Hazaaro'n Kwaishe'n Aisi - Mirza Ghalib

What began as a volley of tweets between @soHbet_ & me led to some interesting ideas & finally a culmination on a plan to translate 81 (my idea) or 5 (hers) of Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan's (Mirza Ghalib) remarkable ghazals. While his stature is nearly set in stone & should need least effort to acknowledge, much more than we imagined was demanded of the industry in choosing, and then translating his words. Much of the difficulty I shall hastily assign to the incongruence of tapping one language's spine & hoping it would cough in another tongue. English is best suited for poets who think & feel in the Anglic tongue. Urdu is best when one seeks to build a flight of stairs for the Gods to descend & delight in poetry.

We picked this particular ghazal of Ghalib's, called Hazaaro'n Kwaishe'n Aisi. If you must read the ghazal in the Devanagari script (although there are couplets which Ghalib never wrote), click here. If you wish to read the Arabic version of it, click here. If we wish to download the entire Deewan-e-Ghalib (no translation, only Devanagari & Arabic scripts in there), click here.

No poetic interpretation is wrong. They are at worst a poor dagger (as poetic daggers come) to cleave your heart. We shan't ever know what the poet originally meant. Here is what I think he might have felt. Please note: I do not translate "nikale" as "take". I have merely chosen "take" to help me weakly adhere to the rules of ghazals. "Nikale" has many connotations as each line below reveals. It can mean any of the following: to lose, to arise, to depart, to emerge, to remove, to turn out, etc.

Hazaaro'n khwaishe'n aisi ke har khwaish pe dum nikale,
Bahot nikale mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikale

Many are those wishes such that each, my breath did take
Many dreams have I lost (to Time), yet not much did it take

Darey kyun mera qaatil, kya rahega uski gardan par
Woh khoon, jo chashm-e-tar se umr bhar yoon dam-ba-dam nikale

Why must my tormentor fear that her neck shall have to bear
The blood, which in my tears this life's breath already did take

Nikalna khuld se aadam ka sunte aaye the lekin,
Bahot be-aabroo ho kar tere kuche se hum nikale

The expulsion of Adam from Eden is certainly much fabled, but
From your streets, my removal was with all the disgrace I could take

Bharam khul jaaye, zaalim, tere qaamat ki daraazi ka
Agar is turah-e-pur pech-o-kham ka pech-o-kham nikale

Should the illusion dissolve, vile one, on your stately mien
Uncoiling your tresses, revealing the truth, is all it would take

Magar likhvaye koi usko khath, to humse likhvaye
Hui subah, aur ghar se kaan par rakh kar kalam nikale

But must someone write to her, allow me to be scribe
Every dawn I left home & a pen, behind my ear, I did take

Hui is daur mein ma'nsoob mujhse baadah aashaamee
Phir aaya woh zaamanah jo jahaa'n mein jaam-e-jam nikale

Since then I've indulged & earned disrepute as a drunkard
Then came that time when the cup of revelations in my hand I did take

Hui jin se tavakko'h khastagee ki daad paane ki
Woh hum se bhi zyaada khastaa-e-teg-e-sitam nikale

In many I held the hope that they heal my wounded soul
But much worse were they in the jabs that Fate's sword did take

Muhabbat mein nahin hai farq jeene aur marne ka,
Usi ko dekh kar jeete hain, jis kaafir pe dam nikale

There is no schism in love, separating life from death
I live, gazing at the lover who, my every breath, does take

Kahaan maikhaane ka darwaaza Ghalib, aur kahaan vaaiz?
Par itna jaante hain kal woh jaata tha ke hum nikale

So separated the tavern door & the priest, Ghalib
Yet I recall, as I left the inn, the first step in he did take
 

Here is a reading of the ghazal: https://soundcloud.com/eroteme/hazaaron-kwaishen-aisi  

Hazaaron Kwaishen Aisi by Eroteme

As with all good poetry, mere translation is unsatisfying to the translator. What follows is my exploration into the possible meaning of it all. Please note, ghazals in their very design do not demand that the shers (couplets) be connected or related. Each sher can be about an unrelated theme as long as the rules are followed. You can find more about ghazals, here.

 

Is it merely my ability to extrapolate or is the ghazal genuinely pregnant with meaning? We might never know.

 

Ghalib uses the image of a lover, tormentor, assassin of the heart in different effects throughout this poem. While the lover could well be another human being, it might as well be one's notion of God or a state of being where none of these travails assail one. However, one wishes to shake interpretation out of that image, Ghalib wonders what frailty of the human soul spurs us to wish for more. One is well aware of the toll that hope takes on our soul, yet we succumb to its promise at the slightest ray of possibility. Some of us are such to not make much of all those wishes made & denied as if we can never have enough of being denied. The very fabric of wishing, cloaks us from what we have experienced & lays us bare to the thrashings of a new hope denied. Such is this desire to want, that stripped & clothed at once, we are in its throes.

 

Then what fear does any God or lover need to have? So powerful is this desire that I willingly walk into death, absolving all tormentors of the guilt of having driven me to there. In Urdu, "blood on one's neck" as translated from "uski gardan par woh khoon" is equivalent to the English "blood on one's hands" i.e. blame of misdeeds. A dagger's plunge does splatter the killer's body with blood. Ghalib asks - what does my slayer have to worry about? None shall blame the murderer who stands above a soul drained of all blood (life force) shed over a lifetime of tears (in wishes unfulfilled & hopes dashed). The utter helplessness of the soul is captured in this sher. Not only must he be a living dead, he cannot even hope for justice meted out to the tormentor but he must also reassure that murderer that s/he has nothing to worry about. Such is this soul's love for the granter of all wishes!

 

Often the celebrated one's trauma becomes more vital & renowned than what a common man walking the street goes through, but Ghalib avers, that his heart's implosion is perhaps more deafening if only we would cease to chant the tales of yore, of Biblical/Quranic/Tanakhic import which makes supreme suffering (in the common man's heart) petty by exalting the travails of Adam & other historic/mythological figures & thereby denying the sufferer even the right to feel comfort in that realisation that his wounds are indeed excessive & grand. Ghalib lends the heartbroken, belief-shaken soul an ear declaring that the dishonour was none less than the fabled disgrace of Adam.

 

Bharam is perhaps a corruption/variation of the word bhram (Sanskrit/Hindi, with the meaning of illusion/confusion). In Urdu it carries a possible connotation of "character or credit or worthiness". So at once, Ghalib cautions & praises the lover/God that either the illusion (of the God/lover's greatness) or the supreme fabric (of the same) would be revealed was he to tug at that twist of all understanding of the true stature of the God/lover. For a human lover, what he'll tug at would be the piled up tresses thus revealing the beauty or banality of the lover (the hair coming undone being the dramatic first suggestion to the following torrid love-making scene). For God that tassel to be tugged at would be to reveal the source of all Godliness & divinity, thereby either debunking the "God" as is popularly held or in the rapture of re-recognising what was the "original God". Either way, there are some who will be offended in the revelation & some delight in confronting truth in all its splendour. The unveiling, Ghalib says, will be convoluted & sinuous like the lover's tresses or God's "reality". Ghalib insists it is like the knot to which each generation has only added a twist & turn & wind but he knows of this one loose end which just needs a tug to find all knots & curls undone.

 

Ghalib, the ever-curious, insists on acting as scribe to all lovers/believers so he may understand the working of hearts & minds held in the hold of this magnificent beauty. Somehow he believes that by being the one to pen the letters to the God/lover, he would find the root of all suffering as well as the finest expressions of love which he may adopt in his personal letters. In being the scribe, he is laying bare the love of others for love, when described to another, making its innards known in words, is revelatory. By laying it bare he hopes either the lover sees the illusion of it all or Ghalib gains insight into the beauty of it. Either way, he always becomes the lover as he is the one writing what they wish to say. By being proxy to their gushing, he becomes the only lover that the God/lover will ever see. He becomes the essence of all lovers. And if nothing were to come of this, ever, he at least benefits by fuelling the writer in him. Thus Ghalib, in offering his services, stands to gain no matter what the outcome.

 

In pondering over love & being in the midst of lovers & pining for that one vision, Ghalib confesses to being drunk in the want for a clear sign. Such constant drunkenness earns the lover a reputation of a "madman" or "drunkard". Many will sober up re-earning societal accolades & good repute, but it is he who remains in that inebriated state who will find the portal to the worlds revealed promised in the mythological Cup of Jamshed's. Ghalib, being a poet, cannot discard the possibility that the madly intoxicating state a possessed writer lives in can very well be the gateway to all union with his lover/God.

 

Those who might come to aid to such a drunkard are dearly sought after, but most "wise" men are either feel-good godmen or priests blinded by words that were long dead. Thus, these men, cut by the sword of their respective Fate which brought them close to divinity & beauty but left them mere storytellers of a glory they have no clue about, these men, earn Ghalib's sympathy as a wounded soldier feels when he enters a hospital of a plague-inflicted town. These people who claim to right all wrongs, provide guidance to the passionately possessed or protect the ones madly in love are cripples themselves finding sanctuary behind their cloaks & social propriety.

 

For in love, absolute complete transforming love, there is no dichotomy of life & death, says Ghalib. Once in love, there is only loving. Once consumed by love, there is only that infinite existence gazing at the lover/God whose beauty takes away one's breath. Ghalib in one sweeping stroke dispels all cowardly love that treats love as an option, a practical consideration, a convenient avenue or a customary facet of life. None of that is love, says Ghalib, as the separation between living (and the practical choices) continues to thrive in opposition to death while that is impossible to be held thus, in opposition, in love. Ghalib's clarity in this matter of the heart is so simply stated but infinitely important & decisive. How can one be in love if there is a state of being that excludes the lover? Isn't love a complete immersion?

 

And everyone, every wise man, is aware of this though in fear turns his face away from this truth. The sheer intoxication of such love is beyond all rationality & plotting. One cannot to behave this way or that when in love as much as a convulsing epileptic cannot plan for his next seizure. This state of mindlessness unknown is frightening to the godly & ignorant alike. Were he not aware, why would he call me a madman, hiding his fear, his cowardice in invectives? He creates societal veils, moral walls to keep these who know the secret lest his cowardice be challenged, lest he be prodded to desert all sanity for the sake of a lover, it is easier to worship than to love. Thus, he pretends to keep his distance from the watering hole of such madmen & everyone chides Ghalib for even suggesting that the godmen must have an interest in the spirits. But, says Ghalib, he does recall many a day in his infinite past, when some godly men have risked entering the tavern of lovers, when they thought no one was watching.

 

With such ease, Ghalib moves from attacking desires & their multitude, to declaring how he too has been victim of human hope & want, bleeding dry, walking through all disgrace till he discovered that one key to all clarity. He jests while hiding his true intent of being completely immersed in the love of others as well as his. He then moves to describe the intoxication & why that is preferred to all sobriety. Such is this state that he realises that those who we are in the role to help are incapable to do so. He then summarises this state of love & its primary trait closing with the invitation & reassurance that all are welcome to this state of being as occasionally availed by the high priest himself.

 

While perhaps Ghalib might not have intended this, this ghazal is brilliant study in human psychology & even runs parallel to the Bhagavad Gita. In there, a confused Arjuna, besotted by desire to please, to conform, to gain the heavens, to be respected, approaches Krishna who assures him that the individual is neither killer nor killed, especially when the life is completely devoted to the Parabrahman. Krishna then reveal the one key to unlock all confusion, which he assures Arjuna is all truth. Arjuna then beholds Krishna in all splendour before being made aware of the complete immersion that bhakti brings about. The worth of mere word-content of the scriptures, & all purported aides (priests, et al) for the seeker is dashed to the floor by Krishna in later chapters. The oneness of the God in which life & death merge, where all dichotomy ceases is beautifully mirrored here in the ghazal as well. I am sure one can draw parallels to other works exploring the confusion of the spiritual soul.

 

Ghalib ensures that this ghazal is accessible to a common man who is in love as well as one who grows in love to seek the union with the Divine. Thus, in fairly simple words, Ghalib weaves a tapestry of remarkable import. Hope you enjoyed the work of this poetic genius.

 

There are 2 shers which are commonly inserted in this ghazal and passed around as Ghalib's work. They do not belong there. Their worth is not in question & is left to the reader, but their lack of authenticity has been ascertained beyond doubt. I will refrain from translating them.

Khaali Haath Shaam Aayi Hai

Recently, I had the good fortune of translating a beautiful song for a dear friend who isn't Indian. I wanted to introduce her to non-classical Indian music which could very well represent what it once was. I chose this song.

This song is a splendid piece of poetry by Gulzar-sahab sung beautifully by Asha Bhosle-ji. The music is by Pancham-da. Dusky beauty Rekha is quite perfect for this song. The movie is Ijaazat. The YouTube video below is slightly out of sync though that doesn't spoil the song itself. There are other versions which would require you to sign in (wonder why, though).

Khaali haath shaam aayi hai, khaali haath jayegi

aaj bhi na aaya koi,

aaj bhi na aaya koi, khaali laut jayegi

Khaali haath shaam aayi hai, khaali haath jayegi

khaali haath shaam aayi hai

Empty handed has the evening come, empty handed it will depart.

Today too, none has come

Today too, whom I await hasn't come

Today, having not come, emptiness will return.

Empty handed has the evening come, empty handed it will depart.

Empty handed has the evening come.

aaj bhi na aaye aansoon

aaj bhi na bheege naina

aaj bhi na aaye aansoon

aaj bhi na bheege naina

aaj bhi yeh kori raina(2), kori laut jayegi

Today too tears do not well

Today too my eyes aren't moist

Today too tears do not well

Today too my eyes aren't moist

Today too they will be blank(2), and to the void return.

khaali haath shaam aayi hai, khaali haath jayegi

khaali haath shaam aayi hai

Empty handed has the evening come, empty handed it will depart.

Empty handed has the evening come.

raat ki siyahi koi,

aaye to mitaye naa

raat ki siyahi koi,

aaye to mitaye naa

aaj na mitaye to yeh(2), kal bhi laut aayegi

This night's dark stain (siyahi is actually ink but can be interpreted as a dark stain too)

Can be wiped if only someone would come

This night's dark stain

Can be wiped if only someone would come

If not wiped tonight(2), it (the darkness) will return tomorrow.

khaali haath shaam aayi hai, khaali haath jayegi

khaali haath shaam aayi hai

aaj bhi na aaya koi, khaali laut jayegi

Khaali haath shaam aayi hai, khaali haath jayegi

khaali haath shaam aayi hai

Empty handed has the evening come, empty handed it will depart.

Empty handed has the evening come.

Today too, none has come, hence, emptiness will return.

Empty handed has the evening come, empty handed it will depart.

Empty handed has the evening come.

Mohabbat hi na jo samjhe - Talat Mehmood

There are songs which are hardly recalled without a memory so strongly associated with it that I often wonder whether that song could have ever been heard elsewhere. One such song is "Mohabbat hi na jo samjhe" which clearly reminds me of H-467 (apartment number) with my National Panasonic stationed atop a wooden reaper L-angle stand in the corner. There my father would play Talat Mehmood songs for himself, though I strongly suspect he wanted us to hear them and have them play in our heads for decades to come. I don't recall him ever getting into a protracted discussion about the merits of classical music (or anything, for that matter) but slowly infused our lives and consciousness with material which have, although I repeatedly deny it, influenced our tastes significantly. Sometimes I feel all I need is a son and a daughter (or two daughters) with whom I can revisit this entire world and recreate it for them without making it their world.

Shakespeare, Talat Mehmood, Ghazals, Yesudas and many more threads wove into the fabric of what I am without being all the fabric I have - like a beautiful butter-white silk stole floating in the air and when you thought that that was all, you find a glistening thread of gold woven into in, unknown till then, but surely there.

"Mohabbat hi na jo samjhe" is a ghazal where the poet has chosen (or was told) not to embed his name in it. Noor Lucknowi wrote this gem of a ghazal which at once satisfies the wants of a movie as well as of a poetry aficionado. The music director is C Ramachandra and the movie is Parcchaayin (Shadow).

Love in Urdu has several words which each focus on a different facet of it - mohabbat, ishq, pyaar, chaahat, aashiqui and much more. English too might conjure words to watch like love, affection, caring but they tend to make the intent clear. Clearly pyaar is placed on a higher pedestal in this ghazal. Some poets would regard mohabbat as being the epitome of love. The movie Aashiqui felt differently. Hence, I don't think any translation could do justice to what the poet might have felt or wanted to say.

Mohabbat hi no jo samjhe, woh zaalim pyaar kya jaane

Nikalti dil ki taaron se, jo hai jhankaar kya jaaney.

For one who understand not passion, what would she, of love, know.

From the strings of the heart, what would she, of such music, know.

Usey to qatl karna aur tadpaana hi aata hai

Gala kis ka kata kyun kar kata talvaar kya jaane.

All she knew was to annihilate and torture

Whose neck and why it was cut, what would a sword know.

Dava se faayda hoga ke hoga zeher-e-kaatil se

Maraz ki kya dava hai, ye koi bimaar kya jaaney.

Would one benefit from salves or from the poison that kills

The cure to such ailment, how would any lover know.

Karo fariyaad sar takarao, apni jaan de daalo

Tadapte dil ki haalat husn ke deewaar kya jaaney.

Lament hoarse, bang your head against the wall, give up your life

Such a suffering heart's anguish, what would the wall of beauty know.

This song sung in the silken voice of Talat Mehmood is beautiful in the way it lingers in one's mind, humming in the slightest moment when all is still and none occupy it. Such is the fabric of this music that it fills my veins and brings warmth on a cold Winter evening.

Ninne Kandu Kothi

Some memories don't stand alone by themselves. They hold hands with and usher in others and before you know it, your entire life blossoms all over again with a different cynosure every time. How amusing it is to find a slightly different life pulled up in front of you every time based on what you started with. Like a vast flat landscape pinched by Providence's hand and pulled up to create different scenes. How much we might try to isolate that one gem from the bag of glass marbles which we reach into! How much we claim to want just that as if it is merely the fall of Autumn, an ochre leaf which we can place between page 216-217, forget for a while and then exclaim in genuine joy in having found it after several years making your day smile with the same sunshine as that day when you had found this leaf. See? How can that leaf come alone to you without the sunshine of that day? That Tuesday, when you had asked L to meet you by the bridge and then she called to tell you that she would be late? When you were angry that she always did that but were forced to smile when that little boy ran behind his Golden Retriever, and in his wake, you saw this one leaf drunkenly trip over every passing waft on its way down to the dry earth? You walked up to it and picked it up thinking you would gift it to L. She would be touched, you had thought. She would be touched to know that you see her in everything in your life. She would, wouldn't she? What happened afterwards perhaps shortens your smile now, but that day... how could it not warm your heart? That day when you ingenuously believed in the goodness of people and the sweetness of romance. That day and days thereafter dragged into your today by a single withered leaf skeleton, holding just a fragment of what it was that day, but fresh with the memories of that day, full, warm and still populated with that funnily fragrant canine still running after so many years. No, ladies and gents, memories aren't as fragmented as we would like them to be.

Though we had a Murphy radio entertaining us through the early days of my life, all I remember of it is the rough cloth which covered the speakers. It was the colour of mustard and honey. I don't even have a picture with it though there is this really cute picture of my sister sitting on it. Yes, the music systems of the yesteryears weren't an iPod and people could actually sit on them (imagine someone sitting on your iPod Nano). Most of my recollections are from the time when we bought a National Panasonic two-in-one music system (the first in the entire family). I recall my uncle brining it with him to Bombay (where we lived) and I enjoyed it. When he was leaving, everyone told me that he was taking it back and what was placed on the shelf was actually a cardboard replica! I wept my heart out and perhaps even hated my uncle for doing this to me. I realised the prank later on, and felt rather stupid though infinitely more relieved that my music system was still with me. I listened to my first Michael Jackson and Madonna tracks on it (blue and white Maxwell brand cassettes).

But there are other genres which I was exposed to which seems to have defined my tastes and sensibilities. I would, surely, write about them some other day and would restrict this post to the collection of Ayyappa songs my father had. We rarely chose what was played, when he was around. He was the king of the house. When he wasn't around or when he was involved in something else, we would play some of our choices. Given that we never bought tapes on our own (the concept of pocket money was sacrilegious) our selections were a subset of what he thought was good music albeit not his favourite. Dad's collection of Ayyappa bhajans were nearly all sung by Yesudas (or Jesudas). His voice carried the melody and overflowing love that is vital for singing bhajans. I remember singing those bhajans in words made up to sound like the ones that were being sung. We understood none of the words nor their import, but somehow, in all that ignorance, we recognised Beauty and tried our best to mimic it in the hope that our hours be filled with the same goodness that we heard on tape.

Of the many songs that played through the chambers of my childhood, I will present and translate one of them. I do not know Malayalam (though I can understand the gist of a conversation) and hence, sought the help of a couple of Mallu friends (thanks to you, D). What I offer is to the best of what I carry with me. All errors welcome correction. Before you read my translation, I would request you to wait for the evening and when no one is at home, switch off the lights and listen to the attached song. Close your eyes, too. Once done please read the translation (yes, wipe those tears, too). I agree that the background score is not necessarily the most apt, but that is merely an infinitesimal blemish (like that on the moon). Nevertheless, it is far far more melodious than what is currently boomed out of speakers on roadsides during the Dec.-Jan. months (esp. in Madras). Sheesh!

Ninne_Kandu.mp3

[Refrain]

Ninne kandu kothi theernoru kannukalundo

Ninne thozhuthu thripthiyadanja kaiyyukalundo

Ninne kumbittaashasamecha shirassukalundo

Ninte naamam paadi maduthoru naavukalundo

Ayyappa...ayyappa...swami ayyappa [Refrain]

Having glimpsed your beauty once, can anyone's eyes be satiated?

Having prayed to your glory, can there be hands that have had enough?

Bowing down to your greatness, are there foreheads which won't repeat [bowing]?

Is there a tongue which sang your praise and felt tired?

Ayyappa, Ayyappa, Lord Ayyappa!

Kandaal mathi vannidumo ninnude komala roopam

Kettaal mathi vannidumo ninnude keerthana jaalam

Kaduppamaanennaalum kerum karineelaadrikalil

Maduppu vannidumo manikanda chavittuvaan veendum

Ayyappa...ayyappa...swami ayyappa (refrain)

When my eyes see, all they see is your soft features.

When my ears listen, all they hear are praises sung to you.

However daunting the stride, I would still climb Karimala (Kari+aadri)

Can I ever tire, Manikanda, to climb your hill (to see you)?

Ayyappa, Ayyappa, Lord Ayyappa.

(Manikandan is one of the names of Lord Ayyappa and it also happens to be one of mine!!!)

Orikkal nin mala pon mala pookiya bhakthanu veendum

Orukkamalle bhagavaane pon padikal kereedaan

Thudichidum nin chaithannya palaazhiyile

Poonthein thirakalil mungi kulikkuvaan kothiyillaathavarundo

Ayyappa...ayyappa...swami ayyappa (refrain)

Having once been blessed with a trip up your golden hill

Aren't they drawn to climbing it (the golden steps) all over again, Oh Lord!?

Oh Chaitanya! In your throbbing ocean of milk

Doesn't everyone want to bathe in those nectar sweet waves?

Ayyappa, ayyappa, Lord Ayyappa.

Somehow, these songs and others remind me of a time when life was a lot simpler and filled with moments of joy. As we grow up, we seem to be empowered to rid our lives of difficulties and fill it with joy, but we seem to be largely incapable. Why else would people always miss those days?

Tere Bina Jiya Jaaye Na - Ghar

I have been wanting to translate this song for a while. I love this song and it is definitely one of my favourites. Recently a lady wrote me an email which I paste below:

Hello,

I was wondering if you could translate this verse, which is in Hindi, to English.

My friends have expressed what it means, but it sounds peculiar.

You did a lovely job translating the song, "Aaj jaane ki zid na karo"; and I thought you maybe you can have try with this.

"Jab Bhee Khayaalon Mein Too Aaye, Mere Badan Se Khushaboo Aaye"

I would be very grateful if you could.

Thanks

A

It is not often that one receives a request to translate and rarer still based on the goodness of a previous work. I was quite pleased that the love and attention given to the translation of “Aaj Jaane Ki Zidd Na Karo” was communicable and it had reached the far shores of the Western hemisphere (from where A hails). As much as I believe that translations kill the original work or are beautiful in a manner disconnected to the original work (except in being recognized as a translation), I also hold that translations provide an opportunity to recognise the nuances of languages and the possibility of certain expressions which might jar in an ear connected to a foreign tongue. Translations also re-open conversations especially the one in the poet’s mind while s/he was composing the poem. One could never really know what made the poet say something in a particular manner, but to allow the words to buoy one’s imagination, to allowe for conversations around the possibilities and the several interpretations possible, makes translation an interesting indulgence. When in Urdu, one can say Ishq, Pyaar and Muhabbat and shift the window slightly to give you a different view of the landscape of love outside, then it makes for very interesting conversation. To anyone who just said “Oh! They are all the same. E, just romantises things!” here is a line from a beautiful song – Muhabbat bhi na jo samjhe, woh zaalim pyaar kya jaane. I will leave you with that to mull over it and spend wonderful afternoons under the sieved sun thinking about how beautiful that line might be.

The song I am going to translate is from the movie Ghar. This song has been sung by Lata Mangeshkar (and many others thereafter but none matching the sweetness of the original rendition) and composed by Gulzar. The music is composed by R.D.Burman (absolutely brilliant job). The name of the song is “Tere bina, jiya jaaye na”. What I love about the music is the sheer the exultation in the tempo when the song starts. Unlike the mindset of having soft music for ballads, the music is rather energetic but still goes very well with the song. I have known composers who either make the song sound like soft rock music with all the metal and drums. Here is a piece that brings in the energy without making it the focus (ask most people who love this song and they would not praise the energy of the music but usually just the lyrics and/or voice). Of course, this translation is dedicated to A, wherever you are! :-)

Refrain: Tere bina, jiya jaaye na (4)

Bin tere, tere bin, saajana.

Saans mein saans aaye na, oh oh oh.

Without you, my life flows not

Without your (love), without you, my lover

My breath is sans life’s breath.

[Jab bhi khayaalon mein tu aaye

Mere badan se khushboo aaye] (2)

When you fill my mind

My body is fragranced

[Notes for this couplet will be added at the end of this post]

Meheke badan mein raha na jaaye

Raha jaaye na.

In a fragranced body, I can't habit

I can't live then.

[Refrain]

Reshami raatein roz na hongi

Yeh saugaatein roz na hongi

Such silken nights are not forever

Such fortunes are not forever

Zindagi tuj bin raas na aaye

Raas aaye na.

Life without you has no flavour

Flavourless it is.

[Refrain]

Here is a snippet of the discussion I had with A.

Jab bhi khayaalon mein tu aaye, mere badan se khushboo aaye

Jab: When
bhi: ever
khayaalon: thoughts
mein: in
tu: you
aaye: come
Mere: my
badan: body
se: from
khushboo: fragrance
aaye: come

As with most good poetry, there cannot be a singular interpretation and definitely not when taken out of context. Here the context is being set for the line that follows "Meheke badan mein raha na jaaye, raha jaaye na". Else, that singular line, would sound too unctuous (IMO). And, with every interpretation comes a translation.
What the poet might be trying to say is:
"Whenever I think of you, my entire body is fragranced" which is rather terse and does injustice to the poet.
"When you come to my mind, you fill my body with a wonderful fragrance" would be the normal interpretation.
I would look at it differently:
"When you fill my mind, I smell (of) our beautiful union (hence, the fragrance)" which then fits with the next line "And in such a fragranced body (reminding me of our union), I am left breathless"
(Mehake badan mein, raha na jaaye, simply means that "In that fragranced body I am unable to live").
The reason I prefer this, is that a recollection is of the mind, and when a lover remembers the other, it is rare that the love is recollected as a picture on a wall. It is usually recalled as moments of togetherness (imagined or past). Hence, the fragrance that is also imagined is typically of the togetherness.
Another, rather sensuous, interpretation is:
"When I think of you, the woman in me emerges (as a fragrance)" this is in the esoteric notion of a woman smelling different when aroused (and if you have a good nose, you would know).
This interpretation too fits with the next line "And in that fragrance (i.e. the woman in me finds) being by myself is unbearable" (Mehake badan mein raha na jaaye). This might also fit with the seductive on-screen appeal that Rekha had on many viewers.
As a verse in English:
At those moments whenever you pass my mind
Each fragment in me is that fragrance you signed.

This is one of those songs which can never cease to evoke a smile. Salut to all the great artists who gave us this wonderful world of sounds and beauty.

Aaj Jaane Ki Zid Na Karo - An Experiment

I first heard this in the movie Monsoon Wedding. I felt quite embarrassed having to confess that I hadn't heard this one before (though I had heard Farida Khanum earlier). This beautiful nazm is written by Faiyyaz Hashmi and has been sung by many singers though Farida Khanum's rendition stands out. It would be wise to listen to it first!

This is an experiment in rendering a nazm. Below, you will hear the song - half sung, half recited - with a background score from an entirely unrelated source. I am not sure whether it will be to your taste, nevertheless, here goes:





Translation:
The reader should note that I translate the last stanza differently and the ones you might find elsewhere all follow one particular translation. Only the poet can confirm which is the true one (and he left this mortal earth way before I was born).


[Aaj jaane ki zid na karo
Yoon hi Pehlu mein baittey raho
Aaj jaane ki zid na karo.

Don't insist on leaving tonight
Just sit by my side
Don't press on leaving tonight.

Hai! mar jaayenge, hum to lutt jaayenge
Aaisi baatein kiya na karo.

"Alas! I shall die, I shall be undone"
Don't speak such words.

Aaj jaane ki zid na karo.
Don't insist on leaving tonight.]

Tum hi socho zara
Kyoon na rokey tumhe
Jaan jaati hai jab utt ke jaatey ho tum (2)
Tumko apni kasam, jaane jaan
Baat itni meri maan lo.

Please reflect on this
Why should I not withhold you?
My life ebbs as you rise to leave my company
My love, swear by me (that)
My smallest whim you'll grant.

[...]

Waqt ki kaid mein zindagi hai magar, (2)
Chand ghadiyaan yahi hain jo aazaad hain (2)
Inko khokar meri jaane jaan
Umr bhar na taraste raho

In Time's shackles is life, nevertheless
Fleeting moments are these that are truly free.
Having lost them, my love
Don't thirst for them eternally.

[...]

Kitna masoom rangeen hai ye sama
Husn aur ishq ki aaj meraj hai (2)
Kal ki kisko khabar jaane jaan
Rok lo aaj ki raat ko

So innocently variegated is the world
Beauty and Love are in ascension
Who has ever known what tomorrow brings?
Please pause this night (before it's too late).

[...]

In the last stanza, several sites quote the line as "Husn aur Ishq ki aaj mein raaj hai" which would mean "Beauty and Love are ruling tonight" or as this site interprets it. I am uncomfortable with that interpretation as it doesn't sound right to the ear nor does the meaning hold aesthetically well. Meraj is the day when Prophet Muhammad ascended to the heavens and the word Meraj is used (usu. in Islamic contexts) to mean the ascension or the perfecting of a soul. Here, the poet possibly means that Beauty and Love have risen tonight to that level of perfection that they could well meet with Allaah (not pronounced Ala or Alla but Allaah with a stress on the 2nd syllable). Hence, Husn aur Ishq ki aaj meraj hai. Of course, I could be wrong, but I prefer this interpretation till I am corrected.

Land of the dead

I have lost this post more than once to Blogger. Everytime I hit a "Publish" it publishes nothing. No, I mean it. It publishes nothing. My whole post just vanishes!! Truly the Land of the dead

---------------------------------------------

I have been wanting to write this post since several months, but haven't yet found time, i.e. till today. I really liked the way Agnee has rendered the song very very well. To those who know very little about Kabir, please read this, this and this. I have been reading (like many Indian students who study Hindi in school) his dohas from a very young age but understood less of them then. I love the way Mohan (I think) has sung this song. Nice earthy touch to it in a full throated depth.

Sadho re! Ye Murdon ka gaon
Sadho re! Ye murdon ka gaon, Ye murdon ka gaon.
Oh Seeker! This is the land of the dead, the ghost's land indeed.

Peer marey, paigambar maree hai
Seers have died, the Divine have died too (Paigambar means one whose feet are set in the heavens)

Mari hai zinda jogi (Agnee sings it as Mar gaye instead of Mari)
Dead is the living Yogi (Beautiful line!)

Raja mari hai, parja mari hai
Kings have died, subjects have died.

Mar gaye baid aur rogi
The healer and diseased have died too.

Sadho re! Ye murdon ka gaon, Ye murdon ka gaon.
Oh Seeker! This is the land of the dead, the ghost's land indeed.

[The following lines in blue are not in the song above]
Chanda mari hai, suraj mari hai
The Moons die and so do the Suns

Mari hai dharni akasa
Dead is the Earth and firmament.

Chaudan bhuvan ke chadhary mari hai
The lords of the fourteen worlds are dead too

In hoon kee kaa aasaa?
Then why desire any of them? OR What hope do any of them house? (not sure)

Nau hoon mari hai, Das hoon mari hai
They have died in single and double digits (I interpret 9-nau and 10-das to signify the numerocity of deaths)

Mari hai sahaj atthaasee
Effortlessly die the infinite ( I interpret 88-atthaasee to signify the infinite, 8 does look like the infinity symbol on alert!!)

Thaenthees koti devata mari hai
The various Gods we believe in, are dead too

Badi kaal ki baazi
Great is the play of Time.

Naam anaam anant rahat hai
Our effort to categorise (name) this world and proclaim the unnamed, lives on.

Dooja tatva na hoi
There is no other truth to this.

Kahe Kabir, suno bhai sadho,
Says Kabir, Listen Oh! Seeker.

Bhatak maro mat koi.
Don't lose yourself to death/the dead.

(For the song in Devanagari, please click here (thanks to Nila-Kantha-Chandra)


An interpretation:
Kabir is probably not being casual or simplistic when he says that nearly everyone is "dead". He seems to use the word dead to the common effect of one who hasn't lived, esp. lived the Divine. Undoubtedly, this keeps changing depending on the "person" whom he proclaims "dead".
In the first few lines, he denounces the teachings of all great saints and seers. This is very much like the Dao story about the Master reading all the ancient texts and the smith passing his comment about they all being a waste. In Dao too, the very first stanza declares that no uttered word is the real Dao. Kabir, too, seems to follow that path in declaring all seers as dead. They have had their time and are now dead (literally). To cling to them is as ridiculous as clinging to a corpse in the hope that one can gain whatever he had when alive. What the seers have realised is purely theirs. To know the Divine requires to be reborn every single minute and know the Divine for oneself rather than follow Google Maps to Heaven! To be reborn, also requires one to die every single minute, and hence the living Yogi is actually dead (he is not what you saw, and just died to what you see). Those who were the messengers of the Lord, have done their bit and died. They were dead to this world the minute they knew the Divine, though they appear alive in the land of the dead.
The great achiever dies (the king) and so do the insignificant multitude that crowds this earth. Neither of them pause to connect to the Divine. The King is in the grips of his power and wishes to maintain his position, the commoner is struggling to live and make life manageable, unable to spare a minute to do anything about that which never dies (the soul). Thus, he kills both the named and the unnamed though the naming and living in oblivion is deathless. In Sankhya, the Purusha (unnamed/unqualified) and the Prakriti (qualified/categorised based on guna) are eternal and are the cause of this world. 
Every person who tries to realise this truth (the healer/priest) dies too (whether he was successful or not) and so does the diseased (the person who is caught up in his individual complaints and worries) because neither attempt to realise that which cannot be tainted. The Divine is not available to atrophy. The decay of the body is a matter of chemistry and one who can break all vulnerability can keep his body and soul alive forever (reminds me of the story of the Lost Horizon by James Hilton, one of my favourites from school). To the rational mind, this appears weird and unproven, hence, unreliable. To the blinded mind, this is possible as is anything else. It is the gnostic mind that smiles (well, it always was). 
The elements in their very nature die every minute and are reborn. They are consumed and return to this earth in various other forms. The human mind worries about extinction and erosion. The Earth does not. The universe does not. Nothing of this universe prevents a man from doing what he wants to do, because the universe knows, that nothing of the rational mind can thieve that which is eternal. In that, the universe always lives and neither hinders nor assists the individual or collective body. None of elements have any desire nor do they function in discordance with the Divine will. They follow and hence, have their own way.
In all their physicality, every single creature that is born, has died. Why does anyone wish otherwise? Why is the timeless not preserved? We cling to that which is of time and then blame Time for its expiry. How amusing is the way of the people here in the land of the dead!
That which we name, probably lives down centuries. That which we haven't been able to name, lives on. We never stop naming (and hence, forming cults and sects) and often do so in an attempt to grasp the unnamed. As is also said in the Dao Duh Jiing (I finally found some wonderful Chinese folks to pronounce it for me!), our need to recognise and recall creates the named and going beyond all of that creates in us no need to deal with the named. The named world dies and repeatedly, so Oh seeker, why do you wish to lose yourself in the dead? Why, oh! why do you wish to not unify with the Divine but die? You roam this world in search for that one which won't die but refuse to hold it in you. You seek laurels that are eternal and friends who will always be with you. You seek leaders who are flawlessly living forever and spend your time amidst people who die due to the very fact of their ineptitude and disconnect. You look for Gods to keep you alive when they themselves have died to that need and hence, live on forever. Why lose yourself in this land of the dead? And in wandering like this, why do you lose yourself to death?


Please watch the video in this post. I like the way they have captured the commonness of man (and death is the only common thing to all men) with a little innocent girl running around the streets. I also like the scenes shot in the ghat. Watch it quick as they seem to be disappearing from YouTube! The video that I now have in this post is the complete one but I sure didn't like the end with the "priests" dancing with the band. If you want an idea of the hairstyle I am sporting, trim the singer's hair some more!!! :-)