Is it romance or a call for revolution…decide for yourself.
Gulon mein rang bhare baad-e-nau-bahaar chale
Chale bhi aao ke ghulshan ka kaarobaar chale…
revolution
Hum Dekhenge – Faiz
All acts of protest and unrest against the regime are incomplete without this poem.
Faiz at his best!
If this doesn’t send a shiver down your spine, nothing will.
Voice For Poetry.
Hum Log – Faiz | Voice For Poetry
WE THE PEOPLE – FAIZ AHMED FAIZ
It’s humanity’s cry to find some purpose in life..
He sighs when he finds all purposes to be ultimately purposeless and meaningless…
Then too, he can’t escape his self-sustained cage…
Another gem by Faiz
Bol – Faiz Ahmed. My first YouTube Video.
http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCm08CQK868
The classic poem by Faiz -Bol ke Lab Azad hain Tere.
Speak, as your lips are free.
You’ll find the text in Hindi as well as in Urdu along with its English translation.
Thanks!
बोल! Speak! -Faiz Ahmed “Faiz”
This poem itself is enough to spark a revolution against tyranny and oppression. Simple, yet motivational, calling all people to break away their chains. Only Faiz can weave such magic.
बोल के लब आज़ाद हैं तेरे,
बोल ज़बान अब तक तेरी हैं
तेरा सुतवाँ जिस्म है तेरा
बोल के जान अब तक तेरी है।
देख के आहनगर के दूकान में
तुंड हैं शोले सुर्ख़ हैं आहन,
खुलने लगे क़ुफ्लों के दहाने
फैला हर एक ज़ंजीर का दामन।
बोल, यह थोड़ा वक़्त बहुत है
जिस्म-ओ-ज़बान के मौत से पहले
बोल, के सच ज़िंदा है अब तक…
बोल, जो कुछ कहना है, कह ले।
Speak, for your lips are free,
Speak, your tongue is still your own,
The upright body still is yours,
Speak, for your life is still your own.
See, how in the blacksmith’s forge,
Flames leap high and steel glows red,
The mouths of locks have opened wide,
Each chain does lay outspread!
Speak, this little time is quite enough
Before the death of body, tongue,
Speak, for truth is still alive –
Speak, whatever must be said.
More by Faiz here
Image credits: http://www.struggle.com.pk/faiz-ahmed-faiz/
गुलों मे रंग भरे – FAIZ AHMED.
THE FLOWERS ARE FILLED WITH COLOURS.
This ghazal is a shining gem in the glittering sea of Urdu literature. Written by the great poet Faiz Ahmed, this ghazal is like an ever-juicy piece of sugarcane whose taste increases each time you take a bite. It has been written in the beh’r (meter) ‘Mujtas Musamman Makboon Makhtuuf’
This ghazal speaks about love (well, it seems to) and the pain which comes as a complementary package. The first line seems like a cliché but then comes the second line, changing the whole perspective. Such verses of awe are many here.
This is one ghazal which asks for perpetual pondering. Each sher (couplet) has multiple interpretations. So much is the open-endedness that this whole ghazal can seem to be a call for revolution!
This is my feeble attempt to translate this piece of profound ecstasy as well as depression. (You may scroll down for the Urdu text).
गुलों मे रंग भरे, बाद-ए-नौबहार चले
चले भी आओ कि गुलशन का कारोबार चले.
Gulon mein rang bhare, baad-e-naubahaar chale,
Chale bhi aao ke gulshan ka kaarobaar chale.
The flowers are filled with colours,
The wind of the new spring blows,
Come here, O my Love,
May the flowers carry on their graceful business.
क़फ़स उदास है यारों सबा से कुछ तो कहो
कहीं तो बह्र-ए-खुदा आज ज़िक्र-ए-यार चले.
Qafas udaas hai yaaro sabaa se kuchh to kaho,
KahiN to behr-e-Khuda aaj zikr-e-yaar chale.
The prison is grim, my friends,
Say something to the wind,
Somewhere, for the sake of God,
May I find a trace of my Love.
कभी तो सुब्ह तेरे कुन्ज-ए-लब से हो आग़ाज़
कभी तो शब् सर-ए-काकुल से मुश्कबार चले.
Kabhi to subah tere kunj-e-lab se ho aaghaaz,
Kabhi to shab sar-e-kaakul se mushkbaar chale.
At least once may the day commence
With the corners of your lips stretching wide,
At least once may your tresses,
Fill my night with fragrance.
बड़ा है दर्द का रिश्ता, ये दिल ग़रीब सही
तुम्हारे नाम पे आएंगे ग़मगुसार चले.
Bada hai dard ka rishta, yeh dil ghareeb sahi,
Tumhare naam pe aaenge ghamgusaar chale.
Strong is the bond of pain,
Although my heart is poor,
All the sympathizers will come running,
Just at the utterance of your name.
जो हम पे गुज़री सो गुजरी मगर शब्-ए-हिजरां
हमारे अश्क तेरी आक़ बत सँवार चले,
Jo hum pe guzri so guzri magar shab-e-hijraaN
Humare ashk teri aaqbat saNwaar chale.
All the things which I’ve been through,
Are things of past,
But at the night of our separation,
My tears had cradled your future.
हुज़ूर-ए-यार हुई दफ़्तर-ए-जूनून की तलब
गिरह में लेके गरेबां के तार-तार चले.
Huzoor-e-yaar hui daftar-e-junoon se talab,
Girah meiN leke girebaN ke taar-taar chale.
The court of Love conveyed her desire,
To see the documentation of my obsession,
Hence I presented, tied in a knot,
The torn pieces of my collar.
मक़ाम फैज़ कोई राह मे जचा ही नही
जो कू-ए-यार से निकले तो सू-ए-दार चले.
Maqaam “Faiz” koi raah mein jacha hi nahiN,
Jo ku-e-yaar se nikle to su-e-daar chale.
All the places I saw, Faiz,
Were unable to amuse my heart,
Once I left the streets of my Love,
I ended up at the gallows.
Yes, how could I ignore the beautiful original Nastaliq font.
We Will See.
There was a time when the world was just one,
People did share all the things they had won,
Even if the thing which was won was just one,
All of the land was for all under sun.
In came money, then lies and then hate,
All world’s honey just some of them rate,
All unchanced were thrown as a bait,
In came wealth and then more of the fun.
They made nations, governments then,
Fed the people as poor little hens,
Giving hemlock as “Lock of the Hem”,
Afran, Asian, different’ ’tis done!
But don’t you worry, friend of men,
We’ll see the day when life’s uncanned,
No borders, names or lands, nor dens,
And yet our foes won’t taste the gun.
Our Euphoric Heartache.
Advise they do to write,
Children took it lightly,
Inspired to see the light,
Freedom was held tightly.
Teens woke up and saw it,
‘Advisers’ up in sky!
‘Wise’ were people we bit,
Money, fame and rules and time – not me.
I’m not the ‘follow guy’,
We don’t care for praises,
In here you’ve got it high,
Writers tell their phrases.
Oppressed we are by life,
‘Life’ or so ’tis called now,
Repressed, we hold our knives,
Though we see the way now.
Why are we afraid,
To break away the rules?
To fight for our ‘rights’?
We have been given the tool:
Our sweet grievances, to write.
(I’ve experimented with alternative rhythms here. The first line being iambic trimeter and trochee trimeter in the next. But I’ve applied free-verse in the last stanza as a sign of freedom).
Rihan – The Destroyer (Part 2).
They prepared banners to be displayed and slogans to be shouted after the deed was done. They planned that Rihan would stab the minister while the minister would be hoisting the flag. As soon as he falls dead, all of the ‘Revolutionaries’ would go on the stage and justify their cause.
The day arrived – 15th August, the Indian Independence Day. The ‘Revolutionaries’ met and got together. They marched towards the college. Rihan had a sharp knife in his pocket. They entered the college ground, and sat on chairs placed in front of the stage.
The time arrived – the minister stepped down to hoist the flag. He held the rope in his hand, just a pull and the flowers would fall and the flag would then proudly wave…blood, oh blood! Rihan’s knife pierced his abdomen. All his bad deeds were neutralized, all his acquisitions were nullified. He fell dead; the evil politician.
Rihan raced unto the dais, he shouted out, “No minority, nor majority; throw away this inequality!”
But where were others? Lalit, Neeraj, Subhramanyam, Suvarna? With all those vows and dreams…in the name of vows and dreams! Where were they! Nowhere.
Rihan was stupefied. Oh, such betrayal! Police arrived at the scene and arrested Rihan. In court, he was sentenced for life.
Initial days in jail were traumatic for Rihan. Most of the people behaved like lunatics. How many of them were Revolutionaries (yes, with the capital R) like him? Wings of so many well-wishers of the country were ruthlessly cut in cold blood by the tyrannic government? No, the country will continue to burn. Such hopelessness! The world will burn!
There he met a man named Rishikesh. In all the chaos, he was a picture of calm. Once Rihan approached him, “Who are you? You seem so different from all of us. Who are you?” In a noble voice, he replied,
“I’m the wild sea and the calm lake.
I’m the Ganga and the Jordan.
I’m the Brahmin and the Shudra,
Shiyah and Sunni.
I was, I am and I only will be me.”
Rihan was quite fascinated by this introduction. Soon they became good friends.
One fine day, Rishikesh asked him, “Do you believe in prophecies, my friend?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I think you should.”
“Do you believe in them?”
“How can a practitioner be a non-believer?”
“Oh, is it so? Then tell me something.”
“Well…congratulations, my friend! You are going the be free before your term ends on account of good behaviour.”
“Ha, really!” Rihan mocked.
“Yes. And such a co-incidence (or is it) I too will be getting out’o here the same day. Now tell me, what are the chances?”
“Very odd.”
“Then too. I see so you’ll see.”
(To be continued…)
Rihan – The Destroyer (Part 1).
Uttarakhand, in India, is known as ‘The Land of Gods’. So, naturally, people are quite god-fearing in this Himalayan state. But there are rebels, the ‘wise’ ones, who defy this orthodoxy. But fate doesn’t play sweet games.
Rihan belonged to a Muslim family in the predominant Hindu state of Uttarakhand. He was one of the ‘cool-dudes’ of his collage. He lived a crazy life. He smoked cigarettes but never even touched alcohol. However different one may strive to be but family values are etched deep in the heart.
Once Rihan was riding on one of those extra-smokey bikes when he met his newly made friends – Lalit, Subhramanyam, Suvarna and Neeraj.
“Hey, fellas! Wassup?” Rihan asked.
“We are not good,” said Neeraj.
“How can we, when our society is on the verge of destruction?” Suvarna added.
“I don’t quite get what you are saying, friends.” said a confused Rihan.
“Even I don’t get it. Why can’t my dear brother get admission in the college even though he had great marks? This minority-reservation; I just don’t get it!” A teary-eyed Subhramanyam said.
“Just last week my father was trashed by the lower-caste hooligans for no reason at all!” cried Lalit, “These people are taking undue advantages of their ’empowerment.’ ”
Rihan was quite shoked to hear these things. He had a soft heart of a poet. He was a nature lover too. He couldn’t tolerate this injustice. “So many ills prevail in the country, in the society, in the law; in us…What shall we do?”
“Sarfarosh. Revolution. Revolution against caste-reservations.” replied Lalit in a stern tone, “We must take up arms and revolt!”
“Arms! No! There could be a different way. We can talk with the ministers, maybe,” said Rihan.
“Ha! Could and maybe in the same sentence,” mocked Neeraj.
“Oh are you a pacifist, then, eh Rihan? Do you know that pacifism has taken more lives than violent revolutions? Gandhi’s pacifism would have ruined us if it were not for the strength and determination of Azad, Bhagat Singh, Bose and many others.” said Suvarna.
These statements hit his heart and mind, hard. Yes, this was the right path, he was convinced.
The Independence Day was approaching. A minister was going to visit their college. The ‘Revolutionaries’ planned to assassinate him. He was a corrupt man. He was a fascist. He gave undue importance to the minority because he himself belonged to the lower-castes. He didn’t deserve to live!
“The big question-who would actually stab him?” asked Subhramanyam.
“I will,” replied Rihan, enthusiastically.
“Are you sure?” Subhramanyam asked him.
“If you all are with me then why should I fear?”
“Exactly. Whatever happens, we’ll stick together, friends,” said Lalit.
“When the time of woe,”
“Would come after gone is the foe,”
“Together we’ll row,”
“To the Light!”
(To be continued…)
Beauty & Tragedy 