you’re kashmiri until they burn your home. take your orchards. stake a different flag. until no one remembers the road that brings you back. you’re indian until they draw a border through punjab. until the british captains spit paki as they sip your chai, add so much foam you can’t taste home. you’re seraiki until your mouth fills with english. you’re pakistani until your classmates ask what that is. then you’re indian again. or some kind of spanish. you speak a language until you don’t. until you only recognize it between your auntie’s lips. your father was fluent in four languages. you’re illiterate in the tongues of your father. your grandfather wrote persian poetry on glasses. maybe. you can’t remember. you made it up. someone lied. you’re a daughter until they bury your mother. until you’re not invited to your father’s funeral. you’re a virgin until you get too drunk. you’re muslim until you’re not a virgin. you’re pakistani until they start throwing acid. you’re muslim until it’s too dangerous. you’re safe until you’re alone. you’re american until the towers fall. until there’s a border on your back.”
Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission, Having never set eyes on this land he was called to partition Between two peoples fanatically at odds, With their different diets and incompatible gods. ‘Time,’ they had briefed him in London, ‘is short. It’s too late For mutual reconciliation or rational debate: The only solution now lies in separation. The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter, That the less you are seen in his company the better, So we’ve arranged to provide you with other accommodation. We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu, To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you.’
Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day Patrolling the gardens to keep assassins away, He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect, But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot, And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot, But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided, A continent for better or worse divided.
The next day he sailed for England, where he quickly forgot The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not, Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot.
With Partition of this country, friends You have lost and we too have lost We may not say this but deep within You are lost and we too are lost Oh to be ruined by freedom! You too and us too There is some hope that we will find life You too have died, we too have died Living inside the jaws of death You were hurled inside, as we were hurled inside. Those who were awake robbed us to their heart’s content You too were left sleeping, as we were left sleeping The redness of the eyes says: We cried and you too cried.
is mulq dii vanD koloN yaaroN
is mulq dii vanD koloN yaaroN khoye tusii vii ho, khoye asii vii haaN bhaaveN muNhoN naa kahiye par vichoN vich khoye tusii vii ho, khoye asii vii haaN iNhaaN azaadiyaaN hathoN barbaad honaa hoye tusii vii ho hoye asii vii haaN kujh umiid hai zindagii mil jaayegii moye tusii vii ho moye asii vii haaN jyuuNdii jaan ii maut de muNh aNdar Dhoye tusii vii ho Dhoye asii vii haaN jaagan vaalyaaN rajj ke luTyaa hai soye tusii vii ho soye asii vii haaN laalii akhiyaaN di payii dasdii hai roye tusii vii ho roye asii vii haaN
इस मुलक दी वंड कोलों यारो इस मुलक दी वंड कोलों यारो, खोए तुसीं वी हो, खोए असीं वी हां। भावें मूंहंो ना कहीए पर विचों विच्ची, खोए तुसीं वी ओ खोए असीं वी आं। इन्हां आज़ादियां हत्थों बरबाद होणा, होए तुसीं वी ओ होए असीं वी आं। कुझ्झ उमीद ए जिन्दगी मिल जाएगी, मोए तुसीं वी ओ मोए असीं वी आं। ज्युंदी जान ई मौत दे मूंह अन्दर, ढोए तुसीं वी ओ ढोए असीं वी आं। जागन वाल्यां रज्ज के लुट्ट्या ए, सोए तुसीं वी ओ सोए असीं वी आं। लाली अक्खियां दी पई दसदी ए, रोए तुसीं वी ओ रोए असीं वी आं।
sane sej de beriaaN, luddaN dittiaaN rohr, ** sane daliaan peengh aj, piplaaN dittii toR **
jitthe vajdii sii phuuk pyaar dii, ve oh vanjhalii gayii guaach** raanjhe de sab viir aaj, bhul gaye usadii jaach**
aj dhartii te lahuu varsiyaa, kabraaN paiaaN chon, preet diaaN shaahzaadiaaN, aaj vichch mazaaraaN ron
aaj sabh ‘Qaido’ ban gaye, husn ishq de chor aaj kitthoN liaaiye labbh ke waris shah ik hor
aaj aakhaN waris shah nuuN, kitoN kabraan vichchoN bol, te aaj kitaab-e ishq daa, koii aglaa varkaa phol
I ask Waris Shah (1) today to speak up somewhere from the graves And to turn to a new page of the book of love
Once, when one daughter of Punjab wept, you had hit out by writing Today a million daughters weep and implore you, Waris Shah:
Arise, O friend of the distressed! Arise, see the plight of your Punjab Corpses lie strewn in the fields and Chenab is filled with blood
Someone has mixed poison into the waters of the five rivers And that water is now irrigating the land
This fertile land is sprouting poison, the horizon has turned scarlet-red and the curses fly to the sky
The poisonous wind that passes through the forest Has transformed each bamboo-shoot into a cobra
The first snake-bite made the snake-charmer forget his spell And the subsequent bites have addicted the people
They have been bitten again and again And in no time, the limbs of Punjab have turned blue
Silenced are the songs in the streets, the thread of the spinning-wheels snapped The girls have fled the courtyards, the whirr of the spinning wheels halted
The wedding beds and the boats have been thrown away Today the branch with the swing on the Pipal has broken
The flute through which blew the breath of love is lost All the brothers of Ranjha today have forgotten this art
Blood rained on the earth and the graves are leaking And the princesses of love are crying amidst the tombs
All have become Qaidon (2) today, thieves of beauty and love Today, wherefrom shall we get yet another Warish Shah?
I ask Waris Shah today to speak up somewhere from the graves And to turn to a new page of the book of love
Waris Shah wrote the celebrated Punjabi classic Heer Ranjha. Many verses attributed to him have been shown to be later additions and accretions.
Qaidon, the uncle of Heer, was the villain, who came in the way of the lovers.
August, 1947 ye daG-daG ujaalaa, ye shab-gaziidaa sahar wo intezaar tha jiskaa, ye wo sahar to nahii.n ye wo sahar to nahii.n jiskii aarzoo lekar chale the yaar ke: mil jayegi kahii.n na kahii.n falak ke dashth me.n taaro.n kii aakhirii manzil kahi.n to hogaa shab-e-sustmoujh kaa saahil kahi.n ti jake rukegaa safiin-e-gam-e-dil jawa.N lahuu kii pur asraar shahraaho.n se chale jo yaar to daaman pe kitne haath paDe dayaar-e-husn kii be-sabra khwaabgaaho.n se pukaarti rahii.n baahe.n, badan bulate rahe bahut azeez thii lekin ruKh-e-sahar kii lagan bahut karii.n tha hasiinane noor kaa daaman subuk-subuk thi tamanna dabi-dabi thi thakan sunaa hai ho bhi chukaa hai firaaq-e-zulmat-e-noor sunaa hai ho bhi chukaa hai wisaal-e-manzil-o-gaam badal chukaa hai bahut ahal-e-dard kaa dastoor nishaat-e-wasl halaal-o-azaab-e-hijr-e-haraam jigar kii aag, nazar kii umang, dil kii jalan kisii pe chaar:e-hijra.N kaa kuchch asar hii nahii.n kahaa.N se aayii nigaar-e-sabaa kidhhar ko gaii abhii chiraaG-e-sar-e-rah ko kuchch khabar hii nahii.n abhii garaanii-e-shab me.n kamii nahi.n aaii nazaat-e-deed’h-o-dil kii ghadii nahi.n aaii chale chalo ki wah ma.nzil abhi nahi.n aaii
–Faiz Ahmed Faiz, 14th August 1967
Rough draft by Sundeep Dougal, sometime in the 1980s.
The Dawn of Freedom, August 1947
This scarred, marred brightness, this bitten-by-night dawn – The one that was awaited, surely, this is not that dawn. This is not the dawn yearning for which Had we set out, friends, hoping to find sometime, somewhere The final destination of stars in the wilderness of the sky. Somewhere, at least, must be a shore for the languid waves of the night, Somewhere at least must anchor the sad boat of the heart. On the sensuous, secretive streets of young blood, When we set out, friends, who knows how many hands tugged at the sleeves From the impatient dreamlands of beauty’s pleasure-houses, Arms persistently reached out and bodies beckoned, But very dear was the longing for mere dawn, Very near was the hem of beauteous light: Desires, delicate and light; languor, suppressed and slight. It’s claimed that darkness and light are already separated, It’s claimed that the seeking and the sought have already united, That the lot of those who suffered has already changed a lot: The pleasure of union is allowed, torment of separation is banished. Fire in the belly, longing in the eyes, burning in the heart: None is affected at all by the anguish of separation From where came that sweet breeze and where it went, The street lamp has no inkling yet The heaviness of the night has not lifted yet The moment of salvation for the heart and the eyes has not arrived yet
Juvenilia 