Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: Longings for you have come again to wipe us out

Longings for you have come again to wipe us out:
before the heart, they will put us in our place.

Even on the Day of Judgement, cruel one, they did not let us raise our heads:
partly fear of you, partly our own faithfulness.

There is something in it, that she blushes at the mention of the rival:
her modesty has filled us with suspicion.

She has a taste for cruelty, and shame, and fear too:
she comes secretly in dreams to torment us.

Do not make so much of the favour of four scars:
what treasures have you bestowed on us?

Where is the leisure to talk in union, Bekhud?
She does not even let us come to our senses. [TN: a pun: *bekhud*, the pen name, means "beside oneself".]

Ghazal: You are innocent: how wonderful

You are innocent: how wonderful!
What a clean record! Bravo, how wonderful!

To her who, hearing of my ruined state,
says, "Bravo, how wonderful!"

At the Judgement this new idea came to her:
she turned plaintiff herself; how wonderful!

To make excuses after cruelty
you know very well; bravo, how wonderful!

You will not restrain your glance,
and I must hold back my sigh: how wonderful!

Where in the world are any better than you?
Bravo, envy of the moon, how wonderful!

Special kindness shown to the rival,
and a crooked glance for me: how wonderful!

Asking the rival for proof of faithfulness,
she turned witness herself; how wonderful!

Even after taking my heart she does not trust my faithfulness:
there is doubt still; how wonderful!

God save us from your look!
Oh, that crooked glance! How wonderful!

With such virtues, a hope of salvation!
Black-faced Bekhud, how wonderful!

Ghazal: What was it to you now whether I was hopeful or not

What was it to you now whether I was hopeful or not?
I never asked you for union with you.

As soon as she drank wine she opened up and let herself go:
on the night of union there was no pleasure in waiting.

When my eyelid did not blink on the promised night, I understood:
this was some other calamity, this was not waiting.

What arrow came out of your quiver
that had not gone through my liver without even being shot?

If he has died, what of it? We must die too:
God is witness, Bekhud was no drinker of wine.

Ghazal: Now the unhappy heart asks for nothing

Now the unhappy heart asks for nothing:
this is your pure kindness, not cruelty.

Do not say, blushing, "I do not remember":
this is the story of the rival, not yours.

One day our breath will leave us in this very longing:
you spoke the truth: man has no foundation.

First she listened closely to the lament, then laughed and said,
"This is all your pretence; this is not a cry for justice."

After the master, the ghazal ends with Bekhud: [TN: the master is Daagh Dehlavi (d. 1905), Bekhud's teacher.]
call it a miracle, not a God-given talent.

Ghazal: More, cupbearer, pour; what is this yet

More, cupbearer, pour; what is this yet?
What is lacking in your house?

Now this argument is only so that
someone may ask what your pleasure is.

We too went and met Bekhud today:
he is an angel; what is a man?

Ghazal: When we rose from your gathering, what were we fit for

When we rose from your gathering, what were we fit for?
We had sat holding our heart; we rose holding our liver.

Where is she at ease beside me for a moment?
She sat, then rose on the pretext of some errand.

Rising from that gathering, the feet will not move:
having risen in the evening, we reach home somewhere by morning.

I am jealous lest these too become her lovers:
many people of my name have risen from the grave.

The tale of her beauty is on every tongue,
whose door and roof never lifted their curtains.

At the beginning of love the heart had its pleasures:
let someone ask what sorrows it bore at the end.

We gave our heart as an offering to a wanton one, Bekhud,
when no price was offered in the market for that cup.

Ghazal: That He made you like this is God's power

That He made you like this is God's power:
what beauty is this beauty, what grace is this grace!

Modesty has conspired with my love's black eye:
this friend of Laila's is a calamity.

Why should we show you the picture, why tell you the name?
We have brought it from somewhere; it is of some faithless one.

Your manner with me is one thing, your way with the rival another:
I know my own death from another's.

Why are you so proud of your youth?
It is in my name; it is from my prayer.

Come from the rival's house and show us, one by one:
this is the gait of swagger, this of coquetry and grace.

Again and again it pinches at my heart,
the slipped knot of the fastening of your gown.

The neck turned, the eyes met, nothing was said:
your playfulness is one thing, but your dignity is a wonder.

The prayer of the drinkers is answered every day:
censor, this is the generosity of God.

All her complaints were washed out of my heart:
the abashed glance makes amends for the cruelty.

Can blood be hidden? Just open your fist:
this is the colour of henna, this the smell of henna?

Tell the censor not to touch it without ablution:
the soul of some pious man is sealed in the bottle.

Why did I not die after putting myself to her test?
Now she wants faithfulness from the rival too.

Go and see whether it is not his honour Bekhud:
there is a pious man invited to the tavern.

Ghazal: On the night of union give me leave to speak

On the night of union give me leave to speak:
give me the rival's fortune for a moment.

I had said to her, "You have no love for me";
she laughs and says, "Then give me your love."

We were the ones who missed it: we were never to celebrate the dawn of union:
now the order is, "Give me leave to go."

She will not take it for nothing, nor give it back:
well, all right, then give us the price of the heart.

Bekhud is no less than the old master who sits in the tavern:
drinkers, give him the charge of the tavern.

Ghazal: You invite me into the rival's gathering: what are you doing

You invite me into the rival's gathering: what are you doing?
And then you avoid my eyes: what are you doing?

After me you will find no one like me:
whom are you mixing with the dust? What are you doing?

We give nothing; this too is force:
you snatch the heart and carry it off: what are you doing?

You have done with trampling me before the enemy:
why scatter my dust? What are you doing?

Do not sprinkle water on your sleepy eyes:
you are waking a sleeping mischief: what are you doing?

Lest it become hard to free your skirt,
you are making me mad: what are you doing?

The censor is a great drinker, master of the tavern:
whom are you giving a taste for it? What are you doing?

What is the black spot of the heart doing on our heart? [TN: *suwaida*, the black spot at the core of the heart.]
You are wiping out the mark of love: what are you doing?

Then you will claim delicacy with that same face,
yet you bear the rival's airs: what are you doing?

Do not fall for that tormentor's tricks, Bekhud:
to whom are you telling the state of your heart? What are you doing?

Ghazal: Such a thing befell the heart that there was no restlessness

Such a thing befell the heart that there was no restlessness:
you took the swoon for sleep; it was not sleep.

It is a kind opinion that Bekhud was never dissolute:
the only shortcoming was that he was not stained with wine.

Had you seen with our eyes, it would have been clear
that even in the mirror there was no match for that face.

This desireless heart inflicted thousands of cruelties:
otherwise, there was no torment with me.

I am jealous: why should the rival be mentioned?
She is proud: my words had no answer.

Why did these idols think Bekhud a burden on their minds?
That homeless wretch was not in anyone's heart.

Ghazal: Should we be restless in separation? We are not a heart

Should we be restless in separation? We are not a heart.
Should we writhe on seeing you? We are not the slain bird.

We too know many such tricks and wiles:
we are not a heart, to come into your fist.

Now teach us some trade:
it appears we are not fit for love.

For the saying of it, I may call you faithful a hundred thousand times,
but in my heart I do not believe it.

Why should we follow Khizr on the road of seeking you? [TN: Khizr, the guide of lost travellers.]
We are not wanderers who have lost the stage.

Hearing of my longing for martyrdom, she says,
"Why should I kill you? I am not a killer."

If in our heart we long to see you, what is it to you?
We do not beg anything of you.

She asks me, "This theme is new:
are we, like you, without a heart?" [TN: *bedil*, "heartless", is also the pen name of the Persian poet Bedil.]

We are going; or you, Mister Heart, go on:
we shall not join that gathering now.

We too have seen the world with these eyes:
do not tell us you are not inclined towards the rival.

We are watching for some time to die:
we do not yet think this task hard.

She says, "Seeing you, I feel jealous":
we are not sitting facing the rival.

At every breath there is the dread of remembering you:
we are Bekhud, granted, but we are not heedless of our work.

Ghazal: What can anyone come to sell, bringing a lovesick heart

What can anyone come to sell, bringing a lovesick heart?
You take the goods and do not pay the price.

You did not keep the lovesick heart even four days after taking it:
having taken the wretch, you lost it, as we did.

When they are tired out from delicacy after killing,
they sit down, leaning on the slain one.

The killing of the rival is not so hard:
just let go your hand, naming us.

The catch in the breast that comes with each breath:
from weakness, even pain rises leaning on support.

The end of my faithfulness came into my sight
when I took the sword from the killer and looked at it.

Now Bekhud claims, in the master's words,
"Let a man love, taking our name." [TN: the master is Daagh; the line echoes his boast.]

Ghazal: Will she become faithless by being called faithless

Will she become faithless by being called faithless?
While you are here, will there be a second of that quality?

Make it a condition, then I accept even being ruined:
mixed with the dust, at least the purpose will be won.

If the head is not on the shoulders, will there be no talk?
The killer will be thanked with the last gasps.

You broke the breast, pinched the heart, wounded the liver:
who knew that even the arrow would become your grace?

The heart obeys me as long as it is at my side:
you take it, and it will become yours.

With her, life and longings too will go today:
before dawn the caravan will set out.

If I rub my eyes on her soles, she says, "I will see to you:
remember, if the colour of the henna fades." [TN: henna on the soles of the feet; his eyes would rub it off.]

Then it is the same old quarrel, if you say "Arise": [TN: *qum*, "arise", the word by which Jesus raised the dead.]
the whole verdict of the sword will be cancelled.

In what joy, alas, what sorrow spread! What shall I do?
Who knew that she would become angry while laughing?

Why should the matter go to the Judgement? Why fall into strangers' mouths?
We shall come to an understanding at home, you and I.

The eyes agree to union; the heart is in doubt:
what will happen if you say it with your tongue?

If you slaughter me with cruelty, I do not care:
I fear kindness; that will be my death.

She teased me: "When will you give your life for us?"
I said too, "When your promise is kept."

So, at the request for union, someone put it off for years:
"Be patient, do not be restless; it will be as you say."

Let there be a hundred thousand beauties in the world, a hundred thousand houris in Paradise:
what you are to me, will another become?

He had repented too; this also was a whim of drunkenness:
you thought that Bekhud would become pious.

Ghazal: Do you not know our lovesick heart

Do you not know our lovesick heart?
And do you not know the rivals' longing?

Is a promise-breaking lip ever life-giving?
Do you not know this false Messiah of yours? [TN: the Messiah, Jesus, gave life with his breath; the beloved's lip promises life and does not keep its word.]

First hold your heart, then take the mirror in your hand:
do you not know the beauty of your lovely face?

Lest Bekhud's sigh should cloud it,
do you not know that mirror-browed one?

Ghazal: We do love you, but what of it

We do love you, but what of it?
What is love, what is the effect of love?

You spoke the name of faithfulness only afterwards:
what did you say before that?

You took offence a thousand times in one night:
shall we get on with you all our life?

The eyes do not meet; the eye is not raised:
let someone ask what is in view.

Hearing the complaint, she said to Bekhud,
"What do you know of me, you who know nothing?" [TN: a pun: *bekhabar*, "unknowing", beside the pen name Bekhud.]

Ghazal: No work was done by the axe, nor by Farhad

No work was done by the axe, nor by Farhad:
whatever was done was done with the help of love. [TN: Farhad cut through the mountain with an axe for love of Shirin.]

That she pulled it out of her tress and threw it at me:
what fault had the unhappy heart committed?

She does not know of her own graceful gait;
she says, "The Judgement came from your outcry."

The sky does not torment anyone like this without an order:
this cruelty to me was done at your command.

Who could give you his life as Bekhud did?
In love this deed was done by that unhappy one alone.

Ghazal: Having tormented me, she reminds me of her favours too

Having tormented me, she reminds me of her favours too,
as if she were teaching me the ways of faithfulness.

"Your love has left us good for nothing,"
she is telling the rival, so that I hear it.

Before, she could not tell love from lust:
having tested me, she has grown prouder still.

On the night of union there are graces and cruelties too:
what calamitous manners she keeps showing me!

If you want to see some sport, Bekhud,
give me wine and set me against his honour the ascetic.

Ghazal: Whoever puts himself to your test

Whoever puts himself to your test,
with what joy he gives his life!

What did we give, if we gave our life to her?
The whole world gives that.

If you want it, then take it:
a feeble man gives his life.

Your dagger has better manners than you:
it gives its life for the dying. [TN: a pun: *jan dena*, "to give one's life" and "to be devoted to".]

When she hears the name of Bekhud,
the foul-mouthed one curses.

Ghazal: Whatever spectacle came into sight, I looked at it and understood it

Whatever spectacle came into sight, I looked at it and understood it:
when understanding came, I understood the world to be a spectacle.

I am a spectator of His display of miracles:
if a firefly so much as glowed, I took it for the White Hand. [TN: *yad-e baiza*, the shining hand of Moses, one of his miracles.]

I understand that you did not understand what I said:
when you nodded and said "Very well", I understood.

Shall I call it the effect of beauty, or the pull of love?
I was the spectator; she took me for the spectacle.

What can I say? It takes understanding to take me in:
he understood nothing who took me for a figure of clay.

There is one who has the springs of the world for his lot,
and there is I, who took the narrow cage for the world.

Each verse of mine is a secret of the Truth, Bekhud:
I am the Naziri of Urdu; what did you take me for? [TN: Naziri of Nishapur (d. 1612), Persian poet of the Mughal court.]

Ghazal: True or false, you go on blaming

True or false, you go on blaming:
you do not listen; you go on cursing.

With sidelong glances she has wounded many hearts:
the arrows are crooked, yet they keep doing their work.

Someone leaving in a huff said this too:
"We are leaving you the message of death."

If the watchmen wake, give it to them:
we are writing this one name on paper and leaving it.

This is the return for your kindness and favour:
we go on taking griefs and giving comfort.

The heart and life became hers: what price can they have?
Is a price ever paid for such things?

I have pressed the killer's arrow to my breast:
we give comfort even to the enemy.

It may some day be of use in the rival's love:
as a precaution we are giving away the thwarted heart.

Now she has let herself go with Bekhud; God keep us safe!
Now she fills the cup and gives it to him herself.