Faiz Ahmed Faiz: three poems

 Friends, Here are three poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911-1984) translated by me. One of these was written in Punjabi and addressed to Punjabi farmers. The other two have been translated from Urdu, and are among his best known poems. The poems are presented in Devanagri script followed by my English translations. The poem addressed to the Punjabi farmer has also been presented in Gurmukhi script.

The poem Tanhaai seems to have some similarities with or reflection of Walter de la Mare's two poems presented after the three poems. Is the similarity incidental? Remember Faiz was a student and then teacher of English literature in the pre-partition India. Walter de la Mare (1873-1956) belonged to a group of poets named Georgian poets majority of whom flourished in the first two decades of the twentieth century. I imagine Faiz must have read Walter de la Mare. But his great poem has a cultural, metaphorical and contextual originality and scintillating rhythm all its own.

The other two poems, 'Today, Come to the Marketplace in Fetters and 'A Song for the Punjabi Farmer' are revolutionary in intent. 

1.

तनहाई

फिर कोई आया दिल-ए-ज़ार नहीं कोई नहीं
राहरौ होगा, कहीं और चला जायेगा
ढल चुकी रात, बिखरने लगा तारों का ग़ुबार
लड़खड़ाने लगे ऐवानों में ख़्वाबीदः चिराग़
सो गई रस्तः तक-तक के हरइक राहगुज़ार
अजनबी ख़ाक ने धुँदला दिये क़दमों के सुराग़
गुल करो शम्‍एँ, बढ़ा दो मय-ओ-मीना-ओ-अयाग़
अपने बे-ख़्वाब किवाड़ों को मुक़फ़्फ़ल कर लो
अब यहाँ कोई नहीं, कोई नहीं आयेगा

                           ---

                     

 Loneliness

 

Did someone come, sad heart? No, no one

Must be a traveler, bound for somewhere

The night has melted, the stardust is fading

In the mansions the sleepy lamps are wearing out

Pathways have gone to sleep ‒ waiting, waiting…

The unwitting dust has buried the stamp of footsteps

Blow out the lamps, put away the wine, the cup, the goblet

Lock the doors of your sleepless eyes

No one, no one will come here now

                            ---               

 2.

आज बाज़ार में पा-ब-जौलाँ चलो

चश्मे-नम जाने-शोरीदा काफ़ी नहीं
तोहमते-इश्क़ पोशीदा काफ़ी नहीं
आज बाज़ार में पा-ब-जौलाँ चलो
दस्त-अफ्शाँ चलो, मस्तो-रक़्साँ चलो
ख़ाक़-बर-सर चलो, ख़ूँ-ब-दामाँ चलो
राह तकता है सब शहरे-जानाँ चलो
हाकिमे-शहर भी, मजम'ए-आम भी
तीरे-इल्ज़ाम भी, संगे-दुश्नाम भी
सुबहे-नाशाद भी, रोज़े-नाकाम भी
इनका दमसाज़ अपने सिवा कौन है
शहरे-जानाँ में अब बा-सफ़ा कौन है
दस्त-ए-क़ातिल के शायाँ रहा कौन है
रख़्ते-दिल बाँध लो दिलफ़िगारो चलो
फिर हमीं क़त्ल हो आएँ यारो चलो
आज बाज़ार में पा-ब-जौलाँ चलो

                 ---

 

 Today, Come to the Marketplace in Fetters

 

Not enough the wet eyes, the angst-ridden life

Not enough the accusations of secret love

Today, come to the marketplace in fetters

 

Come waving your hands, in a drunken dance

Come with dust-laden heads, blood-stained clothes

Come, the beloved city is watching:

 

The city’s hakim, the crowds of people too

The arrows of accusation, the stones of abuse too

The disconsolate morn, the failed day too

 

Who besides us is there to befriend them?

Who now is trustworthy in this beloved city?

Who now is beyond the assassin’s reach?

 

Firm up your heavy hearts, o wounded hearts, come

Come, friends, to let ourselves be murdered

Today, come to the marketplace in fetters

 

                                        ---

 3.

 

ਇਕ ਤਰਾਨਾ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਕਿਸਾਨ ਦੇ ਲਈ

ਉੱਠ ਉਤਾਂਹ ਨੂੰ ਜੱਟਾ
ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ
ਭੁਲਿਆ, ਤੂੰ ਜਗ ਦਾ ਅੰਨਦਾਤਾ
ਤੇਰੀ ਬਾਂਦੀ ਧਰਤੀ ਮਾਤਾ
ਤੂੰ ਜਗ ਦਾ ਪਾਲਣ ਹਾਰਾ
ਤੇ ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ
ਉੱਠ ਉਤਾਂਹ ਨੂੰ ਜੱਟਾ
ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ

ਜਰਨਲ, ਕਰਨਲ, ਸੂਬੇਦਾਰ
ਡਿਪਟੀ, ਡੀ ਸੀ, ਥਾਨੇਦਾਰ
ਸਾਰੇ ਤੇਰਾ ਦਿੱਤਾ ਖਾਵਣ
ਤੂੰ ਜੇ ਨਾ ਬੀਜੇਂ, ਤੂੰ ਜੇ ਨਾ ਗਾਹਵੇਂ
ਭੁੱਖੇ, ਭਾਣੇ ਸਭ ਮਰ ਜਾਵਣ
ਇਹ ਚਾਕਰ, ਤੂੰ ਸਰਕਾਰ
ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ
ਉੱਠ ਉਤਾਂਹ ਨੂੰ ਜੱਟਾ
ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ

ਵਿਚ ਕਚਹਰੀ, ਚੁੰਗੀ, ਥਾਣੇ
ਕੀਹ ਅਨਭੋਲ ਤੇ ਕੀਹ ਸਿਆਣੇ
ਕੀਹ ਅਸਰਾਫ਼ ਤੇ ਕੀਹ ਨਿਮਾਣੇ
ਸਾਰੇ ਖੱਜਲ ਖ਼ਵਾਰ
ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ
ਉੱਠ ਉਤਾਂਹ ਨੂੰ ਜੱਟਾ

ਏਕਾ ਕਰ ਲੋ ਹੋ ਜੋ ਕੱਠੇ
ਭੁੱਲ ਜੋ ਰੰਘੜ, ਚੀਮੇ, ਚੱਠੇ
ਸੱਭੇ ਦਾ ਇਕ ਪਰਵਾਰ
ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ

ਜੇ ਚੜ੍ਹ ਆਵਣ ਫ਼ੌਜਾਂ ਵਾਲੇ
ਤੂੰ ਵੀ ਛਵੀਆਂ ਲੰਬ ਕਰਾ ਲੈ
ਤੇਰਾ ਹਕ ਤੇਰੀ ਤਲਵਾਰ
ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ

ਦੇ 'ਅੱਲ੍ਹਾ ਹੂ' ਦੀ ਮਾਰ
ਤੂੰ ਮਰਦਾ ਕਿਉਂ ਜਾਨੈਂ
ਉੱਠ ਉਤਾਂਹ ਨੂੰ ਜੱਟਾ

A Song for the Punjabi Farmer

               

By Faiz Ahmed Faiz

 

(Translated from Punjabi by TC Ghai)

 

Stand straight up, O Jatta

Why this listlessness?

Forgetting you’re the food giver to the world!

Mother Earth is your bondsmaiden

You are the world’s life sustainer

Why do you lie listless?

Stand straight up, O Jatta

Generals, colonels, subedars

Deputies, DCs, Thanedars –

All eat what you grow

If you didn’t sow, if you didn’t harvest

They all would die of starvation

Why this listlessness?

Stand straight up, O Jatta

In the court, at the octroi post, at the police station

Whether ignorant or wise

Whether high or low

All suffer alike

Why this listlessness?

Stand straight up, O Jatta

Unite and come together

Forget who is a Rangad, Cheema, or Chatha

All are one family

If they send armies after you

Sharpen your choppers

Your right, your sword

Why this listlessness?

Strike fear of Allah in them

Why do you lie listless?

Stand straight up, O Jatta

            ---

Two poems by Walter de la Mare

Alone

Walter de la Mare

 

The abode of the nightingale is bare,
Flowered frost congeals in the gelid air,
The fox howls from his frozen lair:
Alas, my loved one is gone,
I am alone:
It is winter.

Once the pink cast a winy smell,
The wild bee hung in the hyacinth bell,
Light in effulgence of beauty fell:
I am alone:
It is winter.

My candle a silent fire doth shed,
Starry Orion hunts o'erhead;
Come moth, come shadow, the world is dead:
Alas, my loved one is gone,
I am alone;
It is winter.

---

 

Some One

 

Walter de la Mare

 

Some one came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Someone came knocking;
I'm sure-sure-sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all.

---

STREET DOG (GALI KA KUTTA) - A poem, and the Anarchist Tradition

 

Friends,

This poem by me both in English and Hindi might interest you.

                               

                                 STREET DOG

                                       A Poem

  Source:  http://publicdomainpictures.net/pictures/70000/velka/sleeping-street-dog.jpg

 He lies sprawling on the footpath

under the December noon sun

soaked in Nature’s bounty

immobile, eyes shut, as if in deep sleep

 

Untroubled by

the fear of losing his possessions

dictatorial parents

rebellious offspring

a quarrelsome spouse

treacherous friends

backstabbing and betrayals

bouts of loneliness

a god’s wrath

police lawyers taxmen ED CBI 

He lies sprawling on the footpath

at peace with the universe

                  ---

Here is the Hindi version.

गली का कुत्ता

वह चारों टांगे पसार

फुटपाथ पर लेटा है

दिसम्बर की दोपहरी धूप के नीचे

प्रकृति के वरदान में विभोर

निश्चल, आंखें मूंदे, मानो गहरी नींद में

 

एकदम बेफ़िक्र

घरबार लुटे जाने के डर से

मां-बाप के आदेशों से

पति-पत्नी के लड़ाई-झगड़ों से

संतान की उपेक्षाओं से

मित्रों के विश्वासघात से

देवी-देवताओं के प्रकोप से

पोलीस, वकीलों, आयकर अधिकारियों  ईडी सीबीआई के डर से

सभी संसारी चिंताओं से विमुक्त

वह चारों टांगे पसार

फुटपाथ पर लेटा है

----

The Anarchist Tradition

Here is Noam Chomsky's view of the anarchist tradition.

The case of anarchist tradition  as I understand it, is that power is always illegitimate unless it proves itself to be legitimate. So the burden of proof is always on those who claim that some authoritarian hierarchic relation is legitimate.

 

MY CASTE - MY SHADOW SELECTED POEMS: BALBIR MADHOPURI

 Friends, 

Find here the  front and back  covers of my book of translations into English of well-known Punjabi Dalit poet Balbir Madhopuri (born 1955-) published this month. The book is available with the publishers. It would be available on Amazon shortly. 

Balbir Madhopuri came into prominence with the publication of his autobiography Chhangiya Rukh (The Lopped-off Tree) in Punjabi in 2002 which was later translated into English and published by OUP in 2010 as Changiya Rukh : Against the Night - An autobiography  and also into Hindi and Urdu and is being translated into Russian. He has published three books of poetry apart from  from some prose writings and translations into Punjabi from other languages. The  present selection has been made from his  published Punjabi  poetry collections and a few unpublished poems. He has recently published a work of fiction in Punjabi titled Mitti bol pei (Earth has spoken).  

 

Here are a few extracts from the book.

In Search of Poetry

These days I go

in search of poetry

as someone in the desert should go

in search of a tree.

In our times

poetry has become so insensitive

in truth, lost its way

become empty of social concerns

has forgotten

its proud tradition

of fighting against the throne:

the feeling for the suffering

swings from the hangman’s noose.

In these times, my contemporaries,

poetry has learnt

like a river

to flow within its banks,

like a bullock-cart

to move on the beaten track.

If the mainstream is a dark tunnel

what can live words do?

Meanings can only wear out.

What a turn!

Mother, in your poetry’s sheath

meaning has become

a rust-eaten kirpan.

Words are infected with lecherous worms

like computer virus.

Even then I keep searching

for a weak-bodied, dark-skinned

insignificant man a poem

a civilization like Mohenjo-Daro.

My beloved poetry,

don’t go away from the earth

like a spaceship;

don’t reserve your words

only for love tales;

come back again

like the newly sprouted shoots

on leafless trees,

like dew drops on grass.

These days I go

in search of poetry

as someone in the desert should go

in search of a tree.


xxx




Poetry is Not Mere Words

Poetry is not mere words.

It is

the flight of a man

without wings.

Poetry is not mere words.

It’s the agonizing cry

of a black partridge

snapped up by an eagle

as it flies out of a sugarcane field.

It’s the frenzied outcry

of a deer terrified in the wild.

It’s the story of leaves precariously dangling

from the branch of a tree.

Poetry is not mere words.

It is

the meanings emanating from words

that have lost their character

in the polluted environment;

even then they are

like monsoon showers in the peak of summer,

like stars on a moonless night.

Poetry is not mere words.

It is

the pain of the failure

to conquer the Red Fort of life.

It is the inexpressible story

of the seething waters of a river

that rose and fell.

Poetry is not mere words.

It is

the dance of limpid waters

and waves

struggling against banks

for equality;

roads marching towards a destination.

Poetry of my times,

your words are deadly silent.

This is debasement of their meaning.

Poetry, don’t be a slogan

become a voice;

not burning coal

but cosy wings of a hen

over its shivering-in-cold chicks.

Poetry is not mere words.

It is

the flight of a man

without wings.

xxx




Poetry, Tell Them

Poetry,

tell them who pluck flowers:

Fragrances can’t be shut up.

And tell them

that for cactus to bloom

in the burning sand of the desert

to keep smiling in every season

is its very nature.

Poetry,

speak to Sahiban:

She should not, like the spider, weave

with the strands of her fancies

a golden web around herself

that Mirza will return one day

bringing down the moon

and stars plucked from the skies.

And tell her

he is busy in search of a livelihood,

waiting for electricity beside his tube-well;

and no one knows when

Farhad’s Sutlej-Jamna link canal would flow

and the peasant’s budding crop begin to bloom.

Poetry,

tell the fish confined in a bottle

that oceans are infested with crocodiles;

and the colourful fishes

have returned

from across the seven seas

having licked the stones of self-indulgence.

Poetry,

tell the white pigeons

not to behave like parrots;

but when the sky is a cage

to fly away in a flock

against the winds.

Poetry,

tell those insects

it’s better

to fly on rainy-season wings

and be burnt on flames

than to crawl and

be squelched under heels.

Poetry,

tell the tired bull

he should shift the earth

onto the other horn.

xxx




My Caste

My caste is always with me

like my complexion

like my shadow.

We are so rolled into one

I’m nothing

except my caste,

in the city in the village

here or across the seas.

I try very hard to hide, to cloak

wear a hundred masks

but it shows itself

again and again

like the white hair

after the dye has worn off,

like the bodies peeping

through tattered clothes.

I wish to be rid of it

like someone wanting a divorce

but they tell me

impress upon me

this bond stays on birth after birth...

nothing to think about.

Finally

the bow is strung

with arrows of reason,

that pierce both present and past.

Blood boils within

like an earthquake

and then

the gaps seem to be bridging

east-west, right-left.


My caste is always with me

like my complexion

like my shadow.

We are so rolled into one

I’m nothing

except my caste,

in the city in the village

here or across the seas.

xxx







Tsunami Waves

The tsunami waves

swept away many things:

briny rocky shores

living things

sea creatures

trees and humans

beautiful natural landscape.

The waves overwhelmed

even God’s own houses,

of this religion and that religion,

where people passed by awestricken

trembling with fear.

And in no time land became water;

in the blink of an eye

present became past.

People recalled:

‘Death is a great leveller.’

Yet the survivors reversed the tune.

The living labelled the dead:

One high, the other low

one touchable, the other untouchable.

In this way on the seashore

the not-humans were left hungry-thirsty,

bereft of help and hope

in the demonic laughter of the humans.

And the tsunami waves

that had demolished the rocky shores

one and all

could not knock down

the towering walls of hatred

rising in the human hearts.

In the aftermath

on the now calm sea’s wide shore,

let someone reflect

and say:

Let us push our boat

into the sea of humaneness

like the waves embrace each other

merge into each other

catch the poisonous fish.

Come let us play this game.

xxx

T C Ghai

Poetry in the Times of COVID-19-VI

Friends

Here is another poem on the subject that is exercising everyone in the world: COV1D-19

It might interest you to  notice that the poem consists of  nine 3-line stanzas with the number of words progressively decreasing from the first to the last.  The first stanza consists of nine-word lines and the last of one word lines. The attempt is to show the progressive diminution of the migrants' identity to nothingness.

                                                  Migrants?

Who is a migrant? Let the Dictionary speak first:   

A person who moves from one place to another,

especially, to find work; or an animal for food.

Do these locked-out beings truly fit this sketch?                                          

Uprooted from work; driven out of their hovels;

herded into pens; let loose like stray cattle.

Scattered like dry leaves by a whirlwind    

Crowding the bus stops and rail stations

 Q-ing for charity food like street bums

 Hungry thirsty; desperate to go home    

 where they await hardly any welcome

 even if they reached there unharmed

 Bundled off by their employers   

 Disowned by the uncaring state

 can they be called migrants?

 What are they now?   

 Are they war refugees?

 Are they stateless now?

     

Having no rights!  

Citizens no more!

Bereft of dignity!

    

 Just non-entities                

 None’s concern

 Just abandoned

Unwanted    

Forsaken

Nothings

             ----

Poetry in the Times of COVID-19 -V

Friends
 Find here a cluster of four Haikus On the the theme.

God in the Times of COVID-19: Four Haikus

                  1

Places of worship

all empty of devotees

God locked-in, lonely

             ---

     

                    2

Devotees locked-out

offerings not forthcoming

God inside, sulks

                ---   

                   3

Suppliants at bay

untroubled by pestering crowds

God sighs in relief

 

                  ---

                    4

Confined in lock-down

God keeps a watch from inside

on humans, amused

                 ---

 Hope these would interest some of you.

Poetry in the Times of COVID-19 IV

Friends,
Here is the yet another poem, both in its Hindi and English versions on the current theme: COVID-19. Hope it would interest some of you.

  

                 FIAT

  

This is a FIAT from the State.

Stay where you are.

Those in their homes, stay locked in.

There would be no shortages.

Groceries, vegetables, fruits, milk,

bakeries, medicines in plenty.

Keep busy. Use the Internet, TV

for news and entertainment 24x7.

Be creative. Invent new pastimes. Keep fit.

Go digital in money transactions.

You’ll miss nothing, except the humanoids

who perform all your menial jobs.

Bear with this for your own safety

and to serve Mother India.

Last time you lighted the lamps of solidarity

standing in your balconies

at a propitious confluence of stars.

This time we shall ask you to do something more.

To make a sacrifice, may be.

Wait for fresh instructions.

Now, for those who are out:

Stay locked out. Wherever you are.

On the roads. In makeshift camps. Wherever else.

Men, women, old, sick, children, infants, pregnant women, all. 

You will be fed at least once a day. Dal-chawal-roti.

You will have to stand in queue. No hardship for you.

You have done this again and again.

 There may not always be enough for all.

This also you know.

We cannot send you home.

Bear hunger, heat, loneliness, separation from your families,

 indignities from the police. You are no strangers to these too.

Don’t disobey the fiat.

The police may haul you up.

We need to protect the people.

So, stay where you are.

Like jawans at the borders.

Jai Hind.

---

आदेश

राजसत्ता ने आदेश जारी किया है

जहां भी हो रुके रहो

घर के अंदर या बाहर

जो घरों में हैं बाहर न निकलें

किसी चीज़की कमी नहीं होगी

आटा दाल चींनी सव्ज़ी फ़ल दूध दवाएं ब्रैड बिसकुट

सभी कुछ मिले गा  बेफ़िक्र रहें

मनोरंजन  और  ख़बरों के लिए

ईंटरनैट टीवी उपलब्ध हैं दिनरात

 मनोरंजन के नये नये साधन खोजें

 व्यस्त रहें फिट रहें

आपको सभ कुछ उप्लबध है

आपके अर्धमानव सेबक-सेविकाओं के सिवा

धीरज ररखें यह आपका कर्त्वय है

इस का पालन करें

इस  से पहले हम  ने आप से अपनी  बालकोनी में 

खड़े हो दिये जलाने को  कहा था

नक्षत्रों के शुभ संयोग के समय

अब हम आप से कोई कुरबानी मांग सकते हैं

राष्ट्र की ख़ातिर

हमारे अगले आदेश की प्रतीक्षा करें

और  जो घर से बाहर हैं बाहर ही रहें

जहां भी हैं सड़क पर बसेरों में कहीं भी

जवान बूढ़े बच्चे औरतें बीमार गरभवती औरतें सभी

हम तुम्हें खाना खिला देंगे

रोटी-दाल-चावल दिन में एक बार

तुम्हें लाईन में खड़े रहना होगा

हो सकता है कई बार तुम्हें खाना न मिले

पर इस की तुम्हें आदत है

हम तुम्हें घर नहीं भेज सकते

भूख प्यास धूप परिवार जनों से दूरी अकेलापन पुलिस की ज़ोराज़ोरी

सहन करने होंगे अपनी जान बचाने के लिए

देश की ख़ातिर इसआदेश का पालन करना होगा

वरना पुलिस लाठी चला सकती है

जहां भी हो डटे रहो

सीमा पर जवानों की तरह तैनात

हमारे अगले आदेश तक

जयहिंद

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Poetry in the Times of COVID-19 III

Dear friends,
 Here is another poem on the theme both in its English and Hindi versions. 
Both the versions have been composed one after the other ,almost simultaneously, each version modifying the other in the process, though here and there going its own way.

Intimations

Will I survive this knockout?

How many will die?

Do I care?

I want to live through…

Will I?

A mild backache

A coughing bout

 A sore throat

A sneeze

A nose congestion

become the intimations

My hands have become the enemy!

One touch

And there I go

And during the day

newspapers

TV channels

social media

friends and well-wishers on phone

howls of ambulance sirens ‒

keep revved up the drumbeat

for the invisible cannibal’s dance

During the night I wake up

dreading the stealth invader’s silent entry

How long will it go on?

Light at the end of the tunnel is just a pinhead

Will I reach there?

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मौन दस्तक

क्या मैं इस कठोराघात से बच पाऊं  गाा?

कितनी जानें जाएं गी ?

मैं क्यों जानू?

बस मैं जीना चाहता हूं

क्या मैं सचमुच बच निकलूं गा?

पीठ में हलका सा दरद

खांसी की एक खों-खों

बस एक छींक

गले में हलक़ी सी ख़राश

 नाक बन्द

दस्तक देनें लगते हैं

मेरे हाथ मेरे दुश्मन बन गये हैं

एक स्पर्ष और बस

और उस पर

अख़बार

टीवी चैनल

सोशल मीडिया

फोन पर दोस्त सज्जन

हऊ-हऊ करती ऐमबुलैंस

दिनभर उसअदृश्य नरभख्शी के

नाच का नगाड़ा पीटते रहते हैं

और रात को अचानक उठ बैठता हुं

उस मौन आकर्मणकारी

के चुपचप आ धमकने के डर से

आखिर यह कब तक चले गा? 

समय की सुरंग के उस पार प्रकाश

बस एक बिन्दु मात्र

क्या मैं उस तक पहुंच पाऊं गा?

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