In Memory of Begum Akhtar (d. 30 October 1974) (for Saleem Kidwai)
1
Your death in every paper,
boxed in the black and white
of photographs, obituaries,
the sky warm, blue, ordinary,
no hint of calamity,
no room for sobs,
even between the lines;
I wish to talk of the end of the world.
2
Do your fingers still scale the hungry
Bhairavi, or simply the muddy shroud?
Ghazal, that death-sustaining widow,
sobs in dingy archives, hooked to you;
She wears her grief, a moon-soaked white,
corners the sky into disbelief.
Ghazal, that death-sustaining widow,
you’ve finally polished catastrophe,
the note you seasoned with decades
of Ghalib, Mir, Faiz:
I innovate on a note-less raga.
3
Exiling you to cold mud,
your coffin, stupid and white,
astounds by its ignorance.
It wears its blank pride,
defleshing the nomad’s echo.
I follow you to the earth’s claw,
shouldering time’s shadow.
This is history’s bitter arrogance,
this moment of the bone’s freedom.
4
“You cannot cross-examine the dead.”*
I’ve taken the circumstantial evidence,
your records, pictures, tapes,
and offered a careless testimony.
I wish to summon you in defence,
but the grave’s damp and cold, now when
Malhar longs to stitch the rain,
wrap you in its notes: you elude
completely. The rain doesn’t speak,
and life, once again, closes in,
reasserting this earth where the air
meets in a season of grief.
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
Juvenilia 