It appears that it was all a misunderstanding. What was only a trial run was taken seriously. The rivers will return to their beginnings. The wind will cease in its turning about. Trees instead of budding will tend to their roots. Old men will chase a ball, a glance in the mirror– They are children again. The dead will wake up, not comprehending. Till everything that happened has unhappened. What a relief! Breathe freely, you who have suffered much.
gar mujhe is kā yaqīñ ho mire hamdam mire dost gar mujhe is kā yaqīñ ho ki tire dil kī thakan tirī āñkhoñ kī udāsī tere siine kī jalan merī dil-jūī mire pyaar se miT jā.egī gar mirā harf-e-tasallī vo davā ho jis se jī uThe phir tirā ujḌā huā be-nūr dimāġh terī peshānī se Dhal jaa.eñ ye tazlīl ke daaġh terī bīmār javānī ko shifā ho jaa.e gar mujhe is kā yaqīñ ho mire hamdam mare dost roz o shab shaam o sahar maiñ tujhe bahlātā rahūñ maiñ tujhe giit sunātā rahūñ halke shīrīñ ābshāroñ ke bahāroñ ke chaman-zāroñ ke giit āmad-e-sub.h ke, mahtāb ke, sayyāroñ ke giit tujh se maiñ husn-o-mohabbat kī hikāyāt kahūñ kaise maġhrūr hasīnāoñ ke barfāb se jism garm hāthoñ kī harārat meñ pighal jaate haiñ kaise ik chehre ke Thahre hue mānūs nuqūsh dekhte dekhte yak-laḳht badal jaate haiñ kis tarah āriz-e-mahbūb kā shaffāf bilor yak-ba-yak bāda-e-ahmar se dahak jaatā hai kaise gulchīñ ke liye jhuktī hai ḳhud shāḳh-e-gulāb kis tarah raat kā aivān mahak jaatā hai yūñhī gaatā rahūñ gaatā rahūñ terī ḳhātir giit buntā rahūñ baiThā rahūñ terī ḳhātir par mire giit tire dukh kā mudāvā hī nahīñ naġhma jarrāh nahīñ mūnis-o-ġham ḳhvār sahī giit nashtar to nahīñ marham-e-āzār sahī tere āzār kā chāra nahīñ nashtar ke sivā aur ye saffāk masīhā mire qabze meñ nahīñ is jahāñ ke kisī zī-rūh ke qabze meñ nahīñ haañ magar tere sivā tere sivā tere sivā
– Faiz Ahmed Faiz
If I were certain of this, my companion, my friend, If I were certain of this, that the weariness of your heart, The sadness of your eyes, the burning in your breast, Would be removed by my sympathy, my affection; If my words of consolation were that medicine through which Your desolated, ‘unlit brain would recover itself, These stains of humiliation be removed from your forehead, Your sickly youth be cured; – If I were certain of this, my companion , my friend, Day and night, evening and daybreak, I would keep entertaining you. , I would keep singing you songs: gentle and sweet, Songs of waterfalls, of springtimes, of meadows, Songs of the advent of dawn, of moonlight, of planets; I would tell you stories of beauty and love, Of how the ice-like bodies of proud beauties Melt in the ardour of warm hands; How the well-known, familiar features of some face While we are watching all at once become changed,’ How the transparent crystal of the beloved’s cheek Suddenly glows with red wine; How the rose-spray bends of itself for the rose-plucker, How the hall of night grows perfumed; -So would I k’eep singing, keep singing, for your sake, I would go on sitting and weaving songs for your sake. But my songs are no remedy for your affliction, Melody is no surgeon, even though consoling and sympathetic,· A song is no lancet, though it may be a lotion for sickness. There is no cure for your sickness, except the lancet, And this butcher-messiah is not in my power, Is not in the power of any breathing thing in this world, Except-yes! except yourself, except yourself, except yourself.
sab kahāñ kuchh lālah-o-gul meñ numāyāñ ho gaʾīñ ḳhāk meñ kyā ṣūrateñ hoñgī kih pinhāñ ho gaʾīñ
Not all but some faces were able to become manifest in the form of tulips and roses How many more faces there must be that became hidden
yād thīñ ham ko bhī rangārang bazm-ārāʾiyāñ lekin ab naqsh-o-nigār-e t̤āq-e nisyāñ ho gaʾīñ
we too remembered colourful party-adornings but now they have become ornaments in the niche of forgetfulness
thīñ banāt ul-naʿsh-e gardūñ din ko parde meñ nihāñ shab ko un ke jī meñ kyā āʾī kih ʿuryāñ ho gaʾīñ
the Daughters of the Bier of the heavens were hidden, by day, in pardah at night, what came into their inner-self, that they became naked?
qaid meñ yaʿqūb ne lī go nah yūsuf kī ḳhabar lekin āñkheñ rauzan-e dīvār-e zindāñ ho gaʾīñ
although Jacob didn’t get news of Joseph in prison still, his eyes became crevice-work in the wall of the cell
sab raqīboñ se hoñ nā-ḳhvush par zanān-e miṣr se hai zulaiḳhā ḳhvush kih maḥv-e māh-e kanʿāñ ho gaʾīñ
all [lovers] may be unhappy with Rivals, but with the women of Egypt Zulaikha is happy, in that they became absorbed in the Moon of Canaan [Joseph]
jū-e ḳhūñ āñkhoñ se bahne do kih hai shām-e firāq maiñ yih samjhūñgā kih shamʿeñ do furozāñ ho gaʾīñ
let a stream of blood flow from the eyes, for it’s the evening/night of separation I will consider that two candles have become radiant/illuminated
in parīzādoñ se leñge ḳhuld meñ ham intiqām qudrat-e ḥaq se yihī ḥūreñ agar vāñ ho gaʾīñ
we will take revenge in Paradise on these Pari-born ones if through the power of Justice/right/God, only/emphatically they would there become Houris
nīnd us kī hai dimāġh us kā hai rāteñ us kī haiñ terī zulfeñ jis ke bāzū par pareshāñ ho gaʾīñ
sleep is his, spirit/pride/’head’ is his, the nights are his on whose shoulder your curls became scattered/tangled
maiñ chaman meñ kyā gayā goyā dabistāñ khul gayā bulbuleñ sun kar mire nāle ġhazal-ḳhvāñ ho gaʾīñ
I hardly went into the garden!– [rather], so to speak, a school opened the Nightingales, having heard my laments, became ghazal-{reciting/reciters}
vuh nigāheñ kyūñ huʾī jātī haiñ yā rab dil ke pār jo mirī kotāhī-e qismat se mizhgāñ ho gaʾīñ
why do those glances, oh Lord, keep going through/beyond the heart? [those glances] which, through my shortfall of fortune, became eyelashes
baskih rokā maiñ ne aur sīne meñ ubhrīñ pai bah pai merī āheñ baḳhyah-e chāk-e garebāñ ho gaʾīñ
1a) although I stopped them, more/others welled up one after another in the breast 1b) I stopped them to such an extent– and they welled up one after another in the breast
2) my sighs became the stitching-up of the tearing of the collar
vāñ gayā bhī maiñ to un kī gāliyoñ kā kyā javāb yād thīñ jitnī duʿāʾeñ ṣarf-e darbāñ ho gaʾīñ
1) even if I would go there, then what answer [would there be] for her insults? 2) as many blessings/supplications as I remembered, became expended on the Doorkeeper
jāñ-fizā hai bādah jis ke hāth meñ jām ā gayā sab lakīreñ hāth kī goyā rag-e jāñ ho gaʾīñ
1) wine is life-{increasing/enhancing}; in whomever’s hand the glass came 2) all the lines of[his hand became, so to speak, the jugular vein
ham muvaḥḥid haiñ hamārā kesh hai tark-e rusūm millateñ jab miṭ gaʾīñ ajzā-e īmāñ ho gaʾīñ
1) we are {a monotheist / monotheists}, our faith/sect/practice is the renunciation of customs/laws 2) when religions/groups were erased, they became parts of belief/faith/integrity
ranj se ḳhū-gar huʾā insāñ to miṭ jātā hai ranj mushkileñ mujh par paṛīñ itnī kih āsāñ ho gaʾīñ
1) if a person would become accustomed to grief, then grief is erased 2) so many difficulties fell upon me, that they became easy
yūñ hī gar rotā rahā ġhālib to ay ahl-e jahāñ dekhnā in bastiyoñ ko tum kih vīrāñ ho gaʾīñ
1) if Ghalib would keep on weeping {like this / for no reason}, then, oh people of the world 2) you just look at these towns– that they’ve become desolate
“Till death do us part.” Come for their sense of us, . . .
For Belief’s sake, let appearances remain.
Let YOU, at Elysian Fields, step off the streetcar—
so my sense of wonder’s made utterly plain.
Not for mine but for the world’s sake come back.
They ask why you left? To whom all must I explain?
I laughed when they said our time was running out—
I stirred the leaves in the tea I’d brewed to drain.
Break your pride, be the Consoler for once—
Bring roses, let my love-illusion remain.
An era’s passed since the luxury of tears—
Make me weep, Consoler, let blood know its rain.
From New York to Andalusia I searched for you—
Lorca, dazzled on your lips, is all of Spain.
“Time, like Love, wears a mask in this story.”
And Love? My blind spot. Piercing me to the brain.
Oh, that my head were waters, mine eyes a fountain
so that I might weep day and night for the slain.
Shouting your name till the last car had disappeared,
how I ran on the platform after your train.
To find her, ’round phantom-wrists I glue bangles—
What worlds she did not break when she left my lane!
Still beguiled with hopes of you, the heart is lit.
To put out this last candle, come, it burns in vain
– Agha Shahid Ali
This deserves a separate entry for the Ahmad Faraz Ghazal made immortal by Mehdi Hasan. As is obvious, this is not a translation, or even a transcreation, but a tip of the hat. I have attempted a hurried translation here.
ranjish hī sahī dil hī dukhāne ke liye aa aa phir se mujhe chhoḌ ke jaane ke liye aa
kuchh to mire pindār-e-mohabbat kā bharam rakh tū bhī to kabhī mujh ko manāne ke liye aa
pahle se marāsim na sahī phir bhī kabhī to rasm-o-rah-e-duniyā hī nibhāne ke liye aa
kis kis ko batā.eñge judā.ī kā sabab ham tū mujh se ḳhafā hai to zamāne ke liye aa
ik umr se huuñ lazzat-e-girya se bhī mahrūm ai rāhat-e-jāñ mujh ko rulāne ke liye aa
ab tak dil-e-ḳhush-fahm ko tujh se haiñ ummīdeñ ye āḳhirī sham.eñ bhī bujhāne ke liye aa .
At Purana Qila I am alone, waiting
for the bus to Daryaganj. I see it coming,
but my hands are empty.
“,Jump on, jump on,” someone shouts,
“I’ve saved this change for you
for years. Look!”
A hand opens, full of silver rupees.
“Jump on, jump on.” The voice doesn’t stop.
There’s no one I know. A policeman,
handcuffs silver in his hands,
asks for my ticket.
I jump off the running bus,
sweat pouring from my hair.
I run past the Doll Museum, past
headlines on the Times of India
building, prisoners blinded in a bihar
jail, harijan villages burned by landlords.
Panting, I stop in Daryaganj,
outside Golcha Cinema.
Sunil is there, lighting
a cigarette, smiling. I say,
“It must be ten years, you haven’t changed,
it was your voice on the bus!”
He says, “The film is about to begin,
I’ve bought an extra ticket for you,”
and we rush inside:
Anarkali is being led away,
her earrings lying on the marble floor.
Any moment she’ll be buried alive.
“But this is the end,” I turn
toward Sunil. He is nowhere.
The usher taps my shoulder, says
my ticket is ten years old.
Once again my hands are empty.
I am waiting, alone, at Purana Qila.
Bus after empty bus is not stopping.
Suddenly, beggar women with children
are everywhere, offering
me money, weeping for me.
From a district near Jammu,
(Dogri stumbling through his Urdu)
he comes, the victim of a continent broken
in two in nineteen forty-seven.
He mentions the minced air he ate
while men dissolved in alphabets
of blood, in syllables of death, of hate.
‘I only remember half the word
that was my village. The rest I forget.
My memory belongs to the line of blood
across which my friends dissolved
into bitter stanzas of some dead poet.’
He wanted me to sympathise. I couldn’t,
I was only interested in the bitter couplets
which I wanted him to explain. He continued,
‘And I who knew Mir backwards, every
couplet from the Diwan-e-Ghalib saw poetry
dissolve into letters of blood.’ He
Now remembers nothing while I find Ghalib
at the crossroads of language, refusing
to move to any side, masquerading
as a beggar to see my theatre of kindness.
Next to Saffron cultivation in interest come the floating gardens Of the Dal Lake that can be towed from place to place.
1.
I will die, in autumn, in Kashmir,
and the shadowed routine of each vein
will almost be news, the blood censored,
for the Saffron Sun and the Times of Rain
will be sold in black, then destroyed,
invisibly at Zero Taxi Stand.
There will be men nailing tabloids
to the fence of Grindlay’s Bank,
I will look for any sign of blood
in captions under the photos of boys,
those who by inches – after the April flood –
were killed in fluted waters, each voice
torn from its throat as the Jehlum
receded to their accounts and found cash
sealed in the bank’s reflection.
I will open the waves, draw each hushed
balance, ready to pay, by any means,
whatever the drivers ask. The tone
called Eyes of Maple Green
will promise, “I’ll take you anywhere, even
in curfew hours,” and give me a bouquet –
“There’s a ban on wreaths!”
2.
I will die that day in late October, it will be long ago:
He will take me to Pompore where I’ll gather flowers and run
back to the taxi, stamens – How many thousands? – crushed
to red varnish in my hands: I’ll shout: “Saffron, my payment!”
And he’ll break the limit, chase each rumor of me. “No one’s
see Shahid,” we’ll hear again and again, in every tea house from Nishat to Naseem. He will stop by the Shalimar ghat, and we’ll
descend the steps to the water. He’ll sever some land – two
yards – from the shore, I, his last passenger. Suddenly he’ll age,
his voice will break, his gaze green water, washing me: “it won’t
grow again, this gold from the burned fields of Pampore.” And
he will row the freed earth past the Security zones, so my blood
is news in the Saffron Sun setting on the waves.
3.
Yes, I remember it,
the day I’ll die, I broadcast the crimson,
so long of that sky, its spread air,
its rushing dyes, and a piece of earth
bleeding, apart from the shore, as we went
on the day I’ll die, past the guards, and he,
two yards he rowed me into the sunset,
past all pain. On everyone’s lips was news
of my death but only that beloved couplet,
broken, on his:
“If there is a paradise on earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this.”
At a certain point I lost track of you.
They make a desolation and call it peace.
when you left even the stones were buried:
the defenceless would have no weapons.
When the ibex rubs itself against the rocks,
who collects its fallen fleece from the slopes?
O Weaver whose seams perfectly vanished,
who weighs the hairs on the jeweller’s balance?
They make a desolation and call it peace.
Who is the guardian tonight of the Gates of Paradise?
My memory is again in the way of your history.
Army convoys all night like desert caravans:
In the smoking oil of dimmed headlights, time dissolved- all
winter- its crushed fennel.
We can’t ask them: Are you done with the world?
In the lake the arms of temples and mosques are locked in each other’s
reflections.
Have you soaked saffron to pour on them when they are found like this
centuries later in this country
I have stitched to your shadow?
In this country we step out with doors in our arms
Children run out with windows in their arms.
You drag it behind you in lit corridors.
if the switch is pulled you will be torn from everything.
At a certain point I lost track of you.
You needed me. You needed to perfect me.
In your absence you polished me into the Enemy.
Your history gets in the way of my memory.
I am everything you lost. You can’t forgive me.
I am everything you lost. Your perfect Enemy.
Your memory gets in the way of my memory:
I am being rowed through Paradise in a river of Hell:
Exquisite ghost, it is night.
The paddle is a heart; it breaks the porcelain waves.
It is still night. The paddle is a lotus.
I am rowed- as it withers-toward the breeze which is soft as
if it had pity on me.
If only somehow you could have been mine, what wouldn’t
have happened in the world?
I’m everything you lost. You won’t forgive me.
My memory keeps getting in the way of your history.
There is nothing to forgive.You can’t forgive me.
I hid my pain even from myself; I revealed my pain only to myself.
There is everything to forgive. You can’t forgive me.
If only somehow you could have been mine,
what would not have been possible in the world?
Juvenilia 