(The Mound of the Dead)
From the land’s
seven layers emerged
signs of a ruined settlement.
In the room of what was once a house
a human frame without flesh.
And I wonder,
my heart troubled,
whose skeleton is this?
Is it my own?
Five thousand years ago,
what would I have looked like?
And my beloved?
What sort of eyes did this skeleton have,
what was its face, its appearance—
were they like mine?
Like someone else’s?
How did they look? How?
There must have been a heart in this frame—
that heart would have throbbed and quavered too.
And in those heartbeats must have lived she,
or he.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
Sun, Moon, Star
The jaltarang player and ecstasy!
Like a faraway brook
your laughter echoes,
the gleam in your eyes shimmers in the skies.
Moon and star, the sun and planets spin
in tune with you,
and with your melody the winds change course.
Your anger is the flash of lightning,
your cheerfulness inhabits the garden,
earth and sky are washed clean by your tears.
All creation is enamored of your signs and mysteries—
your playful glances cast a spell upon the world,
and the limitless ocean of time dances ceaselessly.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
Living but Dead
To whom do these shreds of flesh belong?
Whose are these?
No one knows.
This was a human body.
These remains were once part of a single body.
This is a foot.
This is a wrist.
This is a broken hand clutching at something,
and this is the head—
brown hair
in which a black ribbon a mother tied with her own hands
now dangles in the searing air
smelling of gunpowder.
These feet no longer run after butterflies,
the wrists no longer move.
The head that once lay on a mother’s breast
is no longer attached to a body.
This is me, and this her third world.
Human beings are helpless, their hands tied,
their lips taped shut,
their necks bent toward the ground,
as if, living, they were dead.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
Tsunami
A few days ago
I had a name,
I had a mother,
I had a father.
Probably, there were a sister
and a brother, too.
What shared affections,
what priceless relationships!
A few days ago
laughter rang
in the courtyard of my home.
The black bee hung over the flowers,
the swing was crowded.
A few days ago
my mother’s soft voice melted like honey in my ears.
In my eyes, how many of my father’s dreams found a home?
Tender were the words spoken in this household.
A few days ago
I flourished in the shade of my mother’s love,
holding on to my father’s finger, I learned to walk,
and countless pet names were invented to indulge me.
Now, after the tsunami, I am only “Child #81.”
The tsunami has robbed me of my name.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
PARVEEN SHAKIR
Ghazal: From Lane to Lane Spread the Rumor of Familiarity
From lane to lane spread the rumor of familiarity—
he greeted me like fragrance in the air.
How can I say he has abandoned me?
It is true, but it is a matter of embarrassment.
Wherever he went, returning, he came to me:
this is the only good thing in my inconstant lover.
Your embrace, like your heart, may be forever inhabited,
you may never face the desolation of a lonely night.
When he placed his hand on my burning forehead,
the effect of healing spread to the very soul.
Even now, in monsoon nights, my body hurts
and wondrous desires to stretch and yawn awaken within it.
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
Ghazal: No Spirit Left to Proceed, Impossible to Stop
No spirit left to proceed, impossible to stop,
love’s journey has utterly drained me.
O my land of roses, you wished for a book.
Look, though, what people of the Book have done to you.
When hearts drew close, we had a very different understanding—
At the time of parting, though, he raised a new issue entirely!
I could not put name and face together today,
what picture has time turned into dream and imagination?
Among various options, separation was mentioned too—
I made just a passing remark; what he did is beyond belief!
After all these years he remonstrated with me today.
Has he restored me, then, to the beloved’s station?
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
Misfit
Sometimes I wonder
why do I so much lack the art
of pleasing people?
Some are annoyed with my words,
others with my tone and tenor.
First, my mother
was unhappy with my busy schedule;
now my son
has the same complaint
(in the blind race to earn a living, how far back must relationships be pushed!)
when the reality is
that my household
enjoys the full benefits
of my obligation to play the part of a woman.
Every morning on my shoulders,
though, the weight of responsibilities
grows greater than ever—
still, every day
the reproach of incompetence on my back
becomes ever more insistent.
Then there is my workplace,
where the first condition of appointment is
to tender the resignation of all self-respect.
I try to grow flowers in barren minds—
sometimes a little green shoot becomes visible,
otherwise, stones
are often annoyed with the rain.
My tribe
manages to find light in my words,
but I
know very well
whose
eyes are on the word
and whose on the word’s creator.
All circles are smaller than my feet,
but time’s wild dance
stops nowhere.
The rhythm of the dance grows faster, faster—
either I am something else
or this is not my planet.
Translated from Urdu by Yasmeen Hameed
Soliloquy
It seems
that those around me
speak a very different language.
That wavelength
at which we had maintained communication
has shifted to some other range.
Either my lexicon has grown obsolete
or their idiom has changed.
The path on which my words take me,
for the meaning of that path,
they have a separate glossary.
I remain silent to pre
serve the sanctity of words,
and the only conversation
possible for me is with walls, with my loneliness, or my shadow.
I dread that moment
when, shriveling within myself
I may forget even the frequency
that allows me to talk to myself
(keeps me in touch)
so that one day
I am left shouting only, “May Day, May Day!”
Translated from Urdu by Yasmeen Hameed
PUSHPA VALLABH
Singer
Dark night, a cluster of twinkling stars,
cold wind, the rustle of leaves,
and silence, from which the sounds of a sarangi emerge.
Shedding tears, the singer performs
to the accompaniment of the harmonium.
Her voice, rising from the heart,
and the harmonium’s reverberating notes
become one—
there is no line of division
where voice
breaks free of the instrument
or tries to find its own way.
What is this raga that has no apparent form?
It flows with the blood,
and throbs in every vein and artery of the heart,
becomes a falling tear soaked up by the singer’s chunni.
A star shoots across the sky.
Whose voice is this
that brings to mind the desert dunes?
The desolate sound of the instruments
draws tears down the singer’s face.
In the pursuit of excellence the singer expires—
one person pays off the debt of melody for everyone.
Her sacrifice enriches the listeners
but leaves her destitute.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
I Am Without Form or Shape
I am water—
don’t confine me in a jar,
don’t force me to remain still.
I exist to flow forth,
to take my own course.
I am love—
don’t assign me a color.
Whatever color I am painted,
that is my color.
Don’t look for me in his eyes or her eyes.
I am in everyone’s eyes.
I am prayer—
don’t give me a form.
Whatever mold I flow into
I take its shape.
Don’t search for my shape:
I have no shape.
I am the Torah, I am the Gospel,
I am Gita, I am Ramayana.
Don’t look for me in books.
I am the invisible sign between words.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
Light a Lamp and See
So what if the tongue is silenced?
Let your fingers speak, and you will see,
feelings will repair
the broken words.
I cannot fly,
I know.
A fall would shatter me to pieces.
But wings will grow.
Spread your arms like a rope walker,
walk the rope and see.
Dreams tower and soar.
They cannot be fulfilled in this life.
Stars will climb down from the heights,
the sun incline toward earth—
just once,
embrace the clouds and see.
Every loss conceals a victory,
your lap will bloom with flowers.
Lose everything in love and see.
All the world seeks a guide,
the caravan will continue to swell—
just once,
play that melody on the flute and see.
There is absolute darkness,
the eye cannot make out the hand’s shape.
Light will catch at light and grow—
it may be small,
light a lamp, and see.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
People Are the Same
Religion is my very soul.
Caught in words,
in the difference between words,
people have become estranged.
Some fight and wrangle, some have developed a taste for blood—
they have not understood,
people of all religions are the same.
Beneath all colors, hearts are the same,
in everyone, the same emotions,
the same kind of thoughts.
Wound them, and the color of their blood is the same,
in grief, the color of their tears is the same.
In every heart,
the same Allah,
the same Ram,
the same Issa.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
A Small Desire
A small desire dwells
in my small heart,
like lamplight
in a darkened room.
The desire to soar in the skies,
to skim mountaintops—
the longing for such a life
that death cannot vanquish,
in my small heart.
To scud like clouds,
to fly like birds,
the wish to weave a band of stars
and wear them on my feet,
in my small heart.
whom waters cannot sweep away,
nor fire burn.
The wish to be already past the sacred flame,
to be one whom the sword cannot injure,
the bullet cannot wound,
whom death cannot kill—
I desire such a life,
in my small heart.
Translated from Sindhi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
HASINA GUL
?
You can sit
looking at me, face to face,
talking to me in words that fascinate.
How enthralled you seem by my ideas and my art—
how enthralled by my lovely poems!
But a wrinkle in this fine gentleman’s life
cannot be denied.
Sometimes,
for no reason, I too
call up that handsome man.
After I say “Hello” and a word or two,
he asks in a strange voice,
“Who is this I’m talking to?”
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi
Beautiful Book
How many questions did I have to ask
to discover the secret of your heart?
First,
Who else is in your life?
You said,
There’s only this one book.
I persisted,
Your relations, at home, I mean?
You said again,
Just this book.
Right! But what’s in your heart?
You were confused by that, somewhat—
God knows why.
Then, with great tenderness,
you took my face in your hands
and in a gentle, though slightly gruff, voice said,
This beautiful book!
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi
Life and Time
We grow up
but do not comprehend life.
We think life is just the passing of time.
The fact is,
life is one thing,
and time something else.
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi
Truth
Distance, too, is good.
Because you are far away,
I feel you are very close to me.
Yes—
but what of proximity, of union?
When you come near, then, my love, you are far away.
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi
Where, in the Ground Plan of Your L
ife, Do I Stand, My Love?
Far from the edifice that is your body,
I am far,
not just from your memory,
I am absent from the very kernel of your thoughts.
Deprived of the luxury of your body,
I no longer even exist in the islands of your words.
Even so, I make a claim on the house that is your heart?
How is it possible! It’s a lie, dear.
With all these signs, tell me,
in the ground plan of your life, my love,
where is my place?
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi
NOTES
Preface
nazm and ghazal
See Introduction for a brief explanation of these verse forms.
The Great Mosque of Córdoba
Jibraeel
Gabriel.
Mustafa
Literally, “The Chosen”—title used for Muhammad, the Prophet of Islam.
the being of light
The reference is to angels.
La ila
Literally, “No deity.” The first two words of the primary Muslim declaration of faith, known as the first kalma or Kalma-e-Tayyaba, “declaration of purity.” The full declaration is as follows: La ila ha il Allah, Muhammad ur Rasul Allah, “There is no deity or god but God (Allah), and Muhammad is Allah’s Messenger.”
Mecca of the Accomplished
Iqbal here addresses the mosque directly.
Guadalquivir
Literally, “great river” in Arabic.
Address
Mir Jafar
The traitor who betrayed Siraj-ud-Daula, the governor of Bengal, in his final battle against the British at Plassey in 1757.
begums of Avadh
The begums (ladies) of Avadh refers to the mother of Nawab Shuja-ud-Daula, ruler of Avadh, and his widow who were physically assaulted and robbed of their inherited assets by the British after the death of the Nawab in 1775. The “spoliation of the Begums of Oude” was one of the charges brought up in the impeachment proceedings for “high crimes and misdemeanors,” initiated by Edmund Burke, Charles Fox, and R.S. Sheridan in the House of Commons in 1787, against Warren Hastings, the first Governor General of India. The House of Commons later acquitted Warren Hastings of all the charges.