no milestone, no destination, no way out.
If anyone walks fast, fancy asks:
why hasn’t someone shouted to stop him?
And if somebody waves his hand, a doubt nags:
why hasn’t anyone heard a chain clank?
If you look at the city from here, you’d realize
that in the entire crowd, there’s nobody really
dignified,
nobody truly sagacious; every young man’s neck
in a noose,
every woman a branded slave.
The shadows which waver round the distant lamps—
who knows if it’s an assembly of grieving or
carousing men,
and all those hues which appear scattered on every
door and wall—
seen from here it could be the blood or flowers.
Blackout
Since the lamps have been snuffed out
I have been seeking in the dust:
somewhere I’ve lost both my eyes.
Since you know me, tell me some mark of my being.
It’s as if into every vein has seeped
some lethal river of poison, wave after wave.
With my yearning for you, and remembrance,
O my love,
I wonder in which wave my heart has been wallowing.
Hold on for a moment, for
from across some world will flash toward me
lightning, with a luminous hand,
bringing back to me the lost pearls of my eyes
drunk on the cup of darkness—
my new night-illumining eyes.
Just hold on for a while so that
somewhere the river spreads itself out
and my nascent heart, abluted in poison, will perish
to resurrect itself and touch some wharf.
Then again will I set out, with the offering of a
new heart,
a new vision, to raise a hymn to beauty
and versify passion.
Let Me Think
Let me think, just awhile—
in this garden
which at this moment is not even a wilderness,
on which bough sprouted the primal flowers
and which flower first blanched
with grief and fatigue?
And before this—
at which moment, and during which season
were we struck with the drought of blood
and the flower’s jugular vein smarted
under time’s harshness—
let me think.
Let me think a little.
This teeming city, now not even a
desolate valley—
here, when and where
did the first fire break out;
in which one of its arrayed windows
was first born the arc of blood-drenched flames—
and where did the first light flash?
Let me think.
You ask me the whereabouts of that country
whose history and geography now elude my memory
and, if at all recalled somehow,
it’s like a beloved of the past
encountering whom, face to face,
the heart feels unnerved—
but yes, as if someone
just to cheer up his lover,
shows up sometime to spend the night.
I have now reached that point
when even if I go over to meet my beloved
it will be just for ritual’s sake.
What’s there to ask of my heart?—
let me think!
Heart Attack
Pain so intense that night, my savage heart
wanted to grapple with every artery,
and drip from every pore,
and out there, as though in your courtyard,
each leaf, bathed in my despondent blood,
began to look pale in the moonlight.
In my body’s desert places, it seemed
as if, all the fibres of my wincing veins, undone,
began shooting out signals, ceaselessly—
preparations for the departure of love’s caravan.
And when, in memory’s fading lights,
there emerged somewhere before the eye,
one last moment of your love’s kindness—
the pain was so lacerating that
it ventured to overstep the moment.
I too willed to hold on to it,
but the heart would not agree.
Quatrain
My vow of restraint, also my desire’s covenant.
Pain so intense, there’s a riot in every vein—
and such tranquility that I’d rather cease to be.
Somewhere Near the Pillow
Somewhere near the pillow, the night’s fading away
or is it the candle melting?
Something is burning within me—
is that your memory, or my life
seeking to depart.
A verse from an enchanting singer that sets the
body afire—
a bowl of wine from an alluring cupbearer that may
turn your head;
a mention of the morning when the beloved’s face lent
its colour to the garden;
the memory of the night when your beloved was
in your arms.
When the Heart’s Bad Blood
When the heart’s bad blood welled up, layer by layer,
in my eyes, there was no other way but to give in
to the counsellor,
and I washed my dust-filled eyes with blood.
And now every object of this sentient world
is so tinted with the blood of my eyes that
bloody is the sun’s gold,
bloody the moon’s silver
the morning’s laughter,
the night’s cries—
every tree is a minaret of blood
every flower blood-eyed,
every glance a streak of blood
every reflection blood-soaked.
So long as the blood flows in the vein, its red
is the red of the desire for martyrdom—
pain, rage or sorrow—
and if the flow ceases, it blackens
into mere hate, night, death—
into the mourning shade of every colour.
O my adviser, don’t let this happen—
bring me from somewhere a deluge of tears
which may perhaps wash the blood
out of my eyes, my dust-filled eyes.
A Wish
I have no faith in miracles
but this wish I do nurture
that when death carries me away from the world,
it should grant me this permission, just once
that I may return from the grave
and, knocking at your door, cry out
if you need a consoler
I’m here.
And if you don’t need one,
I may return again to the other world.
Anniversary
Bring up some wine, it’s a poet’s anniversary!
What has not come his way—office, title, status.
There’s just this snag though, that the one eulogized
never wrote a single line worthy of any book.
Day and Night
Darkness a net, and light a spear;
day a hunter, and so is the night.
This world is a sea in which, far from the shore,
live Adam’s progeny, like the fish.
The world is a sea on whose shore stand
the fishermen;
some holding nets, others spears.
Who knows when my turn will come
to be hunted down by the day’s spear,
or be caught in the night’s net?
All That You Ever Said to Me
All that you ever said to me
embellished my verse;
all my metaphors were a gift from you—
of colour and fragrance, of beauty and grace.
Indeed, there were other props too for my life,
before your pledges and promises,
while counting all those gems and rubies
your sorrow had bestowed on my heart,
all the stars from the sky’s platter
fell into my lap.
Oh, to pray for my eternal life—
when, O Faiz, was she ever so much mine?
If Pain Could Speak
My pain, a voiceless song,
my being a nameless mote.
If only my pain could speak,
I’d know who I am.
And if my self could find its essence,
I’d unravel the mystery of this world.
If I could seize this hidden mystery,
my silence would find expression.
Then would I lord it over the universe,
possess all treasures of the two worlds.
Quatrain
A thousand aches in the pathway of the
night of desire.
Show me some shelter so the caravan may
come to rest.
Come closer still to me so that my eager eyes
may be satiated.
Bring me some wine, more wine, so that my
intoxication may wear off.
Wash the Blood off Your Feet
What could we do—where could we go?
Thorns were strewn on every pathway.
Those bonds, now sundered—
Those friendships of centuries
broken, one by one;
whichever way we went, in whatever direction,
the feet were bathed in blood.
Said all those who saw;
what rite is this,
why these hennaed feet?
Said they: why this futile talk
about the drought of loyalty?
Wash the blood off your feet!
When these pathways will be closed,
a hundred new routes will branch out.
You’d better hold your heart
in which a hundred different lancets will break.
Evening, Be Gracious
O evening, be gracious—
O evening of the city of friends
be gracious to me.
The hellish noon of oppression,
senseless cruelties,
the noon of pain, rage and sorrow,
inarticulate pain, rage and sorrow,
the whiplashes of this demonic noon—
are all, like the rainbow, branded on my body,
arc within arc.
I thought the scars had vanished
but now even the wounds have come alive.
Surely, there must be something
in your sack—a shawl
to cover up that part of the body
where the pain is most intense.
O evening, be gracious—
O evening of the city of friends,
be gracious to me.
The infernal wilderness of scorn,
callous scorn—
splinters of jealous eyes—
the litter of estrangement.
Such dreary highways,
so many crowded abattoirs,
through which we have passed,
like blisters at every step.
This is how our feet have been bruised,
pathways have shrunken.
Spread out today your velvety clouds
under our feet;
be the alleviator of suffering wayfarers.
O evening, be gracious.
O moon of the night of love,
O consoler of agonized hearts
commune with us this evening.
O evening, be gracious;
O evening of the city of friends,
be gracious to us.
Some Love, Some Work
Fortunate indeed were those
who took love as their business
or were in love with whatever they did.
I remained busy all my life—
some love, some work.
Work came in the way of love
and love often impeded work.
Then, finally, in disgust, giving it all up,
I forsook them both, half done.
My Heart, My Fellow Traveller
O my heart, my fellow traveller,
once again it’s decreed
that we should both be exiled,
let our wailings resound down every lane,
wend our way from town to town
to pick up some friend
with a message from the beloved.
We shall ask every stranger
about our last dwelling.
Standing at the head of some lane where strangers live,
as the day will pass into night,
I’ll hold in talk
sometimes this one, sometimes that one.
How shall I tell you
what a curse the night of separation is!
Even dying would be endurable
if one could keep count
of the myriad deaths.
Death would not have mattered to us at all
if it would strike only once!
Today Again is Imagination Seeking a Word
Today again is imagination seeking a word—
some word sweet, or a word soaked in venom.
A word alluring, a word dreadful;
a word of love, enthralling as love’s glance
which my eye meets, like the meeting of lips—
effulgent like the crest of a wave of gold.
A word like a prelude to merriment in the
beloved’s company,
or a word of hate, like an angry sword
that could destroy all the cities of oppression,
till eternity—
a word as dark as the night in a crematorium,
so dark that if uttered it may blacken the lips.
All the Flowers Have Withered Away
All the flowers have withered away.
No let up in the flow of the sky’s tears.
The lamps have gone lustreless,
the mirrors lie shattered,
and all the orchestras have played
themselves out.
The ankle-bells have done their jingling
and behind the clouds,
far away, this night’s beloved,
the star of pain
is twinkling
tinkling
smiling.
Some Lover to His Beloved
If in memory’s garden today, the breeze blows
this moment,
again longing to scatter flowers, then let it be.
If in the niche of days gone by, some forgotten pain
again yearns to be rekindled, then let it be.
Let it be as you’d meet a stranger—
come, just sit there in front of me for a while.
If we’d get together, you and me, then
our sense of loss will grow still more intense;
if we’d lend ourselves to a little talk; between words
there’ll hang a fine screen of things left unsaid.
Neither will I remind you of any vow, nor you—
there’ll be not a word about commitment
or callousness.
To wipe out the writing of time’s dust,
if my eyes speak when I glance at you,
you may listen if you like, or not if you don’t.
And if your evasive eyes choose to censure me,
you may say anything you like, or nothing
if you don’t.
We Poets
We were there—in every age, in every clime,
drinking poison, singing songs;
we kept sacrificing ourselves for life’s sake—
fo
r the moment of rapture at love’s union.
We kept squandering away our treasure of
spirit and matter,
holding on to our provision of deprivation and hunger.
Whatever path we chose, we stuck to it
even while the affluent kept staring at us disdainfully,
reproachfully, rubbing their palms.
On them we hurled the stone of the word of truth
whose dread kept the world reeling.
And for those who’d none to shed tears over,
our eyes rained tears for their sorrow.
At the ruler’s command, we went out of sight,
endured prisons, suffered flogging.
As people listened to the strains of our hearts’ cries,
our songs kept filtering through the prison bars.
We are the blood-stained mirrors of this
blood-stained world,
we are the sorrowful heart of anguished humankind.
A poet’s temper is to battle against injustice and
tyranny;
we are the arbiters of good and evil, right and wrong.
This is the Moment to Mourn Time
The sky’s stream has come to a standstill.
There, the moon’s dismal coloured boat
has reached the horizon’s fringe.
All the boatmen, all the stars,
have landed on the earth’s shore—
The leaves are panting for breath,
the winds have dozed off.
At daybreak, as silence was decreed,
all sounds faded away.
From the breasts of the fair damsel of dawn
has slipped off the shawl of darkness
and instead
are now scattered all over her body—
the shadows of desolate loneliness.
Neither does the dawn know,
nor anybody else, where
at dusk he’s set out to go,
leaving the city.
No pathway, no destination;
no traveller has now any inclination for journeying.
This moment, the chain of day and night
seems broken at some point.
This is the moment to mourn time.