I go at dawn to fetch water.
My heart flutters—
What if seizing my arm he calls me
and the smoldering heap suddenly flares up?
Gently blows the breeze.
My longing for a swindler has deceived me,
gently blows the breeze.
Trees sway, eyes cannot sleep,
gently blows the breeze.
Translated from Punjabi by Amritjit Singh and Waqas Khwaja
Spinning Party
Why should I spin, why weave, mother of sorrows?
Today the courtyard lies forsaken,
for a band of traveling peddlers
has stolen the clink of bangles—
a bonfire of sighs, mother,
for the laughter of virgins today.
Which way should I go—
forward, backward, left or right?
On every side Kaidos or Kheras
Who have harried a hundred thousand Heers,
A hundred thousand Ranjhas burned alive.
With whom can I share my woes,
mother of tears?
I spin and weep continually,
pulling bobbin after spooled bobbin.
I ache for my father’s home
and twice as much I miss my brothers,
but to whom shall I reveal my heart’s anguish?
No one shares my pain.
Separated from my brothers,
I sigh endlessly—my father’s house
is but a dream today,
the spinning sisterhood now a party of one.
Even the wheel’s hum
startles and alarms me.
With balls of cotton thread, dear mother,
I wipe my weeping eyes,
but my tears refuse to dry,
mother of hope.
No henna traced on my palms,
no good luck threads or bracelets,
no friends sang my wedding songs,
no sisters-in-law applied the kohl,
no groom arrived wearing a wedding headdress
nor brothers blessed my departing doli—
whomever could seize another’s arm
dragged her away.
Snakes hiss on all sides,
a hundred thousand tears cry out,
but no one hears their voice.
Those who set fire with their own hands,
they who dwell in palaces and mansions,
all God’s creation is in their hands.
In state assemblies and courts,
they sit adjusting their turbans,
sit tall and upright.
What do they know of our grief?
We are but serfs, mere hired hands—
they, lords of the land,
mother of desires.
If, breaking into their mansions,
traveling peddlers were to steal
the clink of bangles,
then would I see, dear mother,
how these lords of the land,
they who dwell in mansions and palaces,
sit in state assemblies and courts
adjusting their turbans,
sit tall and upright!
Translated from Punjabi by Amritjit Singh and Waqas Khwaja
ZIA JALANDHARI
Portents of Good Tidings
I
I harbor a beautiful dream but am miserable
The heart dreads all auspicious signs
Flower bud, open your eye, gradually
Unfold little by little, slowly
Look! Lift your eyelashes and see
hearts split, wounds unhealed
Eyes sunk in an abyss of lamentation
Life ashamed of life itself
Our shattered dreams in heaps
bodies worn out, the spirit undone
Life, a desert of quicksand
Profitless grief, a consumptive chest
All desires unsatisfied
All regrets deadly
The eye’s pageants, a fleeting moment
The darkness of pain, unremitting
The heart frets at every auspicious sign
II
When bare branches had turned black
not a trace of sap left in their veins
the claws of predatory winds
that scratch and tear at the feathers of trees
retreated somewhere within soft paws
On the frozen lake
here and there on a sheet of ice
crystal circles of blue water
like glittering eyes
began to stir
and from the hand of melting ice
on all four sides the shore’s garment began to slip
Slowly, the lake became a mirror
On the stems of dry branches
knots like half-closed eyes broke open
to reveal
tiny flames of sprouting nubs
candles of soft unfolding buds
the harbingers of spring
Then suddenly
somewhere a fierce squall produced a gale
windstorms worked their havoc and destruction
branches everywhere shook and fell
Many times we have seen
before the arrival of springtime
seasons of spring obliterated
Now, again, spring approaches
and, again, I am afraid of the portents
Flower bud, open your eye, gradually
Unfold little by little, slowly
Translated from Urdu by Omer Khwaja
A Winter’s Evening
Autumn’s days are gone
Now, I ruminate
They were strange days, strange times, when eyes
peeked through the curtains of the imagination into
every nook and corner of the past
Days of autumn, as if someone in mature age
were content with the achievements of youth
Autumn, as if someone, in the sunlight of late afternoon, were enjoying a light sleep
as if drowsiness were brushing the eyelashes with its silky fingers
and, in this welcome tranquility, waves of a light breeze as if patting gently to sleep
The days of autumn were strange days
The petals of blooming flowers, long since fallen, had become one with dust and chaff
But those flowers were now gleaming fruit
that, heavy with nectar, glowed on bough and limb
This was fruit that the wind’s currents could never trouble
Eyes that once awaited spring
had now arrived at a fixed point
The days of autumn, as if some artist had perfected his art
On the wind’s tides even dry leaves had lost themselves in a song—
Here go the dry leaves, here they go
accompanying the wind, vagrants, nomads
away from these now desolate gardens
away from the canopy of trees
in whose arms they once grew and flourished
Here go the dry leaves, here they go
the caravan rolls, away from its past
remembering no more the moonlit night of bliss
nor anything from crowded gatherings
those days remain no more, gone are those tumults and passions
Here go the dry leaves, here they go
going where nothing will be
no trace of bygone springs
no care of sorrow or hurt
where the grief-stricken sleep in peace
Here go the dry leaves, here they go
Days of autumn are over
Now that they are gone, I have begun to think
Otherwise, as long as autumn lasted, my eyes remained wet with tears
The memory of spring was like the echo of a forgotten raga trembling in the heart
Spring, some ravishing girl in whose young body a rush of pleasure surged
Thi
s lovely girl, where was she now?
Her absence in slow autumn moments was making her dearer, most precious
Autumn, like some stonehearted singer, stirred the tales of days past
Only one voice welled up on all sides
In the garden, signs of spring have been extinguished
The tulip flame of passion is no more
There is silence, but no peace
Neither a rose leaf nor trace of delirium
A regret in every eye
No more now those longings, nor bits of cloud
Sustained by the memory of spring
How far can we bear this grief?
In garden after garden, signs of spring have been extinguished
Alarmed, the birds of the garden
wantons of spring overtaken by autumn
have lost the use of their wings
They have lost their charm and manner
They pick at their wings and feathers needlessly
Bewildered by autumn, they wonder
how now to spend their life
In garden after garden, signs of spring have been extinguished
The moments of autumn are gone
Even when autumn was at ease, it was not quite so contented
Even when autumn was cruel, it was not quite so stonehearted
He who has sometime seen a winter evening pass before his eyes, he knows
If someone, sometime, has lived alone in a snow-covered mountain valley
then he certainly knows
how death plays with life’s sad frame
Autumn, after all, was autumn—I was aware of destitution even in flowering springtime
But desires rustled within me in that state of indigence
Spring was, after all, spring—yet there was life even in autumn
But winter evening—
an icy indifference rules the whole world
I now yearn for the grief of straitened circumstances
There is no desire now that someone leap and touch the sky
and if any longing still lives in the heart
no one has the courage or wish to express it
for now winter evening spreads over the entire world
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
JANBAZ JATOI
Koël
Hearing the koël’s cries, my heart flutters with agitation,
every note of hers resounds with hurt and pleading.
How the poor dear wails, she is far from her beloved,
her pain cuts deep inside, perhaps she’s been forsaken.
Such mournful songs, so full of sorrow, she sets the heart to shivering—
desolate, tormented as though crucified, she weeps in her vexation.
For a parted lover every tree is like the Mount of Moses!
Sometimes she sits in the wilderness and keens, or suddenly takes wing,
despoiled by fortune, distant from friends, altogether helpless—
alas, the poor girl’s lamentations echo far and wide.
The naïve and guileless darling, distracted in her grief,
incessantly she cries and cries, “My beloved lies oblivious!
I suffer far from home, he is happy in his land.
Scanning roads and pathways, my eyes have lost their sight.
The river is a spate of sorrows, the shore seems far,
I will swim or else be swept across—that is, if God permits
(I offer thanks continually, I am indebted to His grace).
With all his charming talk, my love has my heart in thrall.”
Constantly she cries, forever cheerless and grief-stricken,
“Come, love, show me your face, for you stay always hidden.
Don’t be vain about your beauty, throw off, love, your pride!
From this impermanent world, dear heart, many loved ones have passed.
Not content, I wander restless, in my heart, this bleeding sore,
I raise a clamor, he replies with nothing—he is proud, so proud!
If others know the dear one better, I accept this as it is,
but how can I renounce him—when was this within my power?
I practice night and day the recitation of his name,
they desert, turn their face away—this is the custom of those we love.”
Unswerving lovers are bruised and battered, crushed to bits,
yet love’s path they do not leave, like Mansur they gladly mount the cross.
You too, my sweet, cry out, “I die! Death is all I wish.
I keep my promises—poet, write down these words!
My loyalty, his faithlessness, they are famed throughout the world.
The arbiter is in the heart, the universe, clemency itself.”
Rich, poor, peasant, worker—
Janbaz, everyone says: Alas! She is ground to death by separation.
Translated from Seraiki by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
ADA JAFFERY
Arrival of the Spring
To the first tree in the new house
Confidant of spring!
You, an innocent child
from some garden somewhere,
have come to me.
With such love
have I extended to you the hospitality
of a place in my courtyard.
Years shall pass.
Whenever spring comes,
you will scatter your songs
to the melody
of silken, flowering buds,
self-absorbed,
inscribe on the heart’s tablet
perfumed works of art.
The thinking of the young,
conceit of the beautiful,
are both alike—
before their own image
all colors pale.
When spring arrives,
who knows where I will be?
The foot-track of
destinations is made up of twists and turns.
You, of course, will forget
my warm hands,
the dreams in my eyes.
I will not,
for I am, intrinsically, a mother.
Translated from Urdu by Asif Farrukhi
Even Today
I understand that I
am free today of all my debts,
have paid the price of each and every smile,
sincerely renounced devotion and constancy,
resolved to quit making mistakes.
Now even I am condemned to have a life,
and this heart that is willful, ignorant—
in today’s age,
when sincerity, fidelity, and love too are official decrees,
when even tears have a price, scales everywhere to weigh and appraise—
this heart, even today,
longs for one spontaneous, uninhibited smile.
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
Listen
Love,
you have no idea!
People often get upset
that at no stage or turn does my story
run through a dark lane—
for you, drawing every color from rays of light,
have assigned to each footprint of mine the rainbow.
There are neither shadows of lost dreams
nor whispering moments of despair,
for a sturdy tree
holds in its innumerable hands
a tender vine.
No failure haunts this pathway.
What kind of a journey is this that its narrative
is not to be found in the journey’s clouds of dust?
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
NASIR KAZMI
Ghazal: Bearing Hints of Bygone Days
Bearing hints of bygone days
Where did he come from, where did he go?
He was a strangely familiar stranger
He left me in a state of awe
Showing only his pearl-like face
Just playing for me a tuneful song
Like the evening star he came
And like a dream of dawn he left
In seasons of joy or days of sorrow
Eyes search for him everywhere all the time
Was he the rose’s breath or the song of life
He came to inhabit my very heart
No more now the rising river of memories
No more the gloomy rain of empty hours
Just a brief ache in the heart
The deep wound has filled up and healed
The breath comes a little easier now
The course of the sky too is about to change
The night that was heavy has turned at last
The hard day is over
The capricious have but one goal
True lovers, a thousand paths
This alone is the difference between us
I moved on, he held back
Feet worn out, I stand in the way
Beckoning the days gone by
The caravan I traveled with
Has disappeared like the journey’s dust
Even my blood has turned to water
Yet not an eyelash of the heartless shakes
The lament that rose from my heart last night
I wonder why it had no effect
He who would keep the tavern awake
Who used to put night’s sleep to flight
What came into his heart today
He left for home at the twilight hour
That star of the night of separation
That dear friend, soul mate of mine
May his name be forever beloved
I heard last night he passed away
He with whom, hand on his shoulder,
You traveled to life’s destinations
I don’t know why with head hung low
He passed right through your lane today
That night’s soundless traveler
That poet of yours, your own Nasir
I saw him go right up to your lane
Then I wonder which way he went
Translated from Urdu by Mehr Afshan Farooqi