Three love poems by Ghalib for every day of the year

Three love poems by Ghalib for every day of the year

Three love poems by Ghalib for every day of the year
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In translation or in the original, these ghazals transcend the commercialisation of a day dedicated to conventional and commonplace romance:

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Let’s Live In That Place

Let’s live in that place where there’s no one, let’s go,
Where no one knows our tongue, there’s no one to speak to.
We’d build a house without doors and walls,
Have no neighbours, watchmen forego.
In sickness no one to nurse us, enquire,
If we died, no one to mourn us, no!

Rahiye ab aisi jagah

rahiye ab aisī jagah chal kar jahāñ koī na ho
ham-suķhan koī na ho aur ham-zabāñ koī na ho

be-dar-o-dīvār sā ik ghar banāyā chāhiye
koī ham-sāya na ho aur pāsbāñ koī na ho

padiye gar bīmār to koī na ho tīmārdār
aur agar mar jāiye to nauha-ķhvāñ koī na ho

~~~

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At Every Little Thing

At every little thing you say, “Who art thou?”
Is this the way you talk to one, anyhow?

In flame not this miracle, in lightning not this art,
Tell me what’s behind her bold, impulsive glow?

This jealousy is there that he confers with you
Else, what fear of the enemy’s influence now?

With blood, my shirt sticks to the body,
What need of any darning does it allow?

Where the body’s burnt, the heart would’ve too.
Raking the ashes, what do you seek now?

We are not convinced of simply running in the veins,
What blood that which from the eyes did not flow?

That thing for which we esteem Eden so high,
What is it but wine of the flower, musk of blossoms, mellow?

When it comes to drinks I see through a few barrels,
Why then in glass, goblet, or pitchers wallow?

Gone’s the power of speech, and even if it
Stayed, on what hope would I, my hopes, show?

Become the king’s protégé, he struts about,
Else, what shall be Ghalib’s fame in this town?

Har ik baat pe…

har ek bāt pah kahte ho tum kih tū kyā hai
tumhīñ kaho kih yih andāz-e-guftagū kyā hai

nah shole meñ yih karishma nah barq meñ ye adā
koʾī batāʾo ke vo shoḳh-e-tund-ḳhū kyā hai

ye rashk hai ke vo hotā hai ham-suḳhan tum se
vagarnah ḳhauf-e-bad-āmozī-e-adū kyā hai

chipak rahā hai badan par lahū se pairāhan
hamāre jeb ko ab ḥājat-e-rafū kyā hai

jalā hai jism jahāñ dil bhī jal gayā hogā
kuredte ho jo ab rākh justajū kyā hai

ragoñ meñ dauṛte phirne ke ham nahīñ qā’il
jab āñkh se hī na ṭapkā to phir lahū kyā hai

vo chīz jis ke liye ham ko ho bihisht ʿazīz
sivā-e-bādah-e-gul-fām-e-mushk-bū kyā hai

piyūñ sharāb agar ḳhum bhī dekh lūñ do char
ye shīshah-o-qadaḥ-o-kūzah-o-sabū kyā hai

rahī na t̤āqat-e-guftār aur agar ho bhī
to kis umīd pah kahye ke ārzū kyā hai

huā hai shah kā muṣāḥib phire hai itrātā
vagarnah shahr meñ ġhālib kī ābrū kyā hai

~~~

Thousands of Desires Such

Thousands of desires, such, that for every wish I’d die,
My many hopes came true, but many more did defy.

Should my killer be scared? Will it hang upon his neck?
– that blood which dropped lifelong from my ever-brimming eye.

We’d always heard of Adam’s exile from Eden, but,
When we left, we left your street so disgraced, all awry.

The myth would come undone, O tyrant, of your growth in
stature, were the coils of your turban uncoiled, let fly.

If a letter to her be commissioned, we’ll write that,
Come every morning, a quill on our ear we supply.

In that age was established, my habit for wine,
Once again the days for the jar of Jum to ply.

Those who we hoped would harken to our woes,
Were more woebegone under the cruel sword’s sway.

In love there is no difference in living and dying,
We live looking at our idol that takes our breath away.

For God’s sake do not remove the veil from the Kaaba,
O Tyrant! What if here too is my beloved idol’s stay?

Whither the way to the bar, Ghālib, and where the preacher,
Yet, we know that yesterday, thither he went, as we’d stray.

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Hazaron Khwahishein Aisi

hazāroñ ķhvāhisheñ aisī ki har ķhvāhish pe dam nikle
bahut nikle mire armān lekin phir bhī kam nikle

Dare kyūñ merā qātil kyā rahegā us kī gardan par
vo ķhūñ jo chashm-e-tar se umr bhar yūñ dam-ba-dam nikle

nikalnā ķhuld se ādam kā sunte āe haiñ lekin
bahut be-ābrū ho kar tire kūche se ham nikle

bharam khul jāe zālim tere qāmat kī darāzī kā
agar us turra-e-pur-pech-o-ķham kā pech-o-ķham nikle

magar likhvāe koī us ko ķhat to ham se likhvāe
huī subh aur ghar se kān par rakh kar qalam nikle

huī is daur meñ mansūb mujh se bāda-ashāmī
phir āya vo zamāna jo jahāñ meñ jaam-e-jam nikle

huī jin se tavaqqo ķhastagī kī dād pāne kī
vo ham se bhī ziyāda ķhasta-e-teġh-e-sitam nikle

mohabbat meñ nahīñ hai farq jīne aur marne kā
usī ko dekh kar jīte haiñ jis kāfir pe dam nikle

ķhudā ke vāste parda na kābe se uțhā vāiz
kahīñ aisā na ho yāñ bhi vahī kāfir sanam nikle

kahāñ maiķhāne kā darvāza ġhālib aur kahāñ vāiz
par itnā jānte haiñ kal vo jātā thā ki ham nikle

Translated from the Urdu by Maaz Bin Bilal

Maaz Bin Bilal recently earned his PhD in English from Queen’s University Belfast for his thesis on the Politics of Friendship in EM Forster’s work. He teaches at Ashoka University. He is an avid translator and a poet.

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