Ghalib Ghazal 64

If Nakedness is lacking whose hand can Madness lend?

Collar tearing now the Duty my neck to thus bend.

Like the prismatics of burning paper is Restlessness' wizardry
With mirrors myriad the heart binds its own flutter to be free

What claim for departed joy can we press on Heaven's Wheel?

For what the Highwayman carries off, in his debt we yet feel

To extinction allot your essence if for it you are yet eager

The wood chips kindle, make the fire-place not meager.

I am a sacrifice of such style as to my butcher instigate

To such ingenuity in torture both worlds regenerate

junūñ kī dast-gīrī kis se ho gar ho nah ʿuryānī
garebāñ chāk kā ḥaq ho gayā hai merī gardan par

bah rang-e kāġhaż-e ātish-zadah nairang-e betābī
hazār āʾīnah dil bāñdhe hai bāl-e yak tapīdan par

falak se ham ko ʿaish-e raftah kā kyā kyā taqāẓā hai
matāʿ-e burdah ko samjhe huʾe haiñ qarẓ rahzan par

fanā ko sauñp gar mushtāq hai apnī ḥaqīqat kā
furoġh-e t̤ālaʿ-e ḳhāshāk hai mauqūf gulḳhan par

asad bismil hai kis andāz kā qātil se kahtā hai
kih mashq-e nāz kar ḳhūn-e do-ʿālam merī gardan par

Ghalib- ghazal 75

ruḳh-e nigār se hai soz-e jāvidānī-e shamʿa

huʾī hai ātish-e gul āb-e zindagānī-e shamʿa

zabān-e ahl-e zabāñ meñ hai marg ḳhāmoshī

yih bāt bazm meñ raushan huʾī zabānī-e shamʿa

kare hai ṣirf bah ʿīmā-e shuʿlah qiṣṣah tamām

bah t̤arz-e ahl-e fanā hai fasānah-ḳhvānī-e shamʿa

ġham us ko ḥasrat-e parvānah kā hai ay shuʿle

tire larazne se z̤āhir hai nā-tavānī-e shamʿa

nashāt̤-e dāġh-e ġham-e ʿishq kī bahār nah pūchh

shiguftagī hai shahīd-e gul-e ḳhizānī-e shamʿa

That it licks her eucharistic blush for aye burns the candle
The Rose's auto da fe to elixir turns the candle.

 When Poet's converse, Silence is such a Scandal
Death caps our verse in the tongue of the candle

Completing the campfire tale only the Caravan's Khizr can handle
Already Nirvana is the wick of the flickering of the candle

Grief thy lone lap the moth's posterity to dandle
 Only the weak tremble at wrath's austerity, O candle

Weep, wounded poppy, for Love is so vernal a Vandal
A bloom martyred bud is the autumn of the candle

Ghalib ghazal 214

وحشت کہاں کہ بے خودی انشا کرے کوئی

ہستی کو لفظِ معنیِ عنقا کرے کوئی 

حسنِ فروغِ شمعِ سخن دور ہے اسد

پہلے دلِ گداختہ پیدا کرے کوئی

vaḥshat kahāñ kih be-ḳhvudī inshā kare koʾī
hastī ko lafz̤-e maʿnī-e ʿanqā kare koʾī
ḥusn-e furoġh-e shamʿ-e suḳhan dūr hai asad
pahle dil-e gudāḳhtah paidā kare koʾī




                              Now lost to Self Loss are the Sahara's rolled gold scrolls of Rhyme

How, as Phoenix, entail Existence to the Parrot beak of Time?

Asad, Conceptive beauty imparts a Candescence far indeed!

Must, as wicks, bardic hearts first burn all they bleed?

Where now is that Dark, Backward and Abysm of Clime

Whose Phoenix is the sugar-fond Parrot of Time

For Love spoke The Word, Ataraxia attacks

Smoke, thou memory bird of melted wax

The rejected couplets from Ghalib's fourth

{4,8x}*

hai kahāñ tamannā kā dūsrā qadam yā rab
ham ne dasht-e imkāñ ko ek naqsh-e pā pāyā

1) where is the second step of longing, oh Lord?

2) we found the desert of possibility [to be] a single/certain/unique/excellent footprint

be-dimāġh-e ḳhajlat hūñ rashk-e imtiḥāñ tā ke

ek be-kasī tujh ko ʿālam-āshnā pāyā

1) I am irritable/impatient/disaffected from/with shame; {whither / to what end} an envy/jealousy of/for testing?
2) a single/sole friendlessness/helplessness/forlornness-- I found you world-{familiar/acquainted}!

{4,10x}

ḳhāk-bāzī-e ummīd kār-xānah-e t̤iflī
yās ko do-ʿālam se lab bah ḳhandah vā pāyā

1) the 'dust-game' of hope-- a workshop/business of childishness/childhood
2) [it/I] found despair [to be] open/cheerful, with a smiling/laughing lip, {like / by means of} the two worlds

{4,11x}

kyūñ nah vaḥshat-e ġhālib bāj-ḳhvāh-e taskīñ ho
kushtah-e taġhāful ko ḳhaṣm-e ḳhūñ-bahā pāyā

1) why wouldn't {prevailing / Ghalib's} wildness/madness be a {tax/toll}-receiver of peace/tranquility?
2) [it/someone] found the one slain by negligence/heedlessness [to be] an enemy of the 'blood-price'

Where, Lord, alights the foot of Ardency's stride?

The Sahara of Becoming is but a sole-print wide

 Maddened is my Innocence at the malice of its Test

Privily deflowered as boutonnière to thy chest!

Still, Sand castles anneal Hope & Calf Love, Veal, the Calf

Till, Despair teeth bare the Two Worlds' butcher laugh.

Love-mad I evince, by Indifference murdered to be heard

 Peace hath a Prince! Tender weregeld She the Word

Best ghazal ever?- Shakeel Badayuni's mere hum- nafas.

I''ve copied these lyrics from a lovely blog called Mausiki. Click on the link below.

Shakeel Badayuni - mere hum-nafas

mere hum-nafas, mere hum-navaa, mujhe dost banake daGaa na de
mai.n huu.N dard-e-ishq se jaa.N_valab, mujhe zindagii kii duaa na de

Nafas: Breath
Navaa: Sound, Voice
Ham-nafas, Ham-navaa: Friend
Jaan-Valab: Dead
Duaa: Blessing

mere daaG-e-dil se hai raushnii, usii raushnii se hai zindagii
mujhe Dar hai aye mere chaaraagar, ye charaaG tuu hii bujhaa na de

DaaGh: Blemish
Raushnii: Light, Brightness, Illumination
Chaaraagar: Doctor, physician

mujhe ae chho.D de mere haal par, teraa kyaa bharosaa hai chaaraagar
ye terii nawaazishe muKhtasar, meraa dard aur ba.Daa na de

Nawaazish: Kindness, Favor,
Mukhtasar: Abridged, Abbreviated,

meraa azm itanaa bala.nd hai ke paraaye sholo.n kaa Dar nahii.n
mujhe Khauf aatish-e-gul se hai, ye kahii.n chaman ko jalaa na de

Azm: Conviction, Resolve
Baland: Lofty, Strong
Aatish: Fire, Flame, Ember

wo uThe hai.n leke hom-o-subuu, arey o ‘Shakeel’ kahaa.N hai tuu
teraa jaam lene ko bazm me.n koii aur haath ba.Daa na de

Hom: An oblation with clarified butter, a burnt-offering, a sacrifice;
Subuu: Ewer, jar, pitcher, pot, cup, glass
Bazm: Meeting, Assembly

So slain by Love's pain,  do you who, for my longer life yet pray

Ah! Breath of my breath, befriend to but betray?!

My heart's wound,  my Life, my Light's flint-struck spark

Bind not, nor blow out, my sole candle 'gainst the dark!

Breath Control is Divine, Balsamic, broken breath, Death Orgasmic

How trust to your care- ragged breath'd, threadbare?

 Shakeel's steel, forged in a sighs' fires, fears no inferno of the forger Iyer's

For glows in the Garden, red rose arson, Fear's a poet, Ire a Parson

Thee, we study, understudy & e'en, in vain, understand
Thy wine of immortality yet pass hand to hand

Ghalib's ghazal - Shab ki voh majlis furoz-e-khalvat-e-naamoos ta- translation

The very brilliant and erudite Satyanarayan Hegde has been kind enough to offer me a glimpse of his work tracing the metaphor of the lamp-wick through its many incarnations in the classical literature of many languages. By the glamor he shed on the first couplet of the ghazal 'shab ki voh majlis furoz', I was- moth to the proverbial- emboldened to offer my own take on it- merely as a clownish contrast to what a truly well stocked mind could do with the same material. This is the ghazal. What follows is my 'transcreation'.

 shab kih vuh majlis-furoz-e ḳhalvat-e nāmūs thā
rishtah-e har shamʿa ḳhār-e kisvat-e fānūs thā

mashhad-e ʿāshiq se kosoñ tak jo ugtī hai ḥinā
kis qadar yā rab halāk-e ḥasrat-e pā-būs thā

ḥāṣil-e ulfat nah dekhā juz shikast-e ārzū
dil bah dil paivastah goyā yak lab-e afsūs thā

kyā kahūñ bīmārī-e ġham kī farāġhat kā bayāñ

jo kih khāyā ḳhūn-e dil be-minnat-e kaimūs thā 

(See Prof. Frances Pritchett's wondeful website 'A desertful of roses'- for the correct translation and  commentary )

Last night, when the radiance of our assembly to her abashed chamber retired

Each candle wick, became a thorny prick at its shade from the desired

Whom has not, Lord, the longing to kiss bridal feet, with a martyr’s zeal fired?

For miles, the Lover’s tomb, by not rolling wheat but green henna is gyred

Against Sorrow's sorites, the Brain, this Stoic armor, in vain, thus acquired

Trysts, hearts crush hearts to gain, are the thin lips of pain- it required.

Knew I respite from this wretchedness- I'd recite much to be admired

But, Oh!- eating my own heart out- my very bile has grown tired!

Today was my 47th birthday. Ghalib's concluding lines are indeed the lees in my wine glass. Happy birthday to me!

Oh dear! I've just learnt, this poem was written when Ghalib was 19.

Na-na-na-na-NINETEEN!

I now read the first couplet as onanistic, the second as narcissistic, the third as immature Weltshchmerz, and the fourth the product of a truly crapulous hangover.

Fuck! That's me! Well, okay, I actually score three out of four. I won't tell you which stricture doesn't apply to me. Gotta maintain one's mystique- once one gets to a certain age. Like Madonna.  No, not Madonna- who is it I'm thinking off?- the long gowns, the hair extensions?- P. Chidambaram- now that's a tushy can still turn heads on Dalal street.