Mir - Muh takaa hii kare hai jis tis kaa

I find I am a sucker for 'mirror-shers'!  You know the ones I mean - where the evocation of a mirror allows the poet to indulge in a bit of 'pulling by the bootstraps' kind of tautology... The following ghazal by Mir has been selected, therefore, primarily for its outstanding matlaa - one that could justly stand beside some of Ghalib's cleverer ones.

Muh takaa hii kare hai jis tis kaa
hairatii hai yeh aaiinaa hai kis kaa

मुह तका ही करे है जिस तिस का 
हैरती है यह आइना है किस का 

منہ تکا ہی کرے ہے جس تس کا 
ہیرتی ہے یہ آئنہ ہے کس کا

It just goes on staring at the face of one or the other
(this) bewildered mirror - whose is it? /  (I'm) bewildered - whose mirror is this?

Something of a tour-de-force!  The sher works so excellently at different levels.  On one reading, it is a fairly well-worded compliment to the Beloved - implying that if other people were to come before her mirror, the poor mirror could do little better than stare back in astonished silence, its eyes darting from face to face, as it searches for the one that is actually worthy of its regard.  Even when used in this commonplace sense to characterise the Beloved's mirror, however, there could also be an implied barb, besides the compliment - since it would normally be the Beloved who would be reflected in the mirror, the verse could also be pointing out that the Beloved herself remains intransigent to the sufferings of her admirers, as they supplicate before her - content to merely stare back at them without offering a word of solace or comfort.  

But this implied compliment (or barb), as so often, is only the outer shell. The actual intent of the sher is to launch a sufistic barb at the Almighty Himself.  When one recalls that Creation is characterised as the 'mirror of God', the implied sarcasm comes through loud and clear - "what a wonderful mirror this (Creation) is - one that can do nothing but stare like a silent spectator at the faces of suffering mortals?  One can imagine what sort of Being is 'mirrored' in it!"


shaam se kuchh bujhaa saa rahtaa hoo.n
dil huaa hai chiraagh muflis kaa

शाम से कुछ बुझा सा रहता हूँ 
दिल हुआ है चिराग़ मुफलिस का 


شام سے کچھ بجھا سا رہتا ہوں
دل ہوا ہے چراغ مفلس کا

Come evenfall, I remain somewhat subdued
(my) heart has become like a pauper's lamp

The point of this sher is, of course, to indulge in some gentle play with the word 'bujhaa', which, when used for a person, would translate to 'subdued' or 'depressed', but has a literal meaning of 'extinguished'.  A pauper's lamp would, naturally, burn feebly, if at all.  Muflis - which is literally 'insolvent' or 'penniless' - is a negated form of fuluus which is Arabic for a coin.


the bure mugh-bachho.n ke tewar lek
sheikh mai-khaane se bhalaa khiskaa

थे बुरे मुग-बच्चों के तेवर लेक 
शेख़ मय-खाने से भला खिसका 

تھے برے مغ بچّوں کے تیور لیک
شیخ مے خانے سے بھلا کھسکا

The sons of the tavern-keeper were in ill humour, but
the Nobleman wisely fled the tavern

Mugh or its plural mughaan is used in Persian to describe zoroastrian fire-worshippers (Etymologically, the word is from Magus or its plural Magi, which is used, of course, for the Biblical 'three wise men').  However, the term is also used pejoratively for the owner of a house of ill-repute, a drinking den, etc.  Mugh-bachhaa would literally be, then, the son of a tavern-keeper - who seems to have functioned somewhat as modern day 'bouncer'.  The above sher is yet another needling barb at 'Sheikh sahib' - the term describes a man of high social standing, a headman, a preacher, etc.; who is often the butt of ridicule in the ghazal world - who probably found himself in a situation of having drunk beyond what his purse would permit, and was obliged to sneak away from the tavern before he was forcibly ejected. The verb Khisaknaa literally means something like 'to shift sideways' or 'to sidle', but is used figuratively for a the act of making a sneaky and opportune exit from somewhere.  Lek is a poetic contraction of lekin.


daagh aankho.n se khil rahe hai.n sab
haath dastaa huaa hai nargis kaa

दाग़ आँखों से खिल रहे हैं सब 
हाथ दस्ता हुआ है नरगिस का 

داغ آنکھوں سے کھل رہے ہیں سب
ہاتھ دستہ ہوا ہے نرگس کا

(my) wounds are all blooming like eyes
(the) hand has become like a handful of daffodils

This one's quite nice, with some interesting word-play based imagery.  The first line could literally say 'wounds are blooming like eyes' or even 'wounds are blooming from eyes' (the usage of se as 'from' or 'like' is equally common).  The 'blooming' of wounds refers to their 'opening up', becoming raw again, etc. - which is figuratively similar to the opening of an eyelid.  And since these wounds are self-inflicted ones (in the frenzied zunoon of love), the poet's hand has become metaphorically 'full of flowers'.  The word-play comes from the fact that the first line could also refer to his wounds sprouting forth from his eyes - an allusion to the common ghazal stylisation of 'blood tears' being shed. And a further layer of allusion is added when one recalls that nargis evokes not only flowers of the narcissus genus (daffodils, jonquils), but is also used very frequently in the poetic world to describe the Beloved's eyes (the exact term used is nargis-e-shaahlaa and refers to the tinge of blue or grey in the Beloved's pupils).  Dastaa is literally a 'handful' of something - hence the popular word 'gul-dastaa' to describe a nosegay.     



bah'r kam-zarf hai basaan-e-habaab
kaasa-les ab hawaa hai to jis kaa

बह्र कम-ज़र्फ़ है ब-सान-ए-हबाब
कासा-लेस अब हवा है तो जिस का 


بحر کم ظرف ہے بسانِ حباب
کاسہ لیس اب ہوا ہے تو جس کا

The ocean is small-sized, like a bubble
whose pot-licker is now the air (itself)

Somewhat more cryptic - one has a sense that Mir is saying something quite profound here, but the exact point he is making remains abstruse.  

Zarf is a contracted form of zaraafat which means 'ingenuity' or 'elegance', but, when used for a vessel, also means 'capacity'.  Hence kam-zarf would literally describe a receptacle with a limited capacity, one that is small in size. Kaasah-leb is literally a 'pot licker', and is used to describe relative indigence. [To be somebody's 'pot licker', one would have to be in a situation of great want, relative to that person - forcing you to eke out an existence by licking the left-overs from vessel he has eaten from.]. Saan is Farsi for 'similitude', and hence 'ba-saan' is to be like something.

There is, therefore, lovely imagery in this sher.  The first line says that the entire ocean has no greater capacity than a bubble of water.  And then points out that the very air is, nonetheless, now the pot-licker of this ocean.  Now, it is quite true, of course, that if one chooses to see a water bubble as the 'vessel' in which the entire ocean is captured, then air does 'lick' the insides of the bubble (air trapped within water is what causes the bubble to form in the first place).  And hence air can be seen to be in a situation of great want vis-a-vis even this 'in-capacious' ocean.  Which is all very nice, except that I am not sure what the point of this lovely, mystical-sounding imagery is.  I even wrestled with the possibility of reading 'hawaa hai' in the figurative sense of 'being absent and untraceable' - which would make the second line say something like 'whose pot-licker is now absconding', and would make it more consistent with the relativisation of the ocean's size and importance (that the first line attempts), but again would leave one wondering at what the message behind the entire sher is...!




faiz ab abr chashm-e-tar se uThaa
aaj daaman vasii hai is kaa

फैज़ अब अब्र चश्म-ए-तर से उठा 
आज दामन वसी है इस का

فیض اے ابر چشمِ تر سے اٹھا
آج دامن وسیع ہے اس کا

Now take your bounty from the wet eye, O Cloud
today its daaman is ample

Quite lovely. 

I haven't bothered to translate daaman since there is no English equivalent.  Faiz means 'munificence', 'generosity', 'abundance' etc.  The first line exhorts the cloud to partake freely of the riches held aloft by 'wet eyes' - namely to draw its sustaining moisture not from the seas and rivers, but instead from the tear-drenched eyes of the poet.  The second line goes on to point out that the daaman of the eyes is quite extensive today. Wasi'i is an adjectival form of Wusʻat, which, in Arabic, signifies capacity, spaciousness, etc. However, what is important in the second line is not the size of the daaman, but its wet-ness.  Among the multitude of idioms associated with the daaman imagery is that of daaman geelaa honaa which translates to something like a state of sinfulness or taintedness.  




taab kis ko jo haal-e-miir sune
haal hii aur kuchh hai majlis kaa

ताब किस को जो हाल-ए-मीर सुने 
हाल ही और कुछ है मजलिस का 

تاب کس کو جو حالِ میر سنے 
حال ہی اور کچھ ہے مجلس کا



Who has the strength to pay heed to Mir's (account of his) state?

the condition of the congregation is quite something else!



An apt 'mushairaa' maqtaa to end with. Easy on the ear, thanks to the deliberate repitition of haal in both lines. Majlis is Arabic for an 'assembly', a 'convivial meeting' or a 'Council'. The choice of Majlis as opposed to the more common bazm in the second line is dictated not only by rhyme-considerations, but Mir may also have been trying to play on the common conjointed phrase meer-majlis, which means something like 'the head (or convenor) of an assembly'... 

Mir - Hastii apnii habaab kii sii hai

One of Mir's most famous ones, this one. A little patchy, though – some of the shers are quite nice...others quite pedestrian. Which is pretty much par for Mir, in my opinion...!

हस्ती अपनी हबाब की सी है

यह नुमाइश सराब की सी है

our existence is like that of a bubble

(and) this (entire) display is like a mirage

Touches of 'baaziichah-e-atfaal...' in this, nahin? To stress the illusoriness of existence and discount the concreteness of the material world is pretty standard fare in poetry inspired from sufi'ism...but this is still a competent 'mood establishing' sher for the ghazal.

नाज़ुकी उस के लब की क्या कहिये

पंखड़ी एक गुलाब की सी है

What can one say about the delicateness of her lips

(they are) like the petal of a rose

Huh?! Well, at least he is candid enough to admit in the first line that he has nothing particularly penetrating to say!! :-)

The comparison with a rose petal, as opposed to that of any other bloom, is probably supposed to hint at the possibilities of thorns lurking under the outward delicateness... but the simile is still pretty banal, one must admit.

चश्म-ए-दिल खोल उस भी आलम पर

यां की औकात ख्वाब की सी है

do open the eyes of (your) heart to that world too

the status of the 'here and now' is like that of a dream

Nicer. Sort of paraphrases the first sher, but does it well.

बार-बार उस के दर पे जाता हूँ

हालत अब इज़तिराब की सी है

I go to her door again and again

(my) condition is now one of desperation

Once again, little more than a mere restatement of the compelling infatuation that is the defining characteristic of the Lover in the ghazal universe.

नुख्ता-ए-खाल से तेरा अब्रू

बैत एक इन्तिखाब की सी है

due to the mark of (your) mole, your eyebrow

is like a chosen abode (poem).

Oh, much nicer! 'Bait' can stand for both a 'house' (or a temple) and a 'poem' or 'verse'. The beauty-spot next to the Beloved's eyebrow, 'marks it out' as something 'selected' or 'chosen out'....whether it is a chosen 'abode' (of beauty, what else?) or a 'verse' that is seen to be highlighted by the mole, the sher does capture an original sort of compliment...

मैं जो बोला कहा की ये आवाज़

उसी खाना-खराब की सी है

When i spoke, she commented – that 'this voice

is like that of that same vagabond'

Nice-ish. Obviously, the lover has spent some time calling out to the Beloved from the street outside, vexing her. When he finally manages, through some artifice, to find entry into her presence and speak to her, she is quick to remark on the similarity between his voice and that of the vilified importunate tramp!

आतिश-ए-ग़म में दिल भुना शायद

देर से बू कबाब की सी है

The heart was baked in the fire of pain, probably

since a while, there's the smell of kebabs (in the air)

Cute...very cute! Even if it isn't the highlight of the ghazal in terms of pure poetry, it must have been a real hit in an oral recital!

देखिए अब्र की तरह अब के

मेरी चश्म-ए-पुर-आब की सी है

Look, this time, just like clouds

my eyes (too) are full of water

The point of this sher is obviously technical rather than semantic. The clever way the composite adjective 'pur-aab' is fitted into the rhyme structure of the qaafiyaa...

मीर उन नीम-बाज़ आंखों में

सारी मस्ती शराब की सी है

Meer, in those half-open eyes

it's like there's every intoxication of wine

Hmmm...

You know, a number of adherents of the 'Mir camp' claim that it is this very 'simplicity' of Mir that sets him apart as a poet of class... many of them take the position that the sort of overt 'cleverness' that someone like Ghalib infuses in his poetry makes it seem less 'feeling', and almost 'mocking'. In contrast, Mir, in his simplistic, almost wonder-struck, descriptions of the Beloved's beauty (the second sher in this ghazal serving as a typical example), comes across as much more sincere in his depiction of infatuated love.

There probably is something in that point of view...but still, give me Ghalib at most times!

Mir - Aa ke sajjaada-nasheen Qais huaa mere baad

How about another by Mir today? This is a short one, but one I've long liked – though, in all fairness, my opinion is at least partly coloured by having first encountered this ghazal in a magical rendering by Mehdi Hassan (and MH, if he put his mind to it, could bring a lump to one's throat even with 'Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall', couldn't he...? Seriously though, if you haven't heard him singing this one, you should – it is nothing short of a package tour to heaven– all 15 minutes 03 seconds of it! Moreover, it is a 'live' concert recording, which is always so much better than the 'studio' versions vitiated by superfluous orchestration).

आ के सज्जादा-नशीं क़ैस हुआ मेरे बाद

न रही दश्त में ख़ाली कोई जा मेरे बाद

Qais came and became the custodian of (my) tomb, after me

No place in the desert remained empty (desolate), after me

This is a truly delightful sher, albeit somewhat abstruse because of its allusiveness.

Qais was the actual name of the unfortunate male protagonist of Nizami's Laila-Majnoon epic. In the world of urdu poetics, Qais (or Majnoon as he came to be called, following his doomed infatuation for Laila) remains the reference point for describing the 'junoon' of love – as exemplified in his aimless wanderings in the desert. That provides the context for, and gives the bite to, this outstanding sher.

Let's look at the first line – the words 'sajjaada nasheen' would literally translate to 'someone who lives on a prayer mat' (metaphorically, someone habitually in abjectful worship). However, the composite term 'sajjaada nasheen' actually has a more specific meaning, namely the religious custodian of the 'dargah' (or shrine) of a Pir. [Often, though not always, the Sajjaada-nasheen of a dargah claims direct descent from the Pir in question. A Sajjaada-nasheen holds a formal office, recognised in law, although the 'secular' management of a dargah is usually entrusted to another official called a Mutawalli].

So what is the first line saying? Well, after the death of the poet, it seems that the other principal wanderer of the desert, namely Majnoon, has abandoned his wanderings, to take up office as the custodian of the poet's shrine. The implied link of kinship serves, of course, to stress the commonalities between the poet and Majnoon, in the shared intensity of their desperate ardour.

But what explains the uncharacteristic willingness of Majnoon – that emblematic lunatic who is supposed to have famously turned away from the entire world to embrace wildernesses – to take up a formal office? Well, as the second line cleverly informs us, there actually are no wildernesses left in the desert anymore, after the poet's death. Why? Because it is the entire desert that has become the Poet's shrine, and Majnoon, if he has to continue to reside in the desert, has no other choice, really, than to tend to this shrine!

One mustn't miss the clever choice of words in the second line... the Arabian desert (where the Laila Majnoon romance is set, of course) is named the 'Rab-ul-Khalee' (literally, 'the empty space'), hence the use of the 'khaalee' to describe desolateness is quite deliberate. ('Jaa' is Farsi for 'place').

चाक करना है इसी ग़म से गिरेबान-ए-कफ़न

कौन खोलेगा तेरे बंद-ए-क़बा मेरे बाद

(I) have to rip open the collar of (my) shroud, just out of this concern

(that) who will undo the fasteners of your robe, after me

Isn't that just beautiful? The 'compulsion' the Lover feels, even after his death, to forcefully tear his way out of his shroud (remember the 'chaak-e-garebaan' stylisation that he is supposed to have endured throughout his life?) because he is anxious about the fact that, after his death, his Beloved would have nobody left to help her out of her clothing!! While this can only be, due to its implied sexual intimacy, a celebration of 'consummated' love (somewhat unusual in the ghazal world), what a touching celebration it is...!

[A 'qabaa' is typically the type of woman's robe that is secured at the back, bosom and the navel by tied strings (as opposed to the more commonly used word 'pairaahan', which is normally a dress that uses buttons or other fasteners).]

वो हवा-खाह-ए-चमन हूँ की चमन में हर सुब्ह

पहले मैं जाता था और बाद-ए-सबा मेरे बाद

Such a walker in the garden am I, that every morning in the garden

I would reach first, and the morning breeze (would come there) after me

Oh, this one is just too clever and tongue-in-cheek! Ghalib would be proud of it!

And yet, it is very simple too, isn't it? The main punch of the sher is provided by the colloquial idiomatic usage 'hawa khaana' which translates literally as 'to eat air' but actually means to go for a walk or promenade. Hence someone who describes himself as a 'hawa-khaah-e-chaman' is simply describing his fondness for visiting the garden for walks. But the literal meaning allows Mir to wittily imply that it is because he is so famously (and ominously) a 'consumer of the garden air' that even the morning zephyrs fearfully postpone their arrival in the garden until after he has come and left!!

तेज़ रखना सर-ए-हर ख़ार को ऐ दश्त-ए-जूनून

शायद आ जाये कोई आब्ला-पा मेरे बाद

Keep the point of every thorn sharp, o desert of madness

perhaps someone with blistered feet might come by, (even) after me

Once again, a really nice one, despite the simplicity! Even thorns serve some purpose, being useful for 'pricking' the blisters in the feet of those who have made a career of wandering the desert... the Poet seems to be worried about the possibility that the thorns may choose to shed their acuity after his death (the implication being that the thorns implicitly recognise that nobody truly 'blistered' is likely to come by now, once the Poet is no more)...

मुँह पे रख दामन-ए-गुल रोएंगे मुर्गान-ए-चमन

हर रविश ख़ाक उडाएगी सबा मेरे बाद

The birds of the garden shall weep covering their faces with 'daamans' of flower (petals)

On every turn (path) the breeze will blow dust (clouds), after me

What absolutely divine imagery this sher uses! And what delightful word-play!

First look at the hauntingly lovely first line... I haven't bothered to translate 'daaman' because there isn't any English equivalent, but we know that it describes the multi-functional trailing (or free-hanging) portion of a woman's dress, one of whose uses can be to serve as a handy face-covering during a dust-storm! With that in mind, the first line sketches a touching picture of the birds in the garden using the blooms (or their petals) as proxy daamans to cover their faces, whilst they weep.

In a mushairaa context, we wouldn't yet know why the birds are weeping, even less why they are doing so with their faces so concealed (the first instinct seems to be to assume that they are covering their faces simply because they are weeping, as a woman might well use her daaman to hide her tears). It is the second line that informs us that the birds are weeping because the Poet (that kindred lover of the garden) is no more – however, more importantly, it also reveals that what is making them use the flowers for face-masks are the continual dust-clouds being blown about the garden by the wind!

What's the implication? Normally, the 'chaman' is held in poetic contrast to the 'sehraa' or 'dasht' (the desert), with dust being, naturally, the constituent of the desert, not of the garden. However, the sher implies that the death of the Poet has evidently marked a 'victory' of the desert over the garden, because of which the dusts have invaded the chaman...and the birds are probably weeping as much for the imminent death of their garden as that of the Poet!

'Ravish' literally means something like 'walk' or 'gait' or 'manner of behaving' (because of which 'har ravish' can translate to something like 'on every instance' or 'constantly'), but is also used specifically to denote a 'path or avenue in a garden', hence its usage in the second line is particularly well thought out!

बाद मरने के मेरी कब्र पे आया वो मीर

याद आई मेरे ईसा को दवा मेरे बाद

After my death she came to my grave, O Meer

My Jesus remembered (my) cure, after me!

Once again, wonderfully tongue-in-cheek! The maqtaa, simple as it is, would have been a sure-shot crowd-pleaser in oral delivery! The reference to Jesus is evidently meant to allude to the Biblically recorded miracles of him 'raising the dead' with his breath or words...which becomes rather difficult once the poor defunct is already interred, of course!

Mir - Ulti ho gayin sab tadbeeren

We've been a little remiss in not having looked at anything by Mir so far. Not only because his oeuvre is huge (in quantitative terms) but also because Mir was, in many ways, the defining poet of the Mughal tradition that has come to dominate the classical Urdu poetry popular until today. He pre-dated the great names of the Delhi durbar, and was a point of reference for many of them. Ghalib is said to have approached Mir for guidance in his youth, and Mir reportedly predicted a bright future for the young poet. Zauq and even Ghalib (despite the contempt he usually professed for other wielders of the quill) have penned shers conceding the merit in Mir's work... In one of them, Ghalib describes Mir's deewaan as being nothing lesser than a Kashmir garden!

न हुआ पर न हुआ मीर का अंदाज़ नसीब
ज़ौक यारों ने जोर बहुत ग़ज़ल में मारा

रेखता के तुम ही उस्ताद नहीं हो गालिब
कहते हैं अगले ज़माने में कोई मीर भी था


I haven't read a great deal of Mir. What I have read, I have found a little uneven. He is truly wonderful in places - and in a way that is somehow very heart-warming, even if it lacks the outright brilliance of a Ghalib. In other places, he seems almost exasperatingly formulaic and conventional. I realised later that at least a part of the reason for this was that Mir actually defined much of the 'imagery' that later became standard in the poetic tradition. Hence when he used an idiom, it probably wasn't as formulaic as it was destined to become later - in fact, the very fact that so many of his stylisations have come to be the standard fare of urdu poetics is, perhaps, testimony to their worth!

We'll look at a ghazal that is among the 3 or 4 best-known of Mir's. Incidentally, Begum Akhtar has breathed life into a few shers from this, in her inimitable voice - do check out if you haven't heard it so far!

उल्टी हो गयीं सब तदबीरें, कुछ न दवा ने काम किया
देखा इस बीमार-ए-दिल ने आख़िर काम तमाम किया

Every solution/scheme turned contrary, the medicine had no effect
See? This affliction of the heart, it finally finished (me? you? him?) off

An otherwise simple sher, it turns on a clever word-play involving 'kaam kiya'. Since the idiom 'kaam tamaam karna' (which signifies something like 'to kill off') literally translates as 'to do a LOT of work', it provides a nice juxtaposition to the medicine, which 'did no work at all'! However, whereas someone like Ghalib would have grasped the word-play potential inherent in the idiom, and teased and tweaked at it until he ended up saying something truly profound or witty, Mir is happy to merely present the word-play to us...gently, without too much of a fuss. There's merit in his approach...

The way the sher is said, it remains deliciously ambiguous whether it is a lament from the afflicted party himself, or a dispassionate observation by someone who has merely seen the afflicted one succumb to his heart's affliction...


अह्द-ए-जवानी रो रो काटा, पीरी में ली आँखें मूँद
यानी रात बहुत थे जागे, सुबह हुई आराम किया

The days of youth, (I) spent in tears; (and) in old age, shut (my) eyes
That is, (I) had kept awake a lot during the night; (hence) in the morning, (I) rested

Nice. While, on first reading, the sher seems to be (in a reversal of convention) equating youth with night and age with morning, what the poet is actually stressing that his entire life was encapsulated/contained in that one wakeful night of separation! Hence, he first gives what seems to be an overview of a lifespan - a youth spent in sorrow, and an old-age of deliberate restfulness - and then explains (look at the opening 'yaanee' in the second line) that this picturisation is based on the fact of him having spent the previous night in teary-eyed wakefulness, and having finally dozed off at dawn!


हर्फ़ नहीं जां-बख्शी में उसकी, खूबी अपनी किस्मत की
हम से जो पहले कह भेजा, सो मरने का पैगाम किया

(there's) no doubt about her life-sparing nature, it is the exceptionalness of my (good) fortune
that the first message (she) sent across, it was a death-sentence!

Wonderful! This is the typical sort of 'yeah, right!' sher that Ghalib does so well, isn't it?

The poet sarcastically absolves the Beloved of any blame in his death - because 'sparing lives' is so unambiguously inherent to her nature, after all! It is only the excellence of his kismat, he explains, because of which the first message he received from her was a death-sentence. It's so deliciously over-the-top, this sarcasm-laden thankfulness that the Beloved's professed gentility didn't get in the way, at least in his case, of a summary execution!


नाहक हम मजबूरों पर ये तोहमत है मुख्तारी की
चहते हैं सो आप करे हैं, हम को अबस बदनाम किया

(it is) unjust that we, the helpless, are accused of (possessing) power
you do whatever (you) like, it's needlessly that we stand defamed

Once again, a sher of endearing simplicity. 'Mukhtaaree' is a word of almost judicial import, signifying legal authority, autonomy, or plenipotentiariness. For the wretched lover to be attributed such sovereignty is like rubbing salt in his wounds... given that the Beloved holds his very destiny in her dainty fingers, the very least she can do is to acknowledge this reality!! To imply that her Lover has some power over his state shifts the responsibility for this state on to him, which is certainly defamatory!

The sher could evidently constitute a witty response to a protest by the Beloved against some forward sign of ardour by the Lover... "listen - don't blame me. It is not as though I am in control of anything here!' However, the first part of the second line also hints that the sher could be directed against still 'Higher Powers'... the 'chaahate hain so aap kare hain' being close to a specific Koranic allusion that describes the Almighty's omnipotence...


सारे रिंद औबाश जहां के तुझ से सुजूद में रहते हैं
बांके, टेढ़े, तिरछे, ठेके, सब का तुझ को इमाम किया

All the drunkards and waywards of the world bow before you
the crooked, the bent, the askance, the twisted; you've been made the Imaam of all (these)

This one is quite delightful! What an unflattering caricature of the Beloved's other devotees! And by implication, of course, also of her - - "yes, yes, you may have thousands worshipping you, but don't get too uppity; just look at the sort of motley crowd they constitute!" The honorifics heaped upon this fan club - 'baanke, Terhe, Tirchhe, Theke' - conjure up a truly apalling picture of a physically malformed gathering, which when read with the first line's verdict on their moral qualities, leaves them little hope for redemption, howsoever pious their devotion to the Beloved may be...!

Of course, nothing in the Sher shows that the poet is explicitly excluding himself from this sorry bunch - after all, he too prostrates before the Beloved just as frequently as her other devotees, as the next Sher shows!


सरज़द हम से बे-अदबी तो वहशत में भी कम ही हुई
कोसों उसकी और गए पर सजदा हर हर गाम किया

As for discourtesy, very little was committed by me, even in madness
(it is true that) I moved miles towards her, but I prostrated myself at every step!

Ha! Another delightful one! How charmingly the Poet absolves himself of having breached any proprieties... he acknowledges having approached the Beloved - he also implicitly concedes that that, in itself, could well have been seen as rudely ambitious - but goes on to point out, in all innocence, that since he punctuated every step of this pursuit by falling flat in worshipful abjection, no discourtesy can possibly be attributed to him! One would imagine that even the Beloved would be moved to a smile on hearing this defence!


किसका काबा, कैसा किब्ला, कौन हरम है, क्या अहराम
कूचे के उसके बाशिंदों ने सब को यहीं से सलाम किया

Whose Kaabah, which Kiblah, what are places of worship or pilgrimage-clothes?
(as for) the denizens of her street, they (just) bestow a salaam on everyone from right here!

This is another rich one! The sher reiterates the oft-made point that those in the thrall of the Beloved are condemned to lose their faith - hence these besotted street-dwellers (of whom the poet is evidently one; as shown by his use of 'yaheen' in the second line) couldn't care lesser about the Kaabah, or in which direction Mecca is (a 'Qiblah' indicates this direction in a mosque), and have no interest in leaving the Beloved's lane to undertake any religious journey either.

Until here, the Sher is commonplace. What gives it its exceptional charm is the way the second line provides an additional picture - these besotted lovers, while determinedly ensconsed on their preferred perches in the Beloved's lane (in the evident hope of catching a glimpse of her), are quite prompt in 'wishing on', with courteous salaams, others who are going about their prayers, or setting off for pilgrimages!! This hypocritical show of religious fellow-feeling (all the while keeping a watchful eye on the Beloved's door) makes one feel almost fond of these roguish 'baashindaas', doesn't it?


शेख जो है मस्जिद में नंगा, रात को था मैखाने में
जुब्बह, खिरका, कुर्ता, टोपी, मस्ती में इनाम किया

The Sheikh who is naked in the Mosque, was in the tavern yesterday
(where he) , in inebriated enthusiasm, gave away as prizes, his cloak, robe, Kurtaa and Hat!

It was a custom of the time, of course, for persons of wealth and influence to grandiosely hand over a necklace or ring in reward to someone whose service or performance they found praiseworthy.

The Sher evokes an amusing picture of a Sheikh, in drunken stupor, carrying this a little too far, by distributing even his clothes away to sundry hangers-on in the tavern, who might have been entertaining him in one way or the other... The picturisation of the Sheikh being naked in the mosque on the following day is figurative - for we don't expect the personage to have actually landed up for prayers 'au naturel', of course. It is a sort of reversal of the 'Emperor's new clothes'... he might be clothed now, but in light of his silliness in the tavern on the previous night, he stands permanently denuded - of his dignity and authority, at least - in the public eye!


काश अब बुर्का मुह से उठा दे, वरना फिर क्या हासिल है
आँख मूंदे पर उन ने गो दीदार को अपने आम किया

I wish she would lift the burkah from her face now, else what would be achieved
(if) after (my) eyes are shut, she (even) makes her view completely public!

hmm... a little pedestrian. In a cultural context where a sight of the Beloved's face could be afforded only through good fortune or extreme generosity on her part, the groaning exclamation captured in the first half of the first line might have been quite common... the sher creates its pathos by invoking a situation where the Beloved might wait just a bit too long before she finally lifts the veil - by which time the Lover might have already died of unfulfilled longing...! In fact, if she does put herself 'in public view' after the Poet's death, he would probably see it, quite justifiably, as a double disaster!!


यां के सपेद-ओ-स्याह में हम को दख्ल जो है सो इतना है
रात को रो रो सुबह किया या दिन को जों-तों शाम किया

In the (interplay of) Black and White here, the involvement I have is (just) this much
(I) wept the night into the morning, or willy-nilly passed the day into night

In my opinion, this is by far the best sher in the Ghazal. It is a little difficult to translate though, because it hinges on very smart leveraging of a particular idiomatic usage.

Let us first see what is being asserted in the first line... the poet seems to be discounting or denying an implied power that has apparently been attributed to him. And no ordinary power, mind you - the power to influence matters of 'black and white' or 'dark and light', no less! Well, says the poet, if he does have any influence over such cosmic cycles, it is merely this much -- he has often 'wept the night into day', etc...

It is lucky that the 'weeping the night into the day' idiom comes through in English, actually - because otherwise it would be well-nigh impossible to capture the beauty here in translation. When we say 'raat ko ro ro subah kiyaa', we are talking, of course, about the difficulty of taking oneself through the interminable duration of the night. But LITERALLY, the idiom would translate as 'making the night into the morning, through one's tears'. Similarly, the 'din ko jon-ton shaam kiyaa' is equally an assertion of the poet's powerlessness - what it actually means to say is that the wretched creature 'somehow managed to get through the day'. But the wording of the idiom allows us to read an 'active' role for him - as if he 'somehow' managed to make the day into night!

It is this insightful observation - that an idiomatic usage meant to denote a complete lack of power can actually be read as an assertion of power, albeit an obviously contrived one, that allows Mir to weave such magic with 'yaan ke saped-o-syaah'!

I also love the exquisite wording of the first line... the use of 'dakhl' - meaning something like 'interference' or 'involvement' or 'having a hand in something', rather than outright 'power' - is a delicious touch!


सुबह चमन में उसको कहीं तकलीफ़-ए-हवा ले आई थी
रुख से गुल को मोल लिया, कामत से सर्व गुलाम किया

in the morning, the trouble of (taking) air brought her somewhere in the garden
with (her) face, (she) purchased the bloom; with (her) stature, she enslaved the Cypress

Very ho-hum! The Beloved enters the garden for a walk, and the trees and flowers fall to her charms! See what I mean about Mir being quite flat at times?


साद-ए-सीमीं दोनो उसके हाथ में ला कर छोड़ दिए
भूले उस के कौल-ए-कसम पर हाय ख़याल-ए-खाम किया

having brought both her silvery arms in (my) hands, (I) let go
foolishly did (I), alas, delude (myself) on her pledges and promises!

Ok, so a somewhat 'cute' picture is being evoked, here. The Lover manages, in a rare show of daring, to physically accost the Beloved, gripping her 'silvery wrists' in his hand. She wrings and writhes in attempted escape, and upon being unsuccessful, showers the Poet with pledges and promises - of returning to him later, if he lets her go now. He naively believes her, and lets go... only to later rue his gullibility, in the form of the sher above.

Granted that the vignette evoked is not without charm, it is hardly worthy of being placed alongside some of the other amazing shers in this ghazal. Moreover, the kind of situation evoked in the sher is at odds with the general milieu of the ghazal world... it is too intimate, the sort of situation you might expect to see between a man and wife, or at least a couple that implicitly acknowledges their intimacy to each other... the best shers don't deal with such relationships, which seem already 'consummated' in an emotional sense!

काम हुए हैं सारे ज़ाया हर सा'अत की समाजत से
इस्तिघ्ना की चौगुनी उसने जूं-जूं मैं इब्राम किया

all efforts have been wasted, from the (very) moment of every entreaty
she quadrupled her indifference, every time I beseeched her

The sher is undeniably lyrical, thanks largely to the alliterative 'saa'at kii samaajat' in the first line and the colloquial 'joon-joon' in the second. But otherwise, I once again fail to see particular merit in it - the idea that the Beloved would be unmoved by the Lover's entreaties is almost a given in this world...

ऐसे आहू-ए-रम-खूर्दा की वहशत खोनी मुश्किल थी
सिःर किया, ऐजाज़ किया, जिन लोगों ने तुझ को राम किया

for the wildness of such a frightful deer to be lost was difficult
they did magic, achieved a miracle, the people who tamed you

I haven't much idea what this is about. Presumably the Beloved is being addressed, and described as a frightened, flighty, skittish, deer. But who are the people who are supposed to have 'tamed' this otherwise wild beast? Presumably the poet's rivals... why should he be heaping praise on their accomplishment? Even in sarcastic note, this just doesn't ring right...!

Please feel free to chip in if you have a fix on what Mir was trying here...


मीर के दीन-ओ-मज़हब को अब पूछते क्या हो, उन ने तो
कश्का खींचा, दैर में बैठा, कब का तर्क इस्लाम किया

Why do you ask now about Mir's God and religion; (for) he has
worn a caste-mark, sat in a temple, (and has) long renounced Islam!

The maqtaa is quite delicious... and must have raised scandalised smiles from his listeners in the conservative times he lived. But it also demonstrates the admirably liberal ethos that the world of poetry was able to project, even in Mir's epoch, if these things could be joked about so freely...