Ghalib 53

āmad-e ḳhat̤ se huʾā hai sard jo bāzār-e dost

dūd-e shamʿ-e kushtah thā shāyad ḳhat̤-e ruḳhsār-e dost

ay dil-e nā-ʿāqibat-andesh ẓabt̤-e shauq kar

kaun lā saktā hai tāb-e jalvah-e dīdār-e dost

ḳhānah-vīrāñ-sāzī-e ḥairat tamāshā kījiye

ṣūrat-e naqsh-e qadam hūñ raftah-e raftār-e dost

ʿishq meñ bedād-e rashk-e ġhair ne mārā mujhe

kushtah-e dushman hūñ āḳhir garchih thā bīmār-e dost

chashm-e mā raushan kih us bedād kā dil shād hai

dīdah-e pur-ḳhūñ hamārā sāġhar-e sarshār-e dost

ġhair yūñ kartā hai merī pursish us ke hajr meñ

be-takalluf dost ho jaise koʾī ġham-ḳhvār-e dost

yih ġhazal apnī mujhe jī se pasand ātī hai āp

hai radīf-e shiʿr meñ ġhālib z bas takrār-e dost

This adolescent lucubration so stinks of the lamp as to make a fugitive of Truth 

Like a Platonic pederast back pedaling from a now sooty chinned youth.

Oh my heart! Be thou, no mountebank Moses, but Mt. Tur to the vision of that face

As Ganga to Himavant; Torah's graven terrors let Shekinah's tears erase

So fleetly fled from that foot-print, mine eyes still mirror in amaze

No Adam's peak, far to seek, but a dazzled Arafat all my days

See how the envy of my rival, my one resource of survival, with mimetic unfairness fails

Now my death is at his door, all Hope's revival defames the eidetic plague Love entails

So her heart know Hedon, mine eyes grow bright & all arterial gout

Blood red wine to her cup over-brim & callow humanity rout

Ghalib, Tho' She is ever with thee... NOT!, she is far

Such be-takkalluf Borats is all Friends are

       

Ghalib's Elegy.

If, at Journey's end, your vigil's prolonged by my dilatory ways

Recall, alone you ventured forth, bide alone a few more days.

Whether its rain can dissolve rock or my eyes are their own maze

My skull or your sepulchre will crack in a few more days

Just yesterday you came, not as a guest who forever stays

Why so fain to flee 'fore my plea for 'a few more days?'

Your parting jest was ever 'from now, till the End of Days!'

My Doom is now and forever, not in a few more days.

Yes, more than Endymion, Selene, Arif had a youthful face

Old Siren of the Skies, couldn't you wait a few more days?

He was our Moon of Eid, we feasted by his rays

Now our lifelong Lent knows but Ember days

My dear one, do you naively ask why Ghalib yet delays?

Death too is a desire at least for a few more days.

{66,1}

lāzim thā kih dekho mirā rastā koʾī din aur

tanhā gaye kyūñ ab raho tanhā koʾī din aur

{66,2}

miṭ jāʾegā sar gar tirā patthar nah ghisegā

hūñ dar pah tire nāṣiyah-farsā koʾī din aur

{66,3}

āye ho kal aur āj hī kahte ho kih jāʾūñ

mānā kih hameshah nahīñ achchhā koʾī din aur

{66,4}

jāte huʾe kahte ho qiyāmat ko mileñge

kyā ḳhūb qiyāmat kā hai goyā koʾī din aur

{66,5}

hāñ ay falak-e pīr javāñ thā abhī ʿārif

kyā terā bigaṛtā jo nah martā koʾī din aur

{66,6}

tum māh-e shab-e chār-duham the mire ghar ke

phir kyūñ nah rahā ghar kā vuh naqshā koʾī din aur

{66,10}

nādāñ ho jo kahte ho kih kyūñ jīte haiñ ġhālib

qismat meñ hai marne kī tamannā koʾī din aur

Ghalib 125

Gone is that matter which e'en addressed wouldn't matter

Why speak when what is spoken like ashes must scatter?

Union is the name of what gnaws at our Mind

If it isn't where isn't it to Loose or to Bind?

Courtesy is a mask that lacerates the face

Shame in this matter is Beauty's disgrace

Adoring his idol- how would the Brahmin eat?

Did every idol its adorer she like me treat

Even the timid glance of the mirror so excites your ire

Had you a second in the City it's minarets were of Fire.

Whose fate is to face days black as mine

If Day he calls Night which Moon will repine?

My hope revives with her professions of esteem

 If further she won't inquire, my lot is but dream

The faith I placed in her epistle was no foolish mistake

What eye to eye isn't seen, is Unseen for Heaven's sake!

 Of the Theodicy of Love in Separation, if this Envoi is trite yet odd.
 Tell her, Ghalib isn't raving,  he echoes the shadow of God

gaʾī vuh bāt kih ho guftago to kyūñkar ho
kahe se kuchh nah huʾā phir kaho to kyūñkar ho

hamāre żahn meñ us fikr kā hai nām viṣāl
kih gar nah ho to kahāñ jāʾeñ ho to kyūñkar ho

adab hai aur yihī kashmakash to kyā kīje
ḥayā hai aur yihī gomago to kyūñkar ho

tumhīñ kaho kih guzārā sanam-parastoñ kā
butoñ kī ho agar aisī hī ḳho to kyūñkar ho

ulajhte ho tum agar dekhte ho āʾīnah
jo tum se shahr meñ hoñ ek do to kyūñkar ho

jise naṣīb ho roz-e siyāh merā sā
vuh shaḳhṣ din nah kahe rāt ko to kyūñkar ho

hameñ phir un se umīd aur uñheñ hamārī qadr
hamārī bāt hī pūchheñ nah vo to kyūñkar ho

ġhalat̤ nah thā hameñ ḳhat̤ par gumāñ tasallī kā
nah māne dīdah-e dīdār-jo to kyūñkar ho

mujhe junuu;N nahii;N ;Gaalib vale bah qaul-e ;hu.zuur

firaaq-e yaar me;N taskiin ho to kyuu;Nkar ho

The folly of reading Ghalib as un-Muslim- Ghazal 65

Every beauty throngs to thee, by propinquity, in all candor
I only accede to tyranny, so a rival raise thy dander

Ghalib wrote this when he was about 19

{65,1}

sitam-kash maṣlaḥat se hūñ kih ḳhūbāñ tujh pah ʿāshiq haiñ
takalluf bar-t̤araf mil jāʾegā tujh-sā raqīb āḳhir

1) I am oppression-accepting from advice/prudence, for beautiful ones are your lovers
2) {leaving aside formality / 'to tell the truth'}, a Rival like you will become available [to me] finally

The commentators, and Prof Pritchett herself, take Raqib as 'rival in love' and neglect its other meaning, when applied to God, as protector as in the phrase 'Allah raqib'.

Ghalib's ghazal 33

Its pathways but puttees to the blistered poppy's marching band

Not a droplet of the parterre's Hawaiian wave hasn't sand

 Of Jamshed's grail's graven design, a luckless Prometheus lacking wine

Steals not fire but ire & Satire's self-contemning Plimsoll line

Tho' in the Silence its Songs sow the Rose shreds its skirt

Calling the nightingale cuckoo, still Scent & Color flirt

I'm not green but grown lean chasing not the dragon, but a tramp

Color & Scent distinguish to extinguish my smell of the lamp

Tho' a hundred times manumitted from the fetters of Love

How housel my heart that's foe to flight above?

Without heart's blood in the eye, Vision's wave is of dust
 So haunting its bouquet, Wine's bodega went bust

 A garden in bloom- thy heart's unrolling picnic rug's display

Spring's purple cloud is which Mind's Beaujolais?

See Prof. Fran Pritchett's Ghalib site for a scholarly treatment.

yak żarrah-e zamīñ nahīñ bekār bāġh kā

yāñ jādah bhī fatīlah hai lāle ke dāġh kā

be-mai kise hai t̤āqat-e āshob-e āgahī

kheñchā hai ʿajz-e ḥauṣalah ne ḳhat̤ ayāġh kā

bulbul ke kār-o-bār pah haiñ ḳhandah'hā-e gul

kahte haiñ jis ko ʿishq ḳhalal hai dimāġh kā

āzah nahīñ hai nashshah-e fikr-e suḳhan mujhe

tiryākī-e qadīm hūñ dūd-e chirāġh kā

sau bār band-e ʿishq se āzād ham huʾe

par kyā kareñ kih dil hī ʿadū hai farāġh kā
be-ḳhūn-e dil hai chashm meñ mauj-e nigah ġhubār
yih mai-kadah ḳharāb hai mai ke surāġh kā
bāġh-e shiguftah terā bisāt̤-e nashāt̤-e dil

abr-e bahār ḳhum-kadah kis ke dimāġh kā

not a single grain of the earth of the garden is useless) here even/also the path is the wick/bandage of the tulip's wound/brand

without wine, who has the strength for the tumult/terror of awareness?

weakness of enthusiasm/spirit/stomach has drawn the line on the cup

 at the doings of the Nightingale are the smiles of the rose
 what they call 'passion' is a defect of the mind)

 it's not fresh/new to me, the intoxication of the thought/idea/imagination of poetry

I'm a longtime opium-addict of the smoke of the lamp

 a hundred times, from the bondage of passion we became free
 but what can/would we do? for only/emphatically the heart is an enemy of freedom/disengagement
 without heart's blood, the wave of the gaze in the eye is dust
 this wine-house is ruined for [want of] a trace of wine

 your garden in bloom, a carpet/spread of the joy/fruitfulness of the heart

the spring raincloud, the {cask/distillery}-house of whose mind?

Ghalib's ghazal 61

N.B. I've revised the first couplet on the basis of an excellent comment received.  I suppose I may add that my version of this Ghazal is based on the notion that the beloved's duty of cruelty is of an amr al taklifi (as opposed to takvini) sort- i.e. it is a supererogatory imitatio dei.

My Ramadan heart trembles at the Sun's dark duty of refulgence
Upon that desert thorn I'd fall as Night's dew of indulgence.

Marvel not that Zuleikha's mirrored chamber's mascara has run!

Again Jacob's eyes argent tain the mise en abyme of his son.

Majnun was still learning two letters of Thy Name

When Night and the Desert ciphered my fame

Charred pieces of my heart for the salt cellar so compete

Death is the elixir makes my undoing complete

The coquette's duty of cruelty of which Thy Devotees sing

Is that Black Sun which shines on the back of every thing

Again Dusk stains the clouds that half-forgotten hue
Of the flower garden afire for parted from you
.

To bear witness to such coquetry e'en Paradise its Peace barters

Doomsday is the wind winnowing the dust of us martyrs

Ghalib, quarrel not with the Confessor if he collar you by force

Think, how driven was Despair to his hand take recourse?

See Prof. Frances Pritchett's 'desertful of roses' site for Urdu script and detailed commentary.

laraztā hai mirā dil zaḥmat-e mihr-e daraḳhshāñ par

maiñ hūñ vuh qat̤rah-e shabnam kih ho ḳhār-e bayābāñ par

nah chhoṛī ḥaẓrat-e yūsuf ne yāñ bhī ḳhānah-ārāʾī

safedī dīdah-e yaʿqūb kī phirtī hai zindāñ par

fanā-taʿlīm-e dars-e be-ḳhvudī hūñ us zamāne se
kih majnūñ lām alif likhtā thā dīvār-e dabistāñ par

farāġhat kis qadar rahtī mujhe tashvīsh-e marham se

baham gar ṣulḥ karte pārah'hā-e dil namak-dāñ par
nahīñ iqlīm-e ulfat meñ koʾī t̤ūmār-e nāz aisā
kih pusht-e chashm se jis ke nah hove muhr ʿunvāñ par
mujhe ab dekh kar abr-e shafaq-ālūdah yād ātā
kih furqat meñ tirī ātish barastī thī gulistāñ par
bah juz parvāz-e shauq-e nāz kyā bāqī rahā hogā
qiyāmat ik havā-e tund hai ḳhāk-e shahīdāñ par
nah laṛ nāṣiḥ se ġhālib kyā huʾā gar us ne shiddat kī
hamārā bhī to āḳhir zor chaltā hai garebāñ par

Plain meaning as given by Pritchett.

My heart trembles at the trouble (or pain) taken by the shining sun

I am that drop of dew/'night-wetness' that would be on a desert thorn
Even/also here, His Excellency Joseph didn't leave off chamber-adorning
The whiteness/whitewash of the gaze of Jacob wanders/travels/spreads on the prison-cell

I am oblivion-{instructing/instructed/writing/copying} in the lesson of self-lessness since that era/time
When Majnun used to write lām alif on the wall of the schoolhouse

To what an extent I would have found freedom from the trouble of salve/ointment!If the pieces of the heart had agreed among themselves over the salt-dish
In the clime/region of love/affection there's no account-book of coquetry such
That there would not be a seal/stamp of/from the back of the eyes on its title page
Now, having seen the sunset-stained cloud, there {comes / would have come (?)} to my memory

That in separation from you, fire used to rain down on the garden

Except for / apart from} the flying/flight of the ardor of/for coquetry, what will have remained permanent/eternal?!

Doomsday is a mere/particular/unique/excellent swift/brisk breeze on the dust of the martyrs OR A mere/single swift/brisk breeze is Doomsday on the dust of the martyrs

Don't quarrel/fight with the Advisor, Ghalib-- if he would use force/severity, so what?
Even/also our power, after all, operates on the collar

Ghalib, ghazal 20- yeh na thi hamari qismat

Click here for audio-


 To be in tryst united, not I could twist my fate

If longer life invited, I'd yet forlornly wait

Did I live on thy oath, know, my life were a lie

Of happiness I'd die! held thy troth to a date

For as feebly as fond entreaty, bindst thy Word
Its sequel, an equal treaty, art surd to sublate

Why was that arrow drawn without brawn, not art?

That, in my heart, it stick, not sever it straight!

Why admonishes like a priest, my old comrade and mate?

If you haven't a pain killer, at least, my pain giver hate!

Were what it mock as 'woe wilful'-  flint struck sparks

Thy Ark's veined rock, would ruck Red sans bate

Anguish is certain arson; know! -the heart must burn

If not to yearn, then to earn, or learn chalk's slate!

By his assent, this night of grief, did an Adam create?

Death's a Thief, or Madam, my ruin can't sate

My grave- ghazal's fresh ground?! Better I'd drowned!

My clay, they claim-jump, with elegies on 'the late'!

His vision can't anoint, who is but a singular viewpoint

Were a second scented... Ah! God alone is Great!

Since Sainthood has its Arabi seal, thy mystic spate
For Drunkard's weal, ope's a  Ghalibian gate!

- Show quoted text -