful picturisation of collars being torn in the rose-garden is meant to evoke, of course, the 'opening of buds', in anticipation of this promised spring...

The entire sher, therefore, throws up a deliciously engaging picture of a garden, so far caught up in the grip of autumn, but where imaginations have started being teased with the possible arrival of spring... One doesn't need to be reminded, of course, of the political symbolism behind this picturesque imagery!



ab bhii khazaa.n kaa raaj hai, lekin kahii.n kahii.n

goshe rah-e-chaman mei.n ghazal-khwaa.n hue to hai.n

अब भी खज़ाँ का राज है, लेकिन कहीं कहीं

गोशे रह-ऐ-चमन में ग़ज़ल-ख्वाँ हुए तो हैं

Autumn's regime still prevails, but, here and there
nooks in the garden-paths have started singing poems

Divine! The way the second line specifies that it is the ghoshe (corners, nooks, secluded dead-ends) of the garden-paths that have started breaking into song, suggests that these are not just happy songs they are singing, but possibly subversive 'anti-establishment' anthems, against the prevailing reign of autumn! Once again, one has to admire Faiz for being able to 'package' an intensely political message in such breath-taking loveliness!

Thahrii huii hai shab kii siyaahii vahii.n magar
kuchh kuchh sahar ke rang par-afshaa.n hue to hai.n

ठहरी हुई है शब की सियाही वहीं मगर

कुछ कुछ सहर के रंग पर-अफशां हुए तो हैं


The night's blackness lingers on (at the) same place, but
the colours of dawn are (beginning to) flutter their wings a bit

What loveliness! The contrast is not just between the inkiness of the night and the 'colours of the morn', but also between the immobility of the night, and the hesitant, but brave, attempts of the dawn-colours to spread out their wings, to take to flight... [Par-afhaan is how one would describe a young bird fluttering its partially formed wings, as it tests their growing readiness for its maiden flight.]


In mei.n lahuu jalaa ho hamaaraa ke jaan-o-dil

mehfil mei.n kuchh chiragh farozaa.n hue to hai.n

इन में लहू जला हो हमारा के जान-ओ-दिल

महफ़िल में कुछ चिराग फरोज़ाँ हुए तो हैं

Whether (it be) our blood, or (our) life and heart, that were burnt in them
a few lamps have shone on the assembly

Lamps that can dispel the darkness of an age, that can awaken an entire people to action, are not fueled by oils and waxes, of course... they draw their light from greater sacrifices. But, at the end, one does have the light... !


haa.n kaj karo kulaa ke sab kuchh luTaa ke ham

ab be-niyaaz-e-gardish-e-dauraa.n hue to hai.n

हाँ कज करो कुलाह के सब कुछ लुटा के हम

अब बे-नियाज़-ऐ-गर्दिश-ऐ-दौराँ हुए तो हैं

Yes, tilt your cap (jauntily), for having lost everything, we
have now become independent of the cycles of age


Profound! An almost sufistic summary of the desirability of renunciation... of escape from the meaningless meanders of time (we have spoken earlier of the multivalence of the word gardish). But what a delightfully airy way to capture the carefree state of someone who has lost everything (don't you just love that 'tilt your cap crazily!'?). And also a profound political message to those who are completely disenfranchised - it is precisely they, who have no stakes in the status quo, who are best placed to work for a new social order...

be-niyaaz would literally be someone who has no need to ask something from someone, someone who is without want, without need. It is also an adjective used in Islamic discourse to describe the Almighty. Therefore, its usage in the sher above, with all the attendant nuances, is not accidental.


Ahl-e-qafas kii subh-e-chaman mei.n khulegii aankh
baad-e-sabaa se vaadaa-o-paimaa.n hue to hai.n

अहल-ऐ-कफ़स की सुब्ह-ऐ-चमन में खुलेगी आँख

बाद-ऐ-सबा से वादा-ओ-पैमाँ हुए तो हैं


(It is) in the garden-morning that the cage-dwellers shall awaken

Pledges and promises have been made to the morning breeze

Isn't that lovely? I can't quite figure out how he's done it, but Faiz somehow manages to lucidly capture the stomach-wrenching sense of 'determination' with which these covenants, howsoever futile, have been entered into! Doesn't he?


hai dasht ab bhii dhasht, magar khuun-e-paa se Faiz
ser-aab chand khaar-e-mugiilaa.n hue to hai.n

है दश्त अब भी दश्त, मगर खून-ऐ-पा से फैज़

सेर-आब चंद खार-ऐ-मुगीलाँ हुए तो हैं


The desert is still a desert, but with the blood of feet, o faiz

a few acacia thorns have, at least, become watered


Once again, truly delicious! ser-aab is literally 'full of water', and is used in the sense of being 'well watered' or 'moistened' or 'succulent'. Mugiilaan is the name of the acacia bush (Mimosa Arabica, also commonly known in India by the names of babul or kiikar) which grows profusely in desert conditions and sports some really frightening looking thorns! The blood that drips from the feet of desert-travellers may be insufficient to make the wildernesses verdant, but it can serve to soften the thorns that line the wilderness, and thus ease the path of those destined to follow them...

Note that there is some gentle word-play here too by Faiz... since the 'faiz' in the first line can be seen not only as the mandated use of the takhallus, but also in its literal sense of 'bountifulness' 'munificence' or 'copiousness' - signifying the 'generosity' of the feet-blood in so irrigating the thorns!

Faiz - Ravish Ravish hai vahii intizaar kaa mausam

A Faiz ghazal from dast-e-sabaa today - penned during his incarceration in the early 50s. Among many other gems, this is an excellent example of how Faiz could adopt, and adapt, the classical imagery of urdu poetry to denounce, and rouse opinion against, an oppressive political regime.

The 'radif' contains the word 'mausim', the corrupted form of which (mausam) we use in everyday speech to mean 'season'. In its original sense, the word would translate more broadly as 'time and place' for something.

As with anything by Faiz, the sheer sound of the verses, as they are read aloud, is hauntingly moving, even before one delves into implied meanings and nuances.

ravish-ravish hai vahii intezaar kaa mausim

nahii.n hai koii bhii mausim bahaar kaa mausim



रविश-रविश है वही इंतिज़ार का मौसिम

नहीं है कोई भी मौसिम बहार का मौसिम

On every turn, (there) is that same season of waiting
The season of spring is not (among) any of the seasons

We had encountered ravish while discussing an earlier ghazal - the word commonly means something like a 'gait' or 'walk' or 'carriage', but also figuratively denotes a 'custom' or 'practice' or a 'fashion'. Hence, when one says 'every ravish' one is saying something like 'on all occasions' or 'everywhere'. However, the word is also used in a more specific context - to mean an avenue or path laid out in a garden, for walkers. Hence, when used in a sher like the above, with its evocation of a continuous, all-pervasive wait for the spring, the word has a specially beautiful resonance, with the imagery of a garden being automatically brought to mind, even without explicit mention.


giraa.n hai dil pe gham-e-rozgaar kaa mausim
hai aazmaaish-e-husn-e-nigaar kaa mausim

गिरां है दिल पे गम-ए-रोज़गार का मौसिम

है आज़माइश-ए-हुस्न-ए-निगार का मौसिम

Weighing heavily on the heart is the season of quotidian concerns
it is the season for testing the beauty of the Beloved

It is truly when 'everyday' worries - of earning one's bread, of getting from day to day - oppress the heart, that one can test the effectiveness and power of that ever-available avenue of escape - namely, the contemplation of the Beloved's charms!

Nigaar is literally a beautiful painting or effigy, used figuratively to denote the Beloved. Given the ghazal's broad political undertones, it is clear that the 'painting' being evoked here is a lot more ambiguous than merely a flesh-and-blood woman.

Note also that this sher constitutes a second 'matlaa' or opening verse, in which both lines contain the radif. The occasional insertion of a second matlaa was classically meant to demonstrate a poet's prowess, and most of the old-time greats have shown off such flourish in some of their ghazals.

khushaa nazaaraa-e-rukhsaar-e-yaar kii saa'at

khushaa qaraar-e-dil-e-beqaraar kaa mausim



खुशा नज़ारा-ए-रुखसार-ए-यार की सा'अत

खुशा करार-ए-दिल-ए-बेकरार का मौसिम


Happy is the moment of sighting the Beloved's face
Happy is the season (that brings) relief to the agitated heart

Relatively straightforward. Qaraar is literally a state of 'rest' or 'quietude', and its negated form is commonly used in the ghazal vocabulary to denote the anxious and troubled state of a Lover's heart. 'Khushaa' is an interjection, used in the sense of "How happy...!" or "How fortunate...!"


hadiis-e-baadaa-o-saaqii nahii.n, to kis masraf
khiraam-e-abr-e-sar-e-kohsaar kaa mausim

हदीस-ए-बादा-ओ-साकी नहीं, तो किस मसरफ

खिराम-ए-अब्र-ए-सर-ए-कोहसार का मौसिम?

(when) there is no story of wine and saaqii, of what worth
(is) the season of the cloud's drift over the mountains?

Masraf literally means 'expenditure' or 'cost' - used here in the sense of the 'value' of something. Khiraam means 'gait', specifically an elegant or graceful way of walking or moving. Kohsaar is literally 'mountainous'.

Hadees stands for fables or stories describing the experiences of the Prophet. However, the word also has an alternative meaning of 'renouncing' or 'forswearing' off something. Hence Faiz could have been aiming for some clever word-play here, in effect packing in two contradicting meanings - in one, the season of the clouds' movement is felt to be of no attraction unless accompanied by the stories of the saaqee and wine-cup; in the other, it is felt to be of interest only if the saaqee and wine-cup have been renounced (because if they haven't been, who has time to sit and appreciate anything else?)


nasiib sohbat-e-yaaraa.n nahii.n, to kyaa kiije
ye raqs-e-saayaa-e-sarv-o-chinaar kaa mausim

नसीब सोहबत-ए-यारां नहीं, तो क्या कीजे

ये रक्स-ए-साया-ए-सर्व-ओ-चिनार का मौसिम?

When the Beloved's company is not (in one's) destiny, what (is one) to do
(with) the season of dancing shadows of the cypress and chinaar?

More of the same. Isn't that really picturesque imagery in the second line, though? The 'dancing hour' of the tree-shadows!


ye dil ke daagh to dukhte the yuu.n bhii, par kam kam
kuchh ab ke aur hai hijraa.n-e-yaar kaa mausim

ये दिल के दाग तो दुखते थे यूँ भी, पर कम कम

कुछ अब के और है हिजरां-ए-यार का मौसिम

these heart's wounds used to ache even otherwise, but (with) lesser (intensity)
This time, the season of separation from the Beloved is something else!

Once again, the words are simple - but there's a lovely balance, an engagingly colloquial touch, in the 'kam kam' of the first line, and the 'kuchh ab ke aur hai' of the second.

yahii junuun kaa, yahii tauq-o-daar kaa mausim

yahii hai zabr, yahii ikhtiyaar kaa mausim



यही जूनून का, यही तौक-ओ-दार का मौसिम

यही है जब्र, यही इख्तियार का मौसिम

This itself is the (season of) madness, this itself the season of manacle and stake
this itself (the season of) coercion, this itself the season of choice

A tauq, in Arabic, is an iron neck-ring, a sort of collar, that a prisoner or a slave is forced to wear [someone so 'collared', even if an animal, is described as a mutavvak]. A daar in Persian is a gallows, or a wooden stake on which a criminal is impaled. Jabr is 'compulsion', 'constraint', or the (violent) imposition of force. While ikhtiyaar is 'self control' or 'choice'.

The sher suggests, tongue-in-cheek, that despite oppression and controls, the junoon of those so victimised still leaves them with 'freedom of choice', with power over themselves. Once again, the entire imagery could be simply an evocation of the constant state of rebellion against the oppressive (earthly or celestial) Beloved of the stylised ghazal tradition, of a 'call to action' to one's comrades in arms...


qafas hai bas mei.n tumhaare, tumhaare bas mei.n nahii.n
chaman mei.n aatish-e-gul ke nikhaar kaa mausim

कफ़स है बस में तुम्हारे, तुम्हारे बस में नहीं

चमन में आतिश-ए-गुल के निखार का मौसिम

The cage is in your control; (but) not in your control, is
the season (when) the rose's flame blooms in the garden

Once again, in this sher (as in the next two) the 'political' message screams out so sharply, with such stentorian grandeur and needling defiance, that it is only the (deliberate) external veneer of standard ghazal stylistics which could have permitted Faiz to pen this while under the control and censorship of his oppressors.


sabaa kii mast khiraamii tah-e-kamand nahii.n
asiir-e-daam nahii.n hai bahaar kaa mausim

सबा की मस्त खिरामी तह-ए-कमंद नहीं

असीर-ए-दाम नहीं है बहार का मौसिम

The mad pace of the wind is not under (any) noose
the season of spring is not trapped in (any) web

A kamand is a noose, lasso or snare. [It is also used to denote a rope ladder, normally used by thieves to scale a wall or by an attacking army to breach a fort's turrets]. Daam is a net or trap, used for ensnaring small animals or birds. Aseer is a captive, or someone bound down.



balaa see, ham ne na dekhaa to aur dekhenge
furogh-e-gulshan-o-saut-e-hazaar kaa mausim

बला से, हम ने न देखा तो और देखेंगे

फुरोग़-ए-गुलशन-ओ-सौत-ए-हज़ार का मौसिम

Who cares! (Even) if we did not see (it), others shall see
the season of the splendour of the garden, and of the nightingale's call!


Isn't it deliciously defiant, this devil-may-care confidence that righteousness and beauty shall, ultimately, prevail? And furogh-e-gulshan-o-saut-e-hazaar is not the sort of expression you will get from too many wordsmiths!

Furogh is literally 'illumination' or 'light', used habitually in the sense of 'honour' or 'glory'. Saut describes a 'voice' or a 'cry'. And hazaar is the oft-shortened form of 'hazaar-dastaan' or, literally, '(bird) of a thousand tales', which is how a nightingale is picturesquely described!