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?!

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'... 

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.

Ghalib - Koi din gar zindagaanii aur hai

A short sweet ghazal, this one. The principal point of interest in it is a clever exploitation of the multivalence of 'aur' - in the radif. While we use the word in day-to-day language to mean 'and' (which gives it a sense of 'more' or 'additional'), it also admits an (almost equally common) alternate meaning of 'different' or 'something else'. Ghalib plays delightfully with this duality in almost every sher of this ghazal.

Koi din gar zindagaanii aur hai

apne jii mei.n hamne Thaanii aur hai

कोई दिन गर ज़िन्दगानी और है

अपने जी में हमने ठानी और है

If life is for a few more days / if life is different some day

In my mind I have resolved something else / In my mind I have resolved more (of the same)

A delightfully worded sher, that straightaway illustrates the full strength of the specific verbal multivalence that Ghalib has selected to explore in this ghazal, with aur. The two alternative senses of this word, when applied to either line of the opening sher, give rise to four possible permutation-combinations of 'complete' thought processes, each of them equally valid and poetically suggestive:

a) If my life is to continue for a few more days, I have resolved on doing something quite different (from whatever I have been busy with so far)
b) Even if my life is to continue for a few more days, I have resolved even more strongly to continue doing whatever I have been busy with
c) If, someday, my life is different (from what it is now), I have resolved to do something different from what I am doing in this life
d) Even if, someday, my life is different (from what it is now), I have resolved even more stongly to continue doing whatever I am doing in this life

See? Such wealth of meaning, and he hasn't even begun explaining yet what the subject of the resolve is!

As in many of the best shers, the sheer unsaid-ness of the words allows them to be applied to just about any kind of 'resolute' intent. However, if we wish to stick to the standard Ghazal stylisation, the obvious candidate would be the poet's single-minded pursuit of the Beloved. In which case, the various senses evoked above would translate to either a gritty determination on the part of the Poet (to not be dejected by the unrequited-ness of his love), or else a bitter sigh of regret (at having 'wasted' his time on such a futile pursuit), or perhaps even an explicit 'threat' to the unyielding Beloved that his patience has been tried to the limit, and if he is to continue living any longer, he intends to do something else (perhaps to adopt more drastic means to attract her attention, or else abandon his devotion to her altogether...?)


aatish-e-dozakh mei.n ye garmii kahaa.n
soz-e-gamhaa-e-nihaanii aur hai

आतिश-ऐ-दोज़ख में ये गरमी कहाँ

सोज़-ऐ-गमहा-ऐ-निहानी और है


Does such heat exist (even) in the fires of hell?!
the burning of hidden griefs is more/something else!

Once again, both senses of 'aur' would give valid, and enjoyable, interpretations of the sher. The burning of concealed pain is either 'more' than that caused by the hell-fires, or even a sort of hotness that is in class completely 'different' than what one would have to suffer in hell!

There is some word-play intended here too. Dozakh can also mean, apart from hell, 'a belly'. Hence the sher could also be a comment on how the concealment of 'griefs of the heart' is a greater source of discomfort than the pangs occasioned in one's tummy by mere hunger.


baar-haa dekhii hai.n un kii ranjishe.n
par kuchh ab ke sar-garaanii aur hai

बार-हा देखी हैं उन की रंजिशें

पर कुछ अब के सर-गरानी और है

Again and again have (I) seen her indignations
but this time the ill-will is more/something else

haa is used for pluralisation in Persian, hence the 'baar-haa' would correspond to 'baar-baar' or 'kai baar' of everyday speech. garaan is literally heavy, and hence sar-garaanee is literally 'heavy headedness, but has a general negative nuance of dissatisfaction, displeasure, pride or ill-feeling.

The 'target' of the sher is obviously the Beloved (either the earthly one or the one in the azure). But the sher, simple as it is, does capture a delightfully helpless sense of 'dread', doesn't it? The poor Lover is quite used to suffering the displeasure of the Beloved, but now, completely inexplicably, she is suddenly even more displeased than before (or, alternatively, her displeasure has taken on a completely new complexion, hitherto unseen... or as we would say in English, is 'quite something else'). What has caused this sudden escalation in temper? And what is the haplessly uncomprehending Lover to do, except quake in apprehension?!


de ke khat mu.nh dekhtaa hai naamabar
kuchh to paigaam-e-zabaanii aur hai

दे के ख़त मुंह देखता है नामा-बर

कुछ तो पैगाम-ऐ-ज़बानी और है

having given the letter, the messenger (continues to) watch the face
(surely) there is some other/additional verbal message!

Probably the most exquisite sher in this ghazal! Even more indirectly than the previous sher, this one captures such a palpable sense of unsaid dangers looming vaguely over the horizon!

Just look at the delightfully evocative 'vignette' that is captured in these two simple lines... [The 'duration' of the scene is almost momentary. And yet...!] The messenger has just handed over a letter from the Beloved to the Lover. From past precedent, it is almost certain that the Beloved would not have penned words that can be described as kind. But the messenger has obviously also been told to convey some additional message, through his tongue. Oh dear, how much more drastic must these words be if even the Beloved, heartless as she is, chose not to commit them to paper?! And is that why the messenger is hesitating to articulate them too? Perhaps even he feels ashamed uttering something so abusive, something so glaringly undeserved?? The sher says nothing, but ends up saying so much...!

In the alternate sense of aur, the Beloved could have sent a letter that confines itself to socially acceptable civilities... but the message she has asked the messenger to convey verbally is obviously quite different from the polite salutations contained in the letter!

In either reading, the sher has this delightful air of 'time paused dramatically'... the poet obviously expects lightning to strike in a moment...but for the moment, there is just this ominously pregnant pause!

kat-e-amaar hai.n aksar nujoom
vo balaa-e-aasmaanii aur hai

कात-ऐ-अमार हैं अकसर नुजूम

वो बला-ऐ-आसमानी और है

Stars are often cutters of lives/ages
(but) that 'calamity of the skies' is something else!

Lovely! Wonderful play on words, once again!

While nujoom is literally 'collections of stars', the word is, more often than not, employed specifically to refer to 'celestial influences' in astrological contexts. Amaar is the plural of umr, which means 'lifetime' or 'age'. And, as in the english word 'age', the word can also be used to mean a 'period of time'. Hence, it is quite true to say that stars & constellations act to 'cut off' amaar, because they do, of course, help us 'mark out' time-periods - by 'marking the end of' days, months and years!

And, by implication, they also 'cut off' our lives, when our 'time is done'. However, when it comes to 'cutting off lives', the 'calamity (descended) from the heavens', i.e., the Beloved, is quite in a class by herself! The stars, powerful as they are, can never hope to match the potency of her 'life-cutting abilities'! The description of the Beloved as a balaa-e-aasmaanii not only allows Ghalib to highlight her implied 'angelic' origins, but also serves to point out that the sher works wonderfully if it is seen to be referring to the 'celestial' Beloved!

Note that even in this sher, the two alternate senses of 'aur' can be evoked. While the principal reading of the sher seems to concentrate on the 'different' or 'something else' sense of aur (as outlined in the above paragraph), the sher can also be saying that while stars are the 'usual' causative factor behind the 'cutting off of lives', the Beloved acts as an additional agent to deliver the same result - because of which even people whose 'time has not yet come' may be laid waste, if she were to set her capricious mind to do so!

ho chukii.n ghalib balaaye.n sab tamaam
ek marg-e-naagahaani aur hai

हो चुकीं गालिब बलाएँ सब तमाम

एक मर्ग-ऐ-नागहानी और है

All calamities are (now) finished, Ghalib
there remains (just) one more - the unanticipated death

And a classy maqtaa to end things off! The full gamut of calamities has visited the poor poet, one by one, until they have exhausted themselves. There now remains just one more to put up with... namely, a sudden, unanticipated, death! But the very fact that the sher 'anticipates' its coming means that it would not really be 'naagahaan' - so a nice paradox is set up by the words! Even apart from this bit of cleverness, what a sweetly fatalistic air the sher wears, nahin? It is almost celebratory, the observation that all possible disasters have now been dealt with - and there remains just the final one to dispose off!

While the principal sense of aur invoked in this maqtaa is obviously one of 'more', it does admit the evocation of the 'different' sense too. In this alternative reading, the sher would be saying something like, "all possible calamities are now over. The sudden death that remains, is something different, i.e., it is not a calamity at all!" Which is to say that after having braved all that a cruel fate had in its armoury, the poet regards death almost as a palliative... something to look forward to!

Ghalib - Kyoon jal gayaa naa taab-e-rukh-e-yaar dekh kar

Here's the other Ghalib ghazal you recommended, Deepti. I find this one a little patchy - while many of its shers are comparable with the best in the entire Divan, a few seem somewhat so-so.



kyuu.n jal gayaa na taab-e-rukh-e-yaar dekh kar
jaltaa huu.n apnii taaqat-e-diidaar dekh kar



क्यूं जल गया न ताब-ए-रुख-ए-यार देख कर

जलता हूँ अपनी ताक़त-ए-दीदार देख कर

Why did (it) not (get) burnt up on seeing the glow of the Beloved's face?
I am jealous on seeing the strength of my (own) sight!

The sher turns on a somewhat too-obvious leveraging of the dual meanings of 'jalnaa' - i.e. the physical act of burning, as well as 'feeling jealous or envious' of something. The overall idea is still a nice one, though. The poet is suffering the after-effects of having glimpsed the Beloved's face (which has left him 'burning' in a tumult of desires), and he envies his sense of sight, which could 'absorb' the divine incandescence of the Beloved's face without immediately being scorched. [Moreover, if it had been so scorched, it would have saved the Poet the subsequent suffering, so it isn't simply jealousy that is causing the Poet's discontent against the 'thick-skinnedness' of his sight.]

aatish-parast kahte hai.n ahl-e-jahaa.n mujhe
sar-garm-e-naalaahaa-e-sharaar-baar dekh kar

आतिश-परस्त कहते हैं अहल-ए-जहाँ मुझे

सर-गर्म-ए-नालाहा-ए-शरार-बार देख कर

People of the world call me a fire-worshipper
seeing (me) ardent for spark-sprinkling laments

Rather picturesque. The poet's preference for fiery cries (sharaar-baar is 'raining sparks') makes him seem like a Zoroastrian worshipper of fire. The fire-imagery is helped by the 'sar-garm' wording, which means 'eager' or 'zealous' but has a literal meaning of 'hot headed'.

Since, in the Islamic milieu that these lines were written, being an aatish-parast would have been considered as scandalously sacrilegious as being a but-parast, the sher displays Ghalib's typically naughty desire to puncture religious pomposity.

kyaa aabruu-e-ishq jahaa.n aam ho jafaa
ruktaa huu.n tum ko besabab aazaar dekh kar

क्या आबरू-ए-इश्क जहाँ आम हो जफ़ा

रुकता हूँ तुम को बेसबब आज़ार देख कर


What dignity of love (can there be, in a place) where torture is commonplace?
I am held back, upon seeing you tormenting (everybody) without reason.


Rather nicer! The Poet complains against the indiscriminate way the Beloved is going about dispensing her oppressions. This is a privilege, he reasons, that should be reserved for him, her true lover, and not for all and sundry! After all, the cruelties that he used to receive at the hands of the Beloved were what lent 'dignity' to his (otherwise unrequited) love - if even that exclusive right is now lost to him, what self-respect can he continue to claim?

aataa hai mere qatl ko par josh-e-rashk se
martaa huu.n us ke haa.nth mei.n talwaar dekh kar

आता है मेरे क़त्ल को पर जोश-ए-रश्क से

मरता हूँ उस के हाँथ में तलवार देख हर

(she) comes to kill me off, but from the frenzy of envy
(I) die seeing the sword in her hand

A little contrived, this. The Beloved is coming to slaughter the Poet, but he is dying of jealousy on seeing the sword she is holding in her arm (the implication being, presumably, that she should, instead, be holding him?!) As paradoxes go, it isn't bad (watching her coming to kill me kills me off anyway, thus depriving her of the pleasure of actually killing me?) but the chain of reasoning does seem somewhat forced. Unless I am missing something here...

saabit huaa hai gardan-e-miinaa pe khuun-e-khalk

larze hai mauj-e-mai terii raftaar dekh kar

साबित हुआ है गर्दन-ए-मीना पे खून-ए-खल्क

लरज़े है मौज-ए-मय तेरी रफ़्तार देख कर

The murder of creation (mankind) stands proved on the wine-flask
the wave of wine trembles, seeing your gait

This one's much nicer!

Khalq-e-khudaa (literally, God's creations) is a way of describing mankind. The Beloved's swaying walk habitually causes 'genocide' among the poor unfortunates on her path. And since the deliberately nymph-like oscillations of her gait are similar to the walk an inebriated person, it is the poor wine-flask that stands at risk of being blamed for this mass-murder caused by her. And it is idiomatic usage in Urdu to say that a victim's 'blood is proved on the neck of' the person who has committed the homicide [recall the 'dare kyon meraa qaatil' sher from one of the first Ghalib ghazals we looked at]. And it is because of this danger of being blamed for the murder of innocent bystanders that the 'wave of wine' pauses, trembling in fear, as it is being poured down the neck of the wine-flask! But since wine, in idiomatic usage, bears a somewhat blood-like gulaabii hue anyway, this 'pausing' in itself also contributes (at least metaphorically) towards proving the 'blood on the neck' of the wine-flask. The end result is a delightfully self-reinforcing set of images, of blood, drunkenness, wine gurgling tremblingly down the necks of flasks, and the Beloved (or perhaps even the saaqii, as a proxy) sashaying, with lethally contrived innocence, through all this!


vaa hasrataa! ki yaar ne khiinchaa sitam se haa.nth
ham ko hariis-e-lazzat-e-aazaar dekh kar

वा हसरता! कि यार ने खींचा सितम से हाँथ

हम को हरीस-ए-लज्ज़त-ए-आज़ार देख कर

Oh, desires! For the Beloved pulled (back) her hand from oppression
seeing me greedy for the enjoyment of (her) oppressions!

Cute!

The Beloved realises that the Poet is lapping up, with perverse relish, all the cruelties she is heaping on him! Upon seeing his enjoyment of her tortures, she immediately denies him even this perverse pleasure - by stopping the oppression! But what does that mean? Is she going to suddenly become indulgent towards him? Or merely indifferent? In most cases, the 'oppression' that the Beloved is accused of is nothing more than complete indifference anyway, so perhaps this 'stoppage of oppressions' might actually result in her acknowledging his presence - either with appreciation or with abuse...? The reader is left with paradoxical uncertainty about exactly what is going to happen next, but the deliciousness of the situation is still palpable. "Oh, desires!" indeed!

bik jaate hai.n ham aap mataa-e-sukhan ke saath
lekin ayaar-e-tab-e-khariidaar dekh kar

बिक जाते हैं हम आप मता-ए-सुखन के साथ

लेकिन अयार-ए-तब-ए-खरीदार देख कर

I sell myself along with the merchandise of (my) discourse
but (only) after seeing the measure of the quality of the customer

A master poet does not like to sell his compositions to just any buyer. But when a truly discerning customer does come forward, the poet is ready to sell even himself along with the verses! Which is just a picturesque way of saying how much of a poet's 'self' goes into his verses, of course - no wonder he finds it difficult to hand them over to someone who wouldn't appreciate their true worth, irrespective of the remuneration offered to him!

I wonder if this sher could possibly have been composed as a tribute to a patron or sponsor whose kindness Ghalib was enjoying at the time...(it dates from before the time when he was in Zafar's court, so it couldn't have been addressed to the latter).

zunnaar bandh, subhaa-e-sad-daanaa toR Daal
rah-rau chale hai raah ko hamvaar dekh kar

ज़ुन्नार बाँध, सुबहा-ए-सद-दाना तोड़ डाल

रह-रऊ चले है राह को हमवार देख कर

Tie a sacred thread, break the hundred-beaded rosary!
A traveller walks after seeing the even-ness of the road...

Oh, brilliant!!

A zunnaar is the Brahmin's sacred thread (a janeyu, as it is called in Hindi), while a subhaa is the Islamic rosary, usually made by stringing together ninety-nine beads, which are used to keep count with the fingers while performing tasbeeh.

The sher impishly advises the listeners to give up the Islamic rosary for the Hindu sacred thread, on the argument that the thread presents a 'smoother' path (towards God?) than the more 'bumpy' rosary!! And it is only natural for a traveller to prefer easier roads, isn't it??

Clearly, while the intent of the sher is merely to amuse, or leave the listener slightly scandalised, it does betray Ghalib's usual disdain for religious symbolism and ritual ostentation!


in aabilo.n se paa.nv ke ghabraa gayaa thaa mai.n
jii kush hua hai raah ko pur-khaar dekh kar

इन आबिलों से पाँव के घबरा गया था मैं

जी खुश हुआ है राह को पुर-ख़ार देख कर


I had panicked due to these blisters of (my) feet
the heart has gladdened on seeing the path filled with thorns!

Very cute!

The theme of the crazed Lover wandering the desert, and in the process acquiring large blisters on his feet, and then the 'kindness' of the thorns in pricking open the blisters, is a long-established association of ideas in the Ghazal world. The above sher doesn't break any particularly new ground, therefore - but it is still an innovative presentation of a time-tested (if somewhat ghoulish) stylisation!


kyaa bad-gumaan hai mujh se ki aaiine mei.n mere
tuutii kaa aks samjhe hai zangaar dekh kar

क्या बाद-गुमान है मुझ से कि आईने में मेरे

तूती का अक्स समझे है ज़न्गार देख कर

What suspiciousness (she) has about me, that in my mirror
seeing the rust, (she) assumes (it) to be the image of a parrot!

A somewhat cryptic sher, it apparently turns on the common practice of placing a mirror in front of a (talking) parrot, in order to prompt it to talk (the bird mistakes its image for another bird).

Zangaar is the greenish film that used to get formed, over time, in the brass-framed mirrors used in the past (basically a sort of rust, due to the oxidation of copper). The sher seems to draw upon some sort of analogy of the poet 'talking to himself' in his madness, or at least a suspiciousness harboured by the Beloved that he is crazed enough to talk to himself, because of which she sees (perhaps metaphorically) the green verdigris on his mirror as the imagined image of a parrot...?


girnii thii ham par barq-e-tajallii na tuur par
dete hai.n baadaa zarf-e-kadaa-khaar dekh kar

गिरनी थी हम पर बर्क़-ए-तजल्ली ना तूर पर

देते हैं बादा ज़र्फ़-ए-कदा-ख़ार देख कर

The lightning of manifestation was to fall on me, not on the Tur mountain
Wine is offered after seeing the capacity of the cup's consumer!

Lovely!

The allusion in the first line is to the Koranic version of the episode where the Ten Commandments were granted to Moses on Mount Sinai (also known as Mount Tur) - wherein God is said to have manifested himself (upon the request of Moses) in the form of a blinding bolt of lightning that pulverised the entire mountain, and caused Moses to become unconscious.

In this sher, the Poet grandiosely declares that the bolt of lightning (which is nothing lesser than God himself manifest!) should have fallen not on the undeserving mountain that was unable to bear its force, but on the Poet! And what reasoning does he have to offer to justify this claim - why, the simple observation that even wine is poured out according to the 'capacity' of the drinker!! What delightful arrogance! What divine pretension!! And perhaps even a biting hint about 'cowardice' of the Almighty in avoiding 'squaring off' against an equal adversary...?

sar phoRnaa vo ghalib-e-shoriidaa-haal kaa
yaad aa gayaa mujhe terii diiwaar dekh kar

सर फोड़ना वो गालिब-ए-शोरीदा-हाल का

याद आ गया मुझे तेरी दीवार देख कर

The breaking of (his) head by that maddened Ghalib
It came back to my mind, on seeing your wall

The maqta is wonderful, as ever! The love-crazed Ghalib ended his life by banging his head on the Beloved's wall - and the wall remains as an enduring reminder of that incident, as also, by implication, of the (wall-like?) implacableness of the Beloved herself...!

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!

Ghalib - darkhoor-e-qahar-o-gazab jab koi

There you go, Deepti - here's one of the ones you asked for! Nice choice, by the way - even if it isn't the best known of Ghalib's works, this ghazal definitely merits a look!

darkhuur-e-kahar-o-gazab jab koi ham saa na huaa
phir galat kyaa hai ki ham saa koi paidaa na huaa

दरखूर-ऐ-कहर-ओ-गज़ब जब कोई हम सा ना हुआ

फिर ग़लत क्या है कि हम सा कोई पैदा न हुआ


When no one (turned out to) be as worthy of oppression and wrath as I

Then what is wrong (in saying that) nobody like me was (ever) born?


Cute! And shows typical Ghalib wit. Ghalib was often criticised for his arrogance and for his open acknowledgment of his own excellence. In this sher, he uses the standard Ghazal stylisation (wherein the Lover is regularly visited by disasters more calamitous than those borne by any other human) to establish his case for being cut from a different cloth!

Ostensibly, of course, the sher addresses the baleful Beloved, and points out to her that since she takes care to reserve her worst oppressions for the Lover, there must be something rather unique about him! [qahar is a multivalent word with meanings ranging across 'an overwhelming force' to 'vengeance' and 'calamity'. Gazab is Arabic for 'extreme anger' or wrath, used often in the sense of 'the wrath of the Almighty'].

While the sher seems entirely straightforward on first reading, Ghalib packed in some ambivalent 'play' in the second line, that allows us to tease out alternate meanings... The Phir galat kyaa hai ki could be translated not only as 'then how is it inaccurate to say that' (as I have done above) but also as 'then what is wrong in'... this is because galat (as in the English 'wrong') can stand not only for something factually inaccurate but also something that is 'wrong' in the sense of being inappropriate or unethical or unwise. Hence, the sher could be saying something like 'since it is clear that I was destined for worse privations than anybody else, isn't it only right that no body else like me was ever born?' Which could be an expression of relief that others 'like him' were not born, and hence did not have to face the tortures he did. [In an even more interesting reading, the second line could even be expressing approval of the fact that he himself was never born! See?]

Another bit of cleverness comes from the use of the word paidaa in the second line. While the commonest meaning of the word is 'to be born', it also bears an alternate sense in Farsi as 'something that is earned, or acquired, or found' [i.e. 'profit' or 'gain', or even 'bribe']. Hence, the entire sher could be a gentle taunt at the Beloved - 'Since you've found nobody else equally worthy of your cruelties and anger as I, am I wrong in thinking that you must consider me a rather lucky 'find'?!"


bandagii mei.n bhii vo aazaadaa-o-khud-biin hai.n ki ham
ulTe phir aaye dar-e-kaabaa agar vaa na huaa

बंदगी में भी वो आज़ादा-ओ-ख़ुद-बीन हैं कि हम

उल्टे फिर आए दर-ऐ-काबा अगर वा ना हुआ


Even in worship/bondage (I) am so free/noble and vain, that I

turned right around (and) came (back) if the door of the Kaabaa did not open (for me)!


Divine! Such clever choice of words here by the master!

Bandagii admits of two (related) meanings - one is 'slavery' or 'bondage', the other is 'worship' or 'devotion'. Similarly aazaadaa can stand not only for someone who is 'free' but also one who is of 'noble birth'. [Do you see how Ghalib is playing with the appositeness of antonyms here?] And isn't the entire picture evoked in the sher just delicious?! So arrogant, so egoistically narcissistic (khud-been would translate literally as 'self-regarding') is the Poet that he wouldn't even deign to enter the holy Kaabaah (despite having obviously made the pilgrimage) unless the Kaabaah courteously opens its doors for him!!

There is also a really clever interplay between the themes of 'closedness' and 'openness' - of 'bondage and 'liberation' - throughout the sher, which deserves notice. Not only the dual nuances attached with bandagii and aazaadaa as mentioned above, but even the waa - while used here in the sense of opening a door, the word actually has a more general connotation of 'opening' - and is also used to mean 'setting free' or 'liberating'... doesn't that resonate beautifully with the bandagii, aazaadaa imagery of the first line?


sab ko maqbuul hai daavaa terii yaktaaii kaa
ruu-ba-ruu koii but-e-aaiinaa-siimaa na huaa

सब को मक़बूल है दावा तेरी यकताई का

रू-ब-रू कोई बुत-ऐ-आइना-सीमा ना हुआ


Everyone accepts your claim to singular-ness

No one (ever) came face-to-face (with) (such) a mirror-faced idol!


Generally acknowledged as the deepest sher in this ghazal - it reminds me not only of another intriguing one about a 'mirror-faced idol' in one of the ghazals we've looked at earlier, but also has palpable affinities with the truly profound penultimate sher in yet another ghazal (which I remembering raving over, at great length, in my review!)

The above sher can be read at varying levels of profundity - going from a simple 'needling' of the Beloved, to a metaphysical commentary about the nature of the Ultimate Being.

Even in the simplest possible reading, the sher admits of two sweetly contradicting interpretations. In one, it is an admiring acknowledgment of the Beloved's charms - something like, "Of course, everyone must accept your claim to unparalleled-ness. After all, who has ever come face to face with another mirror-faced beauty like you?" In an alternate interpretation, however, the sher is actually scoffing the Beloved (who is famously proud of the uniqueness of her startling beauty), with a 'yeah yeah, sure!' kind of quip... "Sure, everyone accepts that you are unparalleled. Of course, it helps that nobody's ever had an opportunity to actually see your silvery face!" Which is essentially a taunt at the Beloved's unwillingness to unveil herself - indeed may even be a clever attempt to tempt her out of purdah!

But the above interpretations are merely the outer shell - the sher is obviously meant to operate at a much deeper level; the entity whose 'claim to uniqueness' is being talked about, is nobody lesser than the Creator... since yaktaaii is a term of Koranic injunctions. [note however, that even the two interpretations already dealt with in the preceding para could apply just as easily to the Almighty! Indeed, the notion of a 'purdah-covered beauty' claiming the incomparableness of her charms would have an even more enjoyable aftertaste if it is the celestial Beloved one is talking about!]

Even when one makes this mental/theological jump (to see the sher as directed towards the Lord), there is an 'intermediate' interpretative step where the sher still remains little more than an acknowledgment of the (earthly) Beloved's beauty. Something like "Yes, everyone agrees that You are unique. (But only because) nobody has come face to face with (that) mirror-faced beauty!" See? The hyperbolic 'discounting' of the Lord's uniqueness serves merely to highlight the fact that the Beloved may be a close competitor to him. The 'mirror-facedness' of the but still remains, in this reading, somewhat incidental - a mere descriptive honorific, which could be replaced with any other manner of highlighting her charms.

However, the aaiinaa-seenaa construct is meant to be anything but incidental, of course. It is, ultimately, the very fulcrum on which the sher turns - one can hardly have Ghalib putting in 'face-to-face' and 'mirror-faced' in the same sher without wanting to draw our attention to the possibilities and paradoxes that emerge! [remember how the 'encounter' was described as do-chaar honaa in the earlier ghazal? There it was all a question of 'numbers'. Here the question is more visual - of 'seeing oneself', and hence one has the haunting roo-ba-roo and aaiinaa-seemaa imagery!]

Taking the first line as an avowal of the Almighty's peerlessness, the second can then be read in a variety of thought-inspiring senses. In one, the sher is saying that everyone acknowledges God as nonpareil only because they haven't come face to face with his mirror-faced idols. Why? Because if they had, they might have found the verisimilitude of the idol to itself be a negation of his 'uniqueness'. But (more to the point) also because, if they had, they would have seen themselves reflected in his 'face', and realised that the Almighty is no better than his worshippers!!

In an alternate, more intriguing interpretation, the koi of the second line could refer not to an unspecified 'anybody' but to a 'mirror-faced idol' itself - that is to say, the second line could be saying, 'no mirror-faced idol came face-to-face (with you)'. The notion of a but, an idol of God, coming face-to-face with the Almighty himself, is attention-grabbing in itself...but when you add the notion that such an idol could also be a 'reflective surface', it sends one down a strangely troubling line of conjecture, with suggestions and implications of 'showing a mirror' to God... If the Almighty found himself in front of such a but, he would see himself in it, and thus the physical reality of his being 'singular' would momentarily be disproved, of course (but then, a but is meant to be a physical likeness of whatever it represents, so the singularity should be challenged even if the idol is not mirror-faced, or even if it isn't physically in presence of what it depicts...convoluted stuff, this!) - but the implication of the sher is more malicious than this - what is suggests is that it is only upon 'seeing' himself thus (reflected in one of his mirror-faced idols, standing in front him) that God would realise his ordinariness, would give up his claim to matchlessness. It is in this sense that the fact of his not having encountered mirror-faced idols (so far) is what allows him to continue claiming his extra-ordinary status!

Phew!!!

kam nahi.n naazish-e-hamnaamii-e-chashm-e-khuubaa.n
teraa biimaar buraa kyaa hai gar achhaa na huaa

कम नहीं नाज़िश-ऐ-हमनामी-ऐ-चश्म-ऐ-खूबाँ

तेरा बीमार बुरा क्या है गर अच्छा ना हुआ

[It's] nothing insignificant, (this) pride of name-sharing with the sweetheart's eye
[Even] if (the one) afflicted (with) you did not recover, where is the pity...?


Oh, very cute! Without making it explicit, the entire sher swings on an idiomatic expression - the Beloved's shy downward-cast eyes are picturesquely described as 'the eyes of the unwell' [chashm-e-biimaar], to stress the difficulty she appears to feel in 'raising' them. Ghalib points out, tongue in cheek, that those afflicted by the Beloved's charms [her biimaar] ought to be grateful that they can at least revel in the pride of sharing (part of) an expression used to describe her eyes - and hence they should find nothing to regret (buraa kya hai?) even if they fail to show any signs of recovery!

Note, however, that the second line could have another, even more delicious, ring to it - it could be read as 'What (sort of) unwellness is your biimaar (suffering from), if he did not recover (despite this)?' See? The idea being that if the biimaar was truly unwell, the mere pride of having become a namesake of the Beloved's eyes should have been enough to lead to his rapid recovery. If he is continuing to claim sickness, perhaps the whole thing was a ruse from the start - perhaps he was never ill in the first place, and was merely feigning an affliction, in order to win her sympathy? [This could be a bitter barb against an indisposed Rival who is enjoying the Beloved's solicitudes.... or perhaps even a rare show of candour about himself!]

siine kaa daagh hai vo naalaa ki lab tak na gayaa

khaak ka rizk hai vo qatraa ki dariyaa na huaa 

सीने का दाग है वो नाला कि लब तक ना गया

ख़ाक का रिज़्क़ है वो क़तरा कि दरिया ना हुआ


(The) scar in the breast is that cry that did not reach the lips
(the) sustenance of dust is the drop that did not become an ocean

Hmm...not bad, but a little more formulaic than usual. The idea is the fairly standard moral injunction that anything that fails to achieve its pre-ordained 'purpose' would be consigned to a shameful, painful, or insignificant existence... A Lover's cries are meant to find expression through his lips - if they fail to emerge so, they become congealed in his heart, as painful scars. Similarly, water-drops are meant to merge into the ocean, to lose their identity into the larger water body. If they fail to make the journey to the sea, they are condemned to be lost in the desert, to 'feed' the dusts [rizq is literally, 'provenance' or 'victuals' or 'nourishment'].


naam ka mere hai jo dukh ki kisii ko na milaa
kam mei.n mere hai jo fitnaa ki bar-paa na huaa

नाम का मेरे है जो दुःख कि किसी को ना मिला

काम में मेरे है जो फितना कि बर-पा ना हुआ

destined for me is the pain that nobody else found
The torment in my works is (the fact) that (they) never (even) started off

A clever sher, that plays teasingly with nuanced meanings. Fitnaa literally means something like a 'trial by fire' but is used figuratively to describe any ordeal or disaster. It is also used in the sense of 'sedition' or incendiary 'mischief' [often used in grudging admiration - as when one talks about the fitne that lurk in the Beloved's sidelong glances]. Bar-paa honaa [literally, 'to be on one's feet'] is an expression used to denote the 'creation' or 'instituting' of something, or 'starting something off'.

The naam kaa mere of the first line would translate loosely as 'in my name' - used in the sense of 'meant for me', or 'reserved for me'... the idea being the standard one that destiny (or the Beloved) has bestowed some very 'special' sufferings on the Poet - which no one else was entitled to. Similarly, the second line laments that the most calamitous aspect of the Poet's various enterprises is that they never even 'got off the ground', i.e. they were condemned to fail from the very onset!

However, the above reading is only superficial - hardly worthy of Ghalib if that was all there was to it. If one looks at the sher a moment longer, however, the 'punch' comes through - what the first line is saying is something much more naughtily malicious - something like 'the sorrow about my 'name' is that nobody (else) could get/win it'... See? The idea being that the 'name and fame' that Ghalib enjoys causes heartburn among others because the same illustriousness has not 'come to them'! There could even be some implicit word-play involving the literal meaning of 'Ghalib' (as someone 'victorious') here. Similarly, the fitnaa (in the sense of 'seditions' or 'fiery mischief') that lies in Ghalib's works (i.e. his poems) is the sort of magic others just can't manage to sustain [since bar paa rahnaa is used to denote something like 'remaining firm on one's feet' or 'remaining upright', the implication here is that whenever Ghalib's competitor's try to capture the sort of fitnaa's that he strews all over his works, they invariably fall flat on their faces!]

This sher and the ones that follow it, up to and including the maqtaa, are seen by some commentators to be deliberately clever mushairaa shers - meant, by Ghalib, to challenge and poke fun at the other worthies in the specific gathering where this ghazal was first recited. We have already seen how this one scoffs his peers for being jealous of his 'name' and his ability to excite 'mutinies in the spirit' through his poetry. But do keep this fact in mind, as we read through the other remaining shers of the ghazal too.


har bun-e-muu se dam-e-zikr na Tapke khuun-naab
hamzaa ka kissaa huaa, ishq kaa charchaa na huaa

हर बुन-ऐ-मू से दम-ऐ-ज़िक्र ना टपके खून-नाब

हमज़ा का किस्सा हुआ, इश्क़ का चर्चा ना हुआ

(if) pure blood does not drip from the root of every hair on the very mention (of it)
(it would) be (merely) the fable of hamzaa, not a discussion about passion

On the face of it, the sher is sweet...if not exactly distinguished.

The daastaan-e-amir-hamzaah is a Persian fable, an epic 'romance' ostensibly describing the adventures of one of the Prophet's uncles, and full of improbable battles, fire-breathing dragons, djinns, the works! It is often referred to figuratively, to scoff an exaggerated, unnecessarily dramatised account of something. bun means the 'bottom' or 'foundation' of something. When used in conjunction with moo or hair, it refers to the root of a hair. Naab is literally 'without water' [na + aab] and is used in the sense of 'neat' (as we describe an alcoholic drink that has not been diluted with water). Used here in the sense of 'unadulterated' or 'pure'.

Ghalib asserts that when there is the slightest sincere mention of love and passion, drops of blood ooze out along every hair on the speaker's (or listener's?) body. Hence, if one comes across a forum where people are managing to talk animatedly about love and other heroic ideas, without such blood-letting, it should be clear that the discussion is no more sincere than the extravagances found described in the Hamzaa fable.

To see how the sher might be seen as a comment on the gathering that the Poet presently finds himself in, note how the grammar of the second line seems to suggest that it describes a realisation that has just become apparent... In effect, Ghalib is mocking the gathering with, "It was all very well for us to sit and pontificate about love and longing, but if it has not led to us bleeding from the pores, all this talk has been no more sincere than a recitation of Hamzah's fable - and was certainly no discussion of 'true' love!"

katre mei.n dijlaa dikhaaii na de aur juzv mei.n kul
khel laRko.n kaa huaa, diidaa-e-biinaa na huaa


कतरे में दिजला दिखाई ना दे और जुज़्व में कुल

खेल लड़कों का हुआ, दीदा-ऐ-बीना ना हुआ

(if) one can not see the river in a drop, (or) the whole in a part

(it) (would) make (for) a game of boys, not a discerning eye

['Dijla' is the name of the Tigris river, used metaphorically for any river.]

Once again, the sher, on its surface, is a little too straightforward. The idea of a discerning eye being able to 'see the larger picture', to gauge the whole from the part, is fairly standard. If one can not do so, then one would be 'missing the woods for the trees' and one's impression of the world would, thus, be as 'make believe' as a children's game. A nice idea...but nothing great.


However, with the prior knowledge that the last four shers constitute Ghalib's attempt to needle the others in the mushairaa, the sher becomes more enjoyable. Since Ghalib was often criticised for the abstruseness of his poetry, for the many layers of 'hidden meanings' that he would (perversely!) pack into his verses, this sher constitutes a rejoinder or a challenge to his peers - 'well, those who don't have the acuity of sight to see the 'entire larger meaning in a part' are living in a childishly delusional world anyway!'

... the reference to 'seeing the whole in the part' could also have been a deliberate hint for his listeners - to make them all aware about the 'shared hidden theme' of the last four shers (or at least a hint to those among them who would not have 'caught on' as yet). Ghalib would have wanted them all to be aware of what was going on under the surface, so that they could fully appreciate what was to come next - another of his outstanding maqtaas!

thii khabar garm ki ghalib ke uRenge purze
dekhne ham bhii gaye the par tamashaa na huaa

थी ख़बर गर्म कि गालिब के उड़ेंगे पुरज़े

देखने हम भी गए थे पर तमाशा ना हुआ


The rumour was hot that pieces of Ghalib would fly!

I also went to have a look, but the (promised) spectacle did not take place!


See?!! Brilliant, isn't it?!

Even on the face of it, the sher is not without merit - it was 'being said' that Ghalib was going to be taken to task [kisii ke purze uDnaa is a picturesque way of describing someone being subjected to extreme and public humiliation - being excoriated, being 'taken apart', being 'flayed apart', etc.]. Presumably, under stylised Ghazal conditions, such an ominous promise could only have been made by the Beloved. And since the promised assailant was none other than the Beloved, the Poet himself could not help visiting the site - as a spectator!!! However, the scheduled public flogging (or whatever it was) did not actually happen - either because the Beloved could not be bothered to even come and carry out her threat (she might have forgotten all about him the very next moment after having made the threat!). Or, more deliciously, precisely because Ghalib was lurking furtively in the crowd as one of the spectators [he came only for dekhnaa, remember?], instead of stepping out like a man and taking whatever punishment she had planned for him!

However, the 'stylised' interpretation, charming as it is - is just a sideshow. Remember that Ghalib has obligingly told us to be alive to the 'whole in the part' in just the previous sher. In effect, this outstanding maqtaa is a culmination of the needling that he has been subjecting the others in the gathering to, over the last four shers.

Perhaps there might have been some envy-inspired claims from one of more of the shaayars in the gathering (who were probably heartily sick of being always overshadowed by Ghalib's brilliance) that 'today' they would show everybody who was what (possibly because they thought they had composed something particularly natty this time, which even he would find difficult to match). And Ghalib might have got to hear about such claims being made prior to the mushairaa - and chose to respond, in typical fashion, through this masterful maqtaa. "Well, one was hearing so much about how Ghalib was going to be shown his place today. We came...We saw - nothing of the promised spectacle really happened, did it?!!"

How can one NOT love this man???