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‘Faiz’ is the name of not just a poet.

‘Faiz’ is a name of the aural experience that is at once full of sensuous beauty and excruciating reality. It is the name of the artifice that turns words into images. It is the name of the subtle sorcery that stirs extraordinary ardour in ordinary hearts. It is the name of the beacon of hope that inspires weary travellers to plod on.

‘Faiz’ is the name of voice of humanity’s yearning for freedom. It is the name of the voice raised by people so that they may fully determine their own destiny and truly realise their potential. It is the name of voice that pierces the darkness of oppression and illuminates minds. It is the name of the voice that provokes the weak into rebellion… the voice that startles people from their slumber.

‘Faiz’ is the name of not just a poet!

Or a potential whore

What does it matter

what the subjective details of this instance were

When the demons of past

raise their ugly head

they ask for blood

if its not people

at least relationships

the kill is not called for by need

and the dead are not eaten

the corpses are abandoned

left to rot

and fill the deepest niches in our beings

with their morbid stench

and then

I can be accused again

of being a woman.

Ghazal By Ishrat Aafreen

(From We Sinful Women)

Bhook ki karvahat se sard kasile honth

Khoon ugalte sookhe chatkhe pile honth

Tooti choori, thandi larki, baghi umr

Sabz badan pathrai ankhen nile honth

Soona angan tanha aurat lambi umr

Khali ankhen bhiga anchal gile honth

Kachche lafzon ka ye nila zehr

Chhoo jae to moorakh too bhi chhile honth

Zehr hi mangen amrat ras ko munh na lagaen

Baghi ziddi vehshi aur hatile honth

Aisi banjar baten aise karve bol

Aise sundar komal surkh rasile honth

Itna bologi to kya samjhenge log

Rasm yahan ki ye hai larki si le honth

My Translation

made cold by bitterness of hunger, taut lips

chapped, dry, spewing blood, yellow lips

Broken bangles, cold girl, rebellious age

raw bodies, stone eyes, blue lips

forlorn courtyard, lonely woman, stretched life

empty eyes, drenched bosom, wet lips

blue vitriol of unformed, accusing words

if they only touch, you fool, they abrase lips

they demand venom, never even tasting the elixir

rebellious, stubborn, obsessive, adamant lips

such parched exchanges, such bitter words

from such pretty, supple, red, juicy lips

what will people think if you talk so much

tradition here is that girls stitch their lips

The Ghazal in Devnagri script…

भूख की कड़वाहट से सर्द कसीले होंठ

खून उगलते, सूखे, चटखे, पीले होंठ

टूटी चूड़ी, ठंडी लड़की, बागी उम्र

सब्ज़ बदन, पथराई आँखें, नीले होंठ

सूना आँगन, तनहा औरत, लंबी उम्र

ख़ाली आँखें, भीगा आँचल, गीले होंठ

कच्चे लफ़्ज़ों का ये नीला ज़हर

छू जाए तो मूरख तो भी छीले होंठ

ज़हर ही मांगें अमृत रस को मुंह न लगाएं

बागी, जिद्दी, वेहशी और हठीले होंठ

ऐसी बंजर बातें ऐसे कड़वे बोल

ऐसे सुन्दर, कोमल, सुर्ख, रसीले होंठ

इतना बोलोगी तो क्या समझेंगे लोग

रसम यहाँ की ये है लड़की सी ले होंठ

Chashm-e-nam, jaan-e-shoreeda kafi nahin
Tohmat-e-ishq-posheeda kafi nahin
aaj bazaar main pa-bajolan chalo
Dast afshan chalo, mast-o-raqsan chalo
Khak bar sar chalo, khoon badaman chalo
Rah takta hai sub shehr-e-janaan chalo
Hakim-e-shehr bhi, majma-e-aam bhi
Teer-e-ilzam bhi, sang-e-dushnam bhi
Subh-e-nashaad bhi, roz-e-naakaam bhi
Unka dum-saaz apnay siwa kaun hai
Shehr-e-janaan main ab baa-sifa kaun hai
Dast-e-qatil kay shayan raha kaun hai
Rakht-e-dil bandh lo, dil figaro chalo
Phir hameen qatl ho aain yaro chalo

My Translation

Teary eyes and stormy life are not enough

Even the accusation of a secret love is not enough

Come, walk today in public wearing your shackles

Hands thus adorned, walk in trance- dance

Walk with dust over head and blood on attire

Come, walk to the beloved city, everyone is waiting-

the town ruler and the common spectators;

the arrow and the stone of accusation too

along with the sorrowful morning and the day of failure.

Who will be their ally, if not us?

In the beloved city who remains unsullied?

No one worthy of the hand of executioner remains.

Behold your heartbeats, come even the broken hearted

Friends, come lets us go and be slain

I have been listening to Nayyara Noor singing this nazm for quite some time now but I realized that I had not really understood its true essence till I actually sat down to translate it late last night. It is not as if Faiz is exhorting people to react and speak up because the situation is oppressive (as in case of his nazm Bol). It is also not as if he is talking of change that will be ushered in by people when they arise (as in case of Hum Dekhenge). In Aaj bazaar mein pa ba jolan chalo things have reached such a pass that just exhorting and hoping will not do. It is not enough that we cry for the underdog, It is not enough that we are being accused of siding with the oppressed. To be aware that even though we do not come out in open, we do wear the shackles in our private-day to day lives. We have to come out to walk in public knowing fully well what our fate will then be. Even though our hearts are broken it is we who will have to do it because no one else is left to do it for us.

Faiz Ahmed Faiz

The climate of heart gets smeared with gloom
Desolation climbs deep into my being
Illusion of life explains nature’s concerns
I’m conscious of youth passing by

My Translation

Life is changing your password

from freespirit to funspirit

it is being settled like sludge

of dying wishes

that shallows each passing day

Life can be exciting little kicks

from within your belly that fail to affirm you

life is being woken up one Sunday morning

by kisses of a child

and missing your own mother

life is what happens

when a finicky friend

lets you order at the restaurant

to make you feel better

Life arrives  at some unremarkable instant

and leaves you weeping

as you climb the stairs home.

Life is the art of wondering

without really caring…

Where is it that successful people reach

when they succeed?

Life is making a little ritual speech

addressed to yourself, every now and then

and going on.

दिल में कुछ खद्शे

नए रिश्ते और नई-पुरानी बातें

चौराहे, बंद गलियाँ

नए तेवर, वही बहाने

खोए लफ्ज़…नए गाने

भीड़… हाथ थामे

कोई साथ

कई जी चुराते

मुश्किल लोग उलझी आँखें

नादाँ मन…

नादाँ मन…

with a study and lawn

A little money

to call my own

Would then my poems be more profound?

and new ideas

my essays expound?

Sylvia Plath…?

crazed by her craft?

Virginia Woolf with stones in her pockets

To remain grounded

and let my dreams defer?

With tradition shall my poems concur?

Write haikus

and of love borrowed

Or like Hughes, let it exlode?

Or extension to an idea?

You ask

me to draw my limitations

tighter… more clearly

or else I’m asked

to stretch and stretch

I won’t do either

I’d leave my bounds amorphous

and draw out the argument a little further

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