The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry (8 page)

Few poets have had to practise their art in more trying circumstances than Zafar (1775–1862). He ascended the titular throne of the monarch of India in 1837, when the Mughal empire had shrunk to a size that was smaller than the current municipal limits of New Delhi. His desire to lead a life of leisure was to be rudely interrupted, however, when the first Indian war of independence was waged nominally under his flag by brave fighters who took on the world superpower of their time in 1857. The triumph of the British led to catastrophic consequences for Zafar, who was stripped of his emperorhood, watched his family members executed by the British forces, and eventually died in exile in Rangoon, leaving behind a
sardgah
(empty tomb) in Mehrauli, where he had wished to be interred next to his ancestors. His death ended the Mughal empire, and also marked the descent of Delhi into colonial servitude. In his words: ‘
Na ghar hai na dar hai, bacha ek Zafar hai, Faqat haal-e Dilli sunaane ki khaatir
’ (‘Without home or hearth we wander and we suffer, The sad tale of Delhi narrated by Zafar’).

Much of Zafar’s poetry was perhaps meant to presage
his lonely fate.
1
His ghazals lend themselves to performance; and the three ghazals I have chosen to translate have been sung by a myriad of performers. My favourite renditions include Mehdi Hasan’s essaying of ‘
Baat karni
’
.
Mohammad Rafi rendered ‘
Lagta nahin hai dil mera
’
with his trademark simplicity in the 1960 film
Laal Qila
. The fourth sher
of this ghazal (‘
umr-e daraaz . . .
’), about existential futility,
has achieved metaphorical proportions in Urdu. Finally, his ghazal ‘
Shamsheer barahnaa
’ was rendered by Preeti Sagar for Shyam Benegal’s 1983 film
Mandi
. The sly verses compare the beauty of the beloved with the torment of the lover in interesting ways.

Baat karni mujhe mushkil kabhi aisi to na thi

Jaisi ab hai teri mehfil kabhi aisi to na thi

Le gaya chheen ke kaun aaj tera sabr-o-qaraar

Beqaraari tujhe ai dil kabhi aisi to na thi

Un ki aankhon ne khuda jaane kiyaa kya jaadoo

Ke tabiyyat meri maa’il kabhi aisi to na thi

Chashm-e qaatil meri dushman thi hamesha lekin

Jaise ab ho gayi qaatil kabhi aisi to na thi

Aks-e rukhsaar ne kis ke hai tujhe chamkaayaa

Taab tujh mein mah-e kaamil kabhi aisi to na thi

Kya sabab tu jo bigadtaa hai Zafar se har baar

Khoo teri hoor-e shamaa’il kabhi aisi to na thi

I’m at a loss for words, it was never like this before

Your congregation now was never like this before.

Who is it then that has stolen my peace of mind today?

Your consternation, O heart, was never like this before.

God knows what magic it was that those eyes created

My heart’s acute discomfort, was never like this before.

Your killer gaze, I always knew, would do me in some day

The way it performed its task, was never like this before.

Whose face is it that you reflect, tell me my dear full moon?

Such beauty in your shine—it was never like this before.

Why do you get so angry with Zafar time and again?

Your impatience, angel face, was never like this before.

Lagta nahin hai ji mera ujde dayaar mein

Kis ki bani hai aalam-e naa paayedaar mein

Bulbul ko paasbaan se, na sayyad se gila

Qismat mein qaid thhi likhi fasl-e bahaar mein

Keh do in hasraton se kahin aur jaa basein

Itni jagah kahaan hai dil-e daagdaar mein

Umr-e daraaz maang ke laaye thhe chaar din

Do arzoo mein kat gaye, do intezaar mein

Kitna hai bad-naseeb Zafar dafn ke liye

Do gaz zameen bhi na mili koo-e yaar mein

In this deserted ruined space, uneasiness is great

To find some peace in this transient world was not my fate.

The nightingale assigns no blame to the hunter, cage or guard

Misfortune led it to spend youth in this captive state.

Tell my yearnings and desires that they may live elsewhere

My heart alas is full of wounds, hardly the best estate.

Asked I for a wholesome life, but was granted four mere days

For two I pined, and longed and yearned, and two I spent in wait.

How unfortunate was Zafar that in death was denied

Two yards of earth for his grave in the lane of his soulmate.

Shamsheer barahnaa maang ghazab, baalon ki mehak phir vaisi hai

Joode ki gundhaavat qahr-e khuda, zulfon ki latak phir vaisi hai

Har baat mein us ke garmi hai, har naaz mein us ke shokhi hai

Aamad hai qayaamat chaal bhari chalne ki phadak phir vaisi hai

Mahram hai habaab-e aab-e ravaan sooraj ki kiran hai us pe lipat

Jaali ki ye kurti hai vo balaa gote ki dhanak phir vaisi hai

Vo gaaye to aafat laaye hai sur taal mein leve jaan nikaal

Naach us ka uthaaye sau fitne ghunghroo ki chhanak phir vaisi hai

Her hair’s parting a naked sword, its fragrance is like that

Its styling like the wrath of God, its fall is just like that.

Her every word is packed with heat, her pride is beauteous too

She enters like Armageddon, hips swaying just like that.

The flowing rivers know her well, sunbeams confide in her

Her shirt a diaphanous curse, her bangles clink just like that.

Her siren songs announce my doom, her rhythms take my life

Her dance causes a hundred fights, her anklets chime just like that.

It was perhaps the misfortune of Zauq (1789–1854) that he happened to be the contemporary of the greatest poet in the Urdu pantheon, Ghalib. Like Antonio Salieri to Wolfgang Mozart in eighteenth-century Vienna, Zauq was to eclipse Ghalib in the Delhi mushaira circles of the mid-nineteenth century, and was even appointed poet laureate of the Mughal court while Ghalib languished in relative obscurity. But Zauq was smart enough to know genius when he encountered it; perhaps it was his own poetic ability that allowed him a glimpse into Ghalib’s genius, and this aroused feelings of envy in him. The two are known to have had numerous verbal skirmishes. Of course, we now think of Ghalib, not Zauq, as the paradigmatic poet of nineteenth-century Delhi. But despite Ghalib’s aura, Zauq’s poetry continues to enthral. It is supposed that a large portion of his output was lost in the post-1857 chaos, but what is left includes a deevan
1
. Mohammad Husain Azad, the reported compiler of Zauq’s surviving works, provides an extensive biography and critical comments on Zauq’s work in his 1880 magnum opus
Aab-e Hayaat
2
.

The two ghazals translated here have been performed extensively by renowned singers.
3
The first verse of the second ghazal speaks of the existential angst that had permeated Urdu poetry in the nineteenth century, where the poets began to see themselves as mere puppets in a hostile tableau of history. This sentiment can be linked to some of Mir’s more introspective works too, including some translated in this volume.

Laayi hayaat aaye, qazaa le chali, chale

Apni khushi na aaye, na apni khushi chale

Behtar to hai yahi ke na duniya se dil lagaye

Par kya karen jo kaam na be-dillagi chale

Ho umr-e Khizr bhi to kahenge ba waqt-e marg

Ham kya rahe yahaan? Abhi aaye, abhi chale

Duniya ne kis ka raah-e fanaa mein diya hai saath

Tum bhi chale chalo yoon hi jab tak chali chale

Naazaan na ho khirad pe jo hona hai vo hi ho

Danish teri na kuchh meri daanishvari chale

Kam honge is bisaat pe ham jaise bad-khumaar

Jo chaal hum chale vo nihaayat buri chale

Jaate havaa-e shauq mein hain is chaman se Zauq

Apni balaa se baad-e saba ab kahin chale

Life summoned me, I ascended; death caused my descent

Neither of my will I came, nor of my will I went.

It might be best not to fall for this world’s wily snares

But some tasks just won’t get done without love’s droll consent.

Were we to be granted the age of Khizr
4
, we would still

Say, ‘Why leave now? I’ve just come! My passing, I resent!’

This world is indifferent to wayfarers bound for death

You may as well go on till your time here is spent.

Be not vain, knowledge will lose, fate has the upper hand

That which is decreed, none of your wisdom can prevent.

Few are worse than you once you’ve surrendered to the wine

What you did was truly mean, deserved is your torment.

Zauq flows away into the void from this verdant garden

After my death, should I care what spring and flowers had meant?

Ab to ghabraa ke ye kahte hain ke mar jaayenge

Mar ke bhi chain na paayaa to kidhar jaayenge?

Tum ne thahraai agar ghair ke ghar jaane ki

To iraade yahan kuchh aur thahar jaayenge

Hum nahin vo jo karen khoon ka daavaa tujh par

Balke poochhega khuda bhi, to mukar jaayenge

Aag dozakh ki bhi ho jaayegi pani pani

Jab ye aasi araq-e sharm se tar jaayenge

Shola-e aah ko bijli ki tarah chamkaaoon

Par mujhe dar hai, ke vo dekh ke dar jaayenge

Nahin paayegaa nishaan koi hamaara har-giz

Hum jahaan se ravish-e teer-e nazar jaayenge

Zauq, jo madarase ke bigde hue hain mullaah

Unko maikhaane mein le aao, sudhar jaayenge

In fear you say you’d rather die, have you thought though?

If there is no solace in death, where will you go?

Since you wish to hedge bets, visit my rival’s home

My fidelity will change too, it’s quid pro quo.

I’ll not blame you for my murder, even if God

Asks me. Immunity upon you, I’ll bestow.

Hell’s fire will lose its heat, turn into cold water

When we sinners pass wet in shame from head to toe.

I’ll flash the flame of my pain like a lightning bolt

But will its light scare you away? I do not know.

You may search, but will never find a trace of me

I’ll pass from sight like a glance, swift as an arrow.

O Zauq, for mullahs ruined by seminaries

A visit to yonder tavern may be apropos!

Hoon garmi-e nishaat-e tasavvur se naghma-sanj

Main andaleeb-e gulshan-e na-aafareeda hoon

Behold, I sing in the heated joy of imagination

For I’m the nightingale of the yet uncreated garden.

The name of Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib (1797–1869) rolls off the tongue like a word of gratitude. Indeed, Ghalib is a gift, and he was well aware of it. In his own words, ‘
Surma-e muft-nazar hoon, meri qeemat ye hai / Ke rahe chashm-e khareedaar pe ehsan mera
’ (‘I am the kohl that adorns the eye, my only price is your grateful sigh’). I am sighing.

What makes Ghalib so unique? Like Shakespeare in the English dramatic tradition, he has now been studied so much that all his poetic output has been subjected to the full glare of scrutiny, and plumbed for metaphorical hints and allegorical subtext. What made his poetry great was its simultaneous accessibility and impenetrability. He could write the most playful verses about mangoes and the most opaque verses about the nature of existence. Consider the first sher of the first ghazal of his deevan
.
It goes: ‘
Naqsh faryadi hai kis ki shokhi-e tehreer ka / Kagazi hai pairahan, har paikar-e tasveer ka.
’ The literal translation of this two-liner could be: ‘Whose creativity does the creation complain about? / Every picture wears paper robes.’ This verse lends itself to multiple meanings, and is possibly the most analysed sher in the history of Urdu poetry.
1
Much has been said about the consternation of the poets in the Delhi mushaira circles—who were more used to lighter fare—when they heard such verses. The meaning of this famous verse actually hinges on a few metaphors. The wearing of paper robes refers to an ancient Persian custom in which complainants to the king dressed in paper to signify their unhappiness. Perhaps Ghalib is upset at God for the imperfection of his creation (the human); perhaps he is lauding humanity for its ability to critique God. In my opinion, a good translator would do well to not offer a direct interpretation of the sher, but rather alert the reader to the important elements of metaphor and context—and then promptly get out of the way.

We are also aware of a variety of anecdotes about his life that show him to be a colourful character. One anecdote has it that British soldiers once accosted him in a post-1857 round-up. The soldiers asked him, ‘Are you a Muslim?’ Ghalib replied, ‘I am half-a-Muslim.’ Watching their mystified expressions, he ventured a clarification: ‘I drink liquor, but do not eat pork.’ Likewise, his love for mangoes was well known. Once, his senior friend, a
hakim
(doctor), was watching Ghalib gorge on mangoes. He espied a donkey, which was rooting about in the garbage, but left a heap of mango peels alone. Hakim Saheb loftily remarked: ‘Look Mirza, even the donkey does not like mangoes.’ Never one to let such an opening go waste, Ghalib reparteed: ‘True, Hakim Saheb, only a donkey would not like mangoes.’

Ghalib’s witty anecdotes disparaging religion would fill pages, as would his sly asides at those in power, including those whom he depended on for financial assistance, and composed ceremonious odes to. His love life was chequered, his morals suspect, his sense of responsibility repugnant, but he was a character worthy of the appellation ‘poet’.

Ghalib has been translated by several people, from language experts to armchair enthusiasts. It is refreshing to see him as the bone of contention among translators of varying temperaments, some of whom take extraordinary liberties with his work (for example, a recent book referred to his ghazals as ‘sonnets’), while others take a more literal approach, choosing not to muck around with genius. I am an agnostic in this debate; I enjoy both kinds of efforts. Likewise, Ghalib has been the subject of relentless scholarly analysis. A friend who is an Urdu scholar estimates that over a thousand PhD theses have been done on Ghalib in India alone, and possibly as many in Pakistan. There are over twenty-five
sharah
s (explanatory volumes) of his deevan in print, many of which disagree quite violently on the meanings and contexts of his verse. I would recommend that the Ghalib neophyte start instead with a visual introduction—by watching Naseeruddin Shah portray him in Gulzar’s magnificent TV serial.
2

In deference to Ghalib’s stature, I beg your indulgence for having chosen to translate five ghazals. I have translated only the first two rhythmically, choosing to let Ghalib’s words speak for themselves in the other three without too much wordsmithing on my part. These ghazals have all been performed multiple times by a veritable pantheon of singers, and many performances are available in the public domain.
3

Aah ko chaahiye ek umr asar hone tak

Kaun jeeta hai teri zulf ke sar hone tak?

Daam-e har mauj mein hai halqaa-e sadkaam-e nahang

Dekhen kya guzre hai qatre pe gohar hone tak

Aashiqi sabr-talab aur tamanna betaab

Dil ka kya rang karoon khoon-e jigar hone tak

Hum ne maana ke taghaaful na karoge lekin

Khaak ho jaayenge hum tum ko khabar hone tak

Partav-e khur se hai shabnam ko fanaa ki taaleem

Main bhi hoon ek inaayat ki nazar hone tak

Ek nazar besh nahin fursat-e hasti ghaafil

Garmi-e bazm hai ek raqs-e sharar hone tak

Gham-e hasti ka, Asad, kis se ho juz marg ilaaj

Shama har rang mein jalti hai sahar hone tak

For a cry to lead to redress, it often takes an age

Who can remain alive while you with your stray curls engage?

Each wave of the ocean harbours a hundred crocodiles

What lies in store before the drop achieves a pearly stage
4
?

Love counsels patience while passion betrays its anxiety

How should I paint my bloodied heart while these duellists rage?

I know that you won’t shrink from familiarity but

Before you hear of my sad plight, I would have died off-stage

The new sunbeam pronounces imminent death upon dewdrops

I too await the gaze that will both kill and assuage

A mere glance is sufficient for you to complete your task

A spark needs but a moment to kindle a fire’s rage

What is the cure to life’s sorrow save death, my dear Asad?

The taper burns all night, awaits the dawn to be upstaged.

Bas ke dushwaar hai har kaam ka aasaan hona

Aadmi ko bhi mayassar nahin insan hona

Ishrat-e qatlgah-e ahl-e tamanna mat poochh

Eed-e nazaara hai shamsheer kaa uriyaan hona

Ki mere qatl ke baad us ne jafa se tauba

Hai us zood-pashemaan ka pashemaan hona

Haif us chaar-girah kapde ki qismat, Ghalib

Jis ki qismat mein ho aashiq ka garebaan hona

It’s impossible for all tasks to be facile, that’s all

People find it so tough to answer humanity’s call.

Measure not the desire for death in the passionate

The sight of the killer’s sword presages the festival.
5

After killing me, my tormentor forswore all murder

That swift repenter was contrite and rueful, I recall.
6

Spare a thought for the ill-fated cloth of four measures that

Was destined to become a lover’s shirt, tunic or shawl.
7

Sab kahaan? Kuchh laala-o-gul mein numaayaan ho gai’n

Khaak mein kya sooratein hongi ki pinhaan ho gai’n

Yaad thi hum ko bhi ranga rang bazm-aaraaiyan

Lekin ab naqsh-o-nigaar-e taaq-e nisyaan ho gai’n

Thi banaatun-naash-e gardoon din ko parde mein nihaan

Shab ko un ke ji mein kya aaya ki uriyan ho gai’n

Joo-e khoon aankhon se bahne do ke hai shaam-e firaaq

Main ye samjhoonga ke shamen do farozaan ho gai’n

Neend uski hai, dimaagh uska hai, raatein uski hain

Teri zulfein jiske baazoo par pareshaan ho gai’n

Main chaman mein kya gaya, goya dabistan khul gaya

Bulbulen sun kar mere naale, ghazal-khwaan ho gai’n

Hum muvahhid hain, hamaara kaish hai tark-e rusoom

Millaten jab mit gai’n, ajzaa-e eemaan ho gai’n

Ranj se khoogar hua insaan to mit jaataa hai ranj

Mushkilen mujh par padi itni ke aasaan ho gai’n

Yoon hi gar rota raha Ghalib, to ae ahl-e jahaan

Dekhna in bastiyon ko tum, ke veeraan ho gai’n

Not all, merely a few were celebrated in tulips and roses

What faces there must have been, which remain hidden in dust?

I remembered for a long time those colourful decorations

But now they are consigned to the shelf of forgotten memories.

The starry beauties of the constellation stayed hidden in the mist of the day

At night, wonder what came over them, they revealed themselves, disrobed
9
.

Blood flows from my eyes; let it, for it’s the night of separation

I will think of my burning eyes as two candles that were thus lit.

Sleep, and wisdom, and the nights all belong to that one

On whose shoulder you choose to rest, with your tresses scattered.

As I entered the garden, it was like school had commenced

The nightingales became poets, when they heard me declaim.
10

I believe in Oneness, the disavowal of rituals is my creed

For when religions fade away, they will become part of true faith.

When one makes friends with grief, it miraculously
disappears

I faced so many privations, that they eventually
became facile.

If Ghalib keeps up his lament, mark my words O people

These neighbourhoods of yours will turn into wilderness.

Hazaaron khwaahishein aisi ke har khwaahish pe dam nikle

Bahut nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle

Nikalna khuld se Aadam ka sunte aaye hain lekin

Bahut be-aabroo ho kar tere kooche se ham nikle

Magar likhvaaye koi us ko khat to hum se likhvaaye

Hui subh aur ghar se kaan par rakh kar qalam nikle

Mohabbat mein nahin hai farq jeene aur marne ka

Usi ko dekh kar jeete hain jis kaafir pe dam nikle

Khuda ke vaaste parda na Kaabe se uthaa, zaalim

Kahin aisa na ho yaan bhi vahi kaafir sanam nikle

Kahaan maikhaane ka darvaza, Ghalib, aur kahaan vaaiz

Par itnaa jaante hain kal vo jaata thha, ke hum nikle

Thousands of desires, and each one worth dying for

Many of my desires were fulfilled, but yet, I feel unrequited.

We have heard often of the expulsion of Adam from Eden

But that is nothing compared to my shamed exit from your street.

If anyone wishes to write my love a letter, then I am available

Every morning, I set out, with a pen tucked behind my ear.
11

In love, there is no difference between living and dying

For I find my will to live by gazing at the infidel who kills me.
12

For God’s sake, keep the black cloth on the Kaaba

I do not want to find that it harbours yet another infidel idol.
13

Whither the tavern door, Ghalib, and whither the holy man?

But I swear, as I left the winehouse last night, I saw him enter.

Baazeecha-e atfaal hai duniya mere aage

Hota hai shab-o-roz tamaasha mere aage

Hota hai nihan gard mein sehraa mere hote

Ghista hai jabeen khaak pe dariya mere aage

Mat poochh ke kya haal hai mera tere peechhe

Tu dekh ke kya rang hai tera mere aage

Eemaan mujhe roke hai jo khenche hai mujhe kufr

Kaabaa mere peechhe hai, kaleesa mere aage

Go haath ko jumbish nahin aankhon mein to dam hai

Rehne do abhi saaghar-o-meenaa mere aage

Hum-pesha-o-hum-masharab-o-humraaz hai meraa

Ghalib ko buraa kyon kaho achhaa mere aage

The world to me is no more than a play of children

This cheap spectacle occurs every day in front of me.

[For the dust my wandering raises] the desert acknowledges my superiority

[For the volume of my tears] the sea acknowledges me as its master.
14