rah-e- talab mein kaun kisi ka?

apne bhi begaaney hain,

chand se mukhrey, rashk-e-ghizalan,
sab jaane pehchaaney hain.

tanhai si tanhai hai, kaise kahein, kaisey samjhayein,

chashm-o-lab-o-rukhsar ki teh mein,

roohon ke veeraney hain,

uff, yeh talashey husn-o-haqeeqat,

kis jah theherein, jayein kahan?

sehan-e-chaman mein phool khilein hain,

sehra mein deewaney hain...

aur

hum ko sahaarey kya raas ayein,

apna sahara hain hum aap,

khud hi sehra, khud hi deewaney,

sham-e-nafas, parwaney hain,

bil-aakhir thak haar ke yaaro, hum ne bhi tasleem kiya,

apni zaat se ishq hai sacha, baaqi sab afsaaney hain...

- Ibn-Safi


English translation:
(on the path of desire,
even the dearest become distant,
and pretty faces, admirers of beauty,
all remain familiar.
who to tell, to speak of,- this loneliness?
beneath the layers of all eyes, all cheeks,
lie shadows of haunting souls.
oh! this desire for truth and beauty...
where do we go and where do we stop?
flowers blossom in gardens and terraces-
yet in deserts they wander madly, in vain...
and
for me, no support has worked,
except myself,
myself- the desert, myself- the crazy wanderer,
myself- the lamp, myself- the moth,
alas! my friends, I admit,
With oneself only, love is true-
the rest are but tales and fables...)

The Hand that made us is Divine

The spacious firmament on high

With all the blue ethereal sky

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great original proclaim,

The unwearied sun, from day to day,

Doth it’s Creator’s powers display,

And publishes to every land,

The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And nightly to the listening Earth,

Repeats the story of her birth,

While all the stars that round her burn,

And all the planets, in their turn,

Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the Truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all,

Move round this dark terrestrial ball?

What though no real voice, or sound,

Amidst their radiant orbs be found?

In reason’s ear they all rejoice,

And utter forth a glorious voice-

Forever singing, as they shine:

The Hand that made us is Divine.

(19^th Psalm paraphrased by Addison)

I touch God in my Song

By: Rabindranath Tagore

I touch God in my Song
            as the hill touches the far away sea
                     with its waterfall.

The Butterfly counts not months but moments
            and has time enough.

Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
            and yet give you illumined freedom.

Love remains a secret even when spoken
            for only a lover truly knows that he is loved

Emancipation from the bondage of soil
            is no freedom for thee.

In love I pay my endless debt to thee
            for what thou art.

(from the Poetry Chaikhana: http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/)

A poet for a moment or two

On Sahir Ludhianvi's Birthday, I would like to share my most favourite of his poem (rendered beautifully by Mukesh for the film "Kabhie Kabhie"). Sahir Ludhianvi is undoubtedly one of the greatest Urdu poets of the 20th Century, and sadly most people are not aware about the man who penned some of the best Hindi/Urdu film songs.

Here are the English translations of his lyrics:

I am a poet of a moment or two,

My story is a moment or two,

My existence is a moment or two,

My life is just a moment or two... 

So many have been before me,

Poets that came and went,

some left with a few sighs,

others left with melodies…

they too, were a story of a moment,

I too, shall be a passing tale,

I may not be here tomorrow,

But I am a part of your today.

I am a poet of a moment or two…

Tomorrow, there will be more

Who bloom with numerous songs

Better poets than me

Better listeners than you

Tomorrow, if someone thinks of me

Why would they think of me?

The busy world, for my sake,

Why would it bother?

I am but a poet, for a moment or two…

my life is just a moment or two...

(Main pal do pal ka shayar hoon- by Sahir, translation by: Hareem)

I am a rebel!

I found this poem online, and the words of the poet were so haunting, that I simply had to translate it and share it with all:

I am a rebel

From the customs of this time,
from these thrones and these crowns,
That are born from cruelty-
and feed on human lives,
That are built on foundations of hate,
from such products of bloodshed-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

One twitch upon their lips-
One glance of their eyes-
can cause the laws to change,
and let criminals run free-
from such masters of theft and treachery,
from such "guardians" of justice-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

from those who make women dance,
and sell them out on streets,
and then upon that fallen Honor,
they march out in protest-
from these tyrants and miscreants,
from these buyers at the markets-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

from those who cry at the country's fate,
then steal from the nation shamelessly,
from those who dwell in palaces,
and talk about poverty,
from these tricksters and these thieves,
from these Feudal Lords and Chiefs-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

from those in the 'business' of religion,
who are a major disease and affliction,
fond of labeling others as god-less infidels,
as if they are the last word on Faith-
from these liars and cheats,
from these enterprises of religion-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

where breaths are severely measured,
where fortunes are eternally ruined,
where caste and race are a complicated mess,
and the noose of hatred hangs low-
from such lowly thoughts and ideas,
from such lands of Oppression-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!

I hold the flag of Truth,
and the threat of tyranny is upon me,
But when was I afraid of death?
I live, but for the sake of death-
when the rising sun shall shine in my blood,
then every living soul shall say-

I am a rebel!
I am a rebel!
However much you punish me!
I am a rebel!

- Unknown poet (most probably Habib Jalib or Javed Hashmi)

January happenings

My favourite month... it's like starting a fresh page in a new crisp notebook. It's brighter than last year, there's a skip to one's step (reasonably caused by the heavy snow we get in Jan), and an upbeat outlook on life . It's also my Birthday so January has been something I've always looked forward to. 

I've been reading a lot in the past few days, and watching several things on youtube and/or TV, so much so that my memory fails to register the information as visual/textual, imaginary/factual, did-you-type-it-in-Youtube/did-you-flip-channels-randomly-to-come-across-this-info/did-you-read-it-in-print? 

(Warning: a Lament on Language follows)

The book I've been reading is in Urdu, written by Quratulain Hyder, who is seriously Awesome. The story is thoroughly entertaining, and I'm beginning to improve my Urdu vocabulary as I ask my aunt for help whenever I get stuck. Which makes me sad about the fact that Urdu (real, true, beautiful Urdu) is slowly on the decline. There are so many words and terms, sweet as honey, deep as the ocean, that can never be found in another language and many among my generation do not know them. They can't even be translated, some of their glory, their sweetness is lost. Translating Urdu is like trying to sketch a perfect cube on a piece of paper in 2-D. It is nothing but a shadow on a lower plane of dimensions. Bleak shadow with a paper taste. Not the warm light, and honeyed beauty of the language - something I hold most dear. 

I also watched an Urdu TV drama called "Ankahi" (entirely on youtube) and I found how much our spoken Urdu has deteriorated in just 30 years. There are words, that we know the meaning of, and how to use, but we choose to speak an easy English every day word in their stead. Over time, those alfaaz (words) recede in our memory gathering dust. Since they are never used, we begin to forget that they ever existed. The next generation is completely oblivious of the alfaaz. Readers may wonder, why am I lamenting the loss of those words? Maybe they were unnecessary or inconvenient? 

No...in fact, choosing English terms in place of an Urdu term is again like choosing a 2-D cube sketch over an actual cube. Bleak shadow with a paper taste. What is gone with these words, is the warmth of knowledge, the light of our culture, and the sweetness of our polite and humble behaviour. That is lost. 

More and more often I feel, that this zubaan (language) is doomed. But as long as there are people who realize its importance, and as long as people love Urdu, it won't be so bad. Someone forwarded me this clip of an American who came to love Urdu, and learnt it, and speaks it wonderfully. I am ashamed to say, even I can not use such pure alfaaz in my day-to-day guftugu (talk). Here it is:

I hope you enjoy, if you understand Urdu. If not, I can translate upon request. What I already have translated from this interview, is John's recital of Allama Iqbal's poem at the end of this video: Iqbal's Message

The love of God

a special poem by Dante Alighieri

The love of God, unutterable and perfect,
     flows into a pure soul the way that light
     rushes into a transparent object.
The more love that it finds, the more it gives
     itself; so that, as we grow clear and open,
     the more complete the joy of heaven is.
And the more souls who resonate together,
     the greater the intensity of their love,
     and, mirror-like, each soul reflects the other.


Happy Christmas to all!

Lost in flight, I remain

I need a lover and a friend,

All friendships you transcend-

And impotent, I remain

You are Noah and the Ark

You are the light and the dark-

Behind the veil, I remain

You are passion and are rage

You are the bird and the cage-

Lost in flight, I remain

You are the wine and the cup 

You are the ocean and the drop-

While afloat, I remain

I said, "O Soul of the world

My desperation has taken hold!"

"I am thy essence," without scold,

"Value me much more than gold."

You are the bait and the trap

You are the path and the map-

While in search, I remain

You are poison and the sweet

You are defeated and defeat-

Sword in hand, I remain

You are the wood and the saw

You are cooked, and are raw-

While in a pot, I remain

You are sunshine and the fog

You are water and the jug-

While thirsty, I remain

Sweet fragrance of Shams that is,

The joy and pride of Tabriz-

Perfume trader, I remain.

Jelaluddin Rumi 

(Diwan-e-Shams-Tabrizi)

حادثہ وہ جو ابھی پردۂ افلاک میں ہے
عکس اس کا میرے آئینہ ادراک میں ہے
نہ ستارے میں ہے نہ گردش افلاک میں ہے
تیری تقدیر میرے نالہ بیباک میں ہے
یا میری آہ میں کوئی شرر زندہ نہیں
یا ذرا نم ابھی تیری خس و خاشاک میں ہے
کیا عجب میری نوا ہاے سحر گاہی سے
!زندہ ہو جائے وہ آتش کہ تیری خاک میں ہے
!توڑ ڈالے گی یہی خاک طلسم شب و روز
...گرچہ الجھی ہوئی تقدیر کے پیچاک میں ہے
حادثہ وہ جو ابھی پردۂ افلاک میں ہے
-عکس اس کا میری آئینہ ادراک میں ہے
اقبال ~

Translation:

An incident which is still shrouded in the skies

is reflected in the mirror of my surroundings

neither is it in star nor in orbits of the sky

but your fortune is ever-present in my bold cry

either my sigh holds but not a single flame

or there is some damp still within your soul

no wonder if, by my clear voice at dawn

awakes that flame deep within your earth

this very earth shall break the monotony of day and night

even though it's still in a tangle of your destiny...

an incident is still shrouded in the skies,

and is mirrored in my surroundings.

-Iqbal

A poem by Tagore

I wish to share a short poem by Rabindranath Tagore. It has been stored too long in my memory, and too long in my .doc files...

Sit Smiling (translated from Bengali to english, originally published in Geetanjali-poetry collection)

I boasted among men that I had known you
they see your pictures in all works of mine,
they come and ask me "Who is he?"
I know not how to answer them.
I say, "Indeed I cannot tell."
They blame me and go away in scorn.
- and You sit there smiling.

I put my tales of you into lasting songs.
the secret gushes out from my heart.
they come and ask me, "tell us all your meanings!"
I know not how to answer them.
I say, "Ah! who knows what they mean!"
they smile and go away in utter scorn.
- and You sit there smiling.

In my imagination, the narrator shapes and moulds figures in clay. In all his clay figures, in all his work, people see a glimpse of something. Something bordering on the mystical. Indeed, he cannot tell what it is or what it means. Just my interpretation.

Rabindranath Tagore was born in 1861 in Calcutta (British India), and is remembered for his awe-inspiring poetry and literary masterpieces in the Bengali language. His collection of songs- the Geetanjali, won the Nobel prize for literature in 1913. All his poems are an ode to love, life, joy and sorrow, through their simple words and musical mysticism.

The Listeners

(One of my most favourite poems by Walter De La Mare. Best to read it in silence and contemplate.)

“Is anybody there?” said the Traveler,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in silence chomped the grasses,

Of the forest’s ferny floor.

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the traveler’s head:

And he smote upon the door a second time;

“Is there anybody there?” he said.

But no one descended to the Traveler;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To the voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveler’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

‘Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:-

“Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,” he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

~Sir Walter De La Mare

So what exactly is this feeling of the existence of 'listeners' inside a surely empty place? I have felt it many times, as if they sit and wait, and hear and reply... with their silence.

That which can not be defined

Today, I stumbled on a website claiming to define my religious beliefs if I took their online quiz. Initially, I took it as a joke... but after answering a couple of questions I began to wonder what exactly I feel about the topic. To my amusement, I ended up being labelled a 'universal unitarian' and later a 'new age' follower. I agree my beliefs fall in some rather complicated and scattered categories, but even I don't know what those two 'religions' are about. As I was enjoying a heated debate on the said website's comments forum (in which people threw dirt on each other's perceived 'beliefs' in a quest to earn the most karma for insults against another religion) I began feeling upset about it all. Then I remembered this beautiful poem that I got in my mail today:

"You went away, but remained in me"

-By Mansur Hallaj, translated by Mahmud Jamal

You went away, but remained in me,

and thus became my peace and happiness.

In separation, separation left me-

and I witnessed the Unknown.

You were the hidden secret of my longing,

Hidden deep within my conscience...deeper than a dream.

You were my true friend in the day,

and in darkness-- my companion.

(Sent today from the Poetry Chaikhana.)

This absolutely delightful little piece addresses our most Beloved creator, our True friend in the shade-less heat of the day, and our only Companion through the darkest of nights. There can be no separation from the Divine, because He is the Ultimate reality, He is everywhere, and everything is His reflection. Then what causes some to think that insulting another is somehow going to earn them a reward? When has negativity ever produced positivity? Upsetting, indeed. One day I hope to discuss the nuisance on Youtube comments as well (they are my most distinguished pet peeve).

About the brilliant poet: Mansur Hallaj was a Sufi mystic, well-known for his rather controversial teachings. While traditional scholars (most famously Al-Ghazali) believed that mysticism was best kept among a select few, Mansur Hallaj would openly spread his message. His famous declaration of "I am the Truth" (ana-al-haq) cost him his life. Mansur Hallaj's life is an example for many others who want to share the eternal blissful truth with all humanity, but unfortunately, either suffer in silence due to fear of persecution, or risk being misunderstood and labelled as heretics.

Simple words, dear readers, can be taken out of context, mis-attributed, misunderstood, and twisted in various forms to help further evil and chaos in the world. Then how can one communicate in such a place?

Poetry uses simple words but communicates a whole emotion. And pure emotions can not be misunderstood or twisted into evil forms. Poetry can say to the audience, whatever the audience wants to hear. Poetry becomes, in fact, almost an echo of the words of its reader.

Music is, in my opinion, meaning beyond words. It too, communicates emotions... and they can not be labelled or taken out of context. Music resonates with the listener's soul, it is outside the boundaries set by language and what is proper and improper in a linguistic sense.

Only through poetry and music, I believe, can there ever be a chance of communicating that which can not be defined.

Btw, here's the entertaining website with the online quiz:

http://www.beliefnet.com/Entertainment/Quizzes/BeliefOMatic.aspx

Broken Frames

Didn't feel like writing anything yesterday. Don't feel like writing anything today, either. But I'd give it a go anyways! I was searching for something in my old file, and that's where I came across all the things I have stuffed in my drawer. Old receipts, letters, empty envelopes with the addresses on them, pens that don't work, safety pins, my old poems, some unfinished stories...

I wonder what makes me want to keep these things. It is this idea of the future, that maybe...some time later I will need these things, or maybe that they are important. Or sometimes, it's just a hasty action to clear up my desk when I believe some one is coming over to visit us and my room looks like a dump.

These items which have no use... (or do they?) remind me of many days of life. Days that are not lived, but just stuffed into these hypothetical drawers for some other time. Days that are spent doing absolutely nothing, as if sometime later I could revisit and do things I always wanted to do. It is indeed a slightly sad feeling that I get from looking at these forgotten items in my desk drawer. I think, for people who (at the end of their lives) turn back and open those hypothetical drawers of life, and see many such use-less and hastily spent days, also have that deep pang of regret. Can these two feelings be compared?

I wrote a poem in April, 2007, which seems be-fitting to this idea:

Broken Frames

Like an old torn page

stuffed into the back of a drawer,

or an Unused box saved

and thrown atop a shelf,

I have stacked some memories

and let myself forget them.

One day when I open that drawer,

my hand shall find that page;

that box may fall in my sight,

my touch will lift the dust of age

and I shall see the cracks and yellow

line those many names...

like lost and faded faces,

that smile through broken Frames.

Google Translate has Urdu!!

Finally Google translate has the option to translate from Urdu to English. I knew there was a group of gentlemen in Karachi who were working on an online free Urdu dictionary and also wanted to somehow add the Urdu option to Google as well. The dictionary isn't as good as those available in English, but still... something is better than nothing.

Here's a link to the dictionary:

http://www.urduword.com/

Although I do wish I could correct some of the meanings/translations on this site, but I do not have an account with them. Now if only typing in Urdu was easier... =) InPage Urdu gives me a headache.

One couplet by Ahmad Faraz to end this note:

اب تک دلِ خوش فہم کو تجھ سے ھیں اُمیدیں

... یہ آخری شمعیں بھی بجھانے کے لیئے آ

Let's see what Google translate makes of this:

Happy heart by now you are the hopes of understanding,
It also put off for coming last smayn (?)

Hahaha.... I can simply say Google got owned by Faraz!

Here's my version:

"Still, this heart has some expectations from you,

come and put out these last few lamps of hope."

Rahi Nagufta

I feel like typing in Urdu:

رھی نہ گفتہ مرے دل میں، داستاں میری۔

نہ اِس دیار میں سمجھا، کوئ زباں میری۔

اُسی سے دوُر رھا ھوں، اصلی مدعا جو تھا

گئ یہ عمرِعزیزاں، رائگاں میری

نہ اِس دیار میں سمجھا، کوئ زباں میری۔

"My story remained untold in my heart,

no one understood the essence of my words, in this world.

I have stayed far from my real purpose,

my beloved life has gone wasted,

no one understood the essence of my words, in this world"

A piece from Meer Taqi Meer's urdu ghazals.

*EDIT*
Dear readers, I find that this post is among the most popular on my blog. I thank you for visiting my page, and if you have any requests (about ghazals or songs in Urdu) that you wish to be translated in English, please let me know in the comments section. Thank you!

One Light

Some months ago, I came upon a beautiful website dedicated to collecting sacred poetic texts from around the world. This is the Poetry Chaikhana, an excellent project taken up by Ivan Granger, which collects works of both well-known and forgotten poets from around the world. The poetry on this site isn't restricted to one region, religion or language, instead it shows how every composed piece relates to the ultimate truth. I fell in love with the touching yet simplistic words of forgotten legends, the artistic photographs that accompany each poem, and the half-minute music samples that add another dimension to the poems. Nearly every day I receive an email from Poetry Chaikhana that absolutely makes my day...for a few minutes I can take a break and let the beauty of the words, images and music sink in. Here is one brilliant piece that I wish to share, written by Mahmud Shabistari (english translation by Andrew Harvey):

One Light:

What are "I" and "You"?

Just lattices

in the niches of a lamp,

through which the One light radiates.

"I" and "You" are the veil,

Between Heaven and Earth,

lift this veil and you will see,

how all sects and religions are one.

Lift this veil and you will ask:

when "I" and "You" do not exist,

what is mosque?

what is synagogue?

what is fire-temple?

-Taken from Shabistari's Gulistan-e-Raaz (the Rose Garden of Mystery)

Here's a link to Poetry Chaikhana: http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/

do visit!