Bang-e-Dara: Himalaya and the Early Nazms

1. Himalaya

O Himalaya! O rampart of the land of Hindustan!
The sky bends down to kiss your brow.

There is no sign of age in you;
you are young between the turning of evening and dawn.

For Moses on Mount Sinai there was a single flash of glory;
for the seeing eye you are glory from head to foot.

To the test of the outward eye you are a mountain range;
you are your own guard, you are the wall of Hindustan.

You are a book of verse whose opening line is the sky;
you draw man by the hem towards the solitude of the heart.

The snow has tied a turban of honour on your head,
that laughs at the crown of the world-illumining sun.

The ancient age is a single moment of your past;
your black clouds pitch their tents in the valleys.

Your peaks are deep in conversation with the Pleiades;
you stand on earth, but the breadth of the sky is your home.

The spring at your foot is a flowing mirror,
and the hem of the wind's wave serves it for a handkerchief.

For the steed of the wind, into the cloud's hands
the lightning on the mountain's head has given a whip.

O Himalaya, are you too some playground
that the hand of Nature made for the elements?

Ah, how the cloud goes swaying in excess of joy,
flying like an elephant without a chain!

The stirring of the waves of the morning breeze has become a cradle;
every flower bud sways, drunk on the wine of being.

Thus its silence speaks with the tongue of a leaf:
"I have never felt the jerk of the flower picker's hand.

My very silence tells my story;
my dwelling is a corner of Nature's private chamber."

The stream comes down from the mountain height, singing,
putting to shame the waves of Kausar and Tasnim,

showing the beloved face of Nature as in a mirror,
now avoiding the stones in its path, now striking them.

Go on, play the lute of this heart-pleasing melody;
O traveller, the heart understands your voice.

When the Laila of night comes and lets down her long tresses,
the sound of the waterfalls tugs at the heart's hem.

That silence of evening, for which speech would give its life,
that air of thought hanging over the trees,

how the colour of twilight goes trembling over the mountains!
How fine this rouge looks on your cheeks!

O Himalaya, tell some story of the time
when your foothills became the home of man's forefathers;

tell something of that plain and simple life
that bore no stain of the rouge of artifice.

Yes, O imagination, show me those mornings and evenings again;
run backwards, O turning of the days!

2. Mirza Ghalib

Through your being it became clear to human thought
how far the wing of the bird of imagination can reach.

You were all spirit; the gathering of poetry was your body;
you graced the gathering, and stayed hidden from it too.

Your eye longs to see that beauty
which lies hidden in all things as the burning of life.

The gathering of existence takes its wealth from your lute,
as the silence of the mountains does from the songs of the stream.

Nature's springtime comes from the paradise of your imagination;
from the field of your thought whole worlds spring up like grass.

Life lies hidden in the playfulness of your pen;
the lips of the picture move with the power of speech.

Speech takes a hundred prides in your miraculous lips;
the Pleiades stand lost in wonder at the height of your flight.

The beauty of meaning is given in sacrifice to your style;
the bud of Delhi laughs at the rose of Shiraz.

Ah, you lie at rest in ruined Delhi,
while your fellow singer sleeps in the garden of Weimar.

No one can equal you in the grace of speech
unless imagination sits side by side with perfect thought.

Alas, what has become of the land of Hindustan!
Ah, you who taught the subtle eye how to see,

the tresses of Urdu still wait upon the comb;
this candle still longs for the moth's heart-burning.

O Jahanabad, O cradle of learning and art,
your roofs and doors are all a silent lament.

In every particle of you the sun and moon lie sleeping;
countless pearls lie hidden in your dust;

but is there buried in you another such pride of the age?
Is there hidden in you another such lustrous pearl?

3. A Wish

I am weary of the world's gatherings, O Lord!
What joy is there in company when the heart itself has gone out?

I run from the din; my heart is looking for
a silence for which speech itself would give its life.

I am dying for quiet; this is my wish:
a little hut on the skirt of a mountain,

free from care, to pass my days in seclusion,
the thorn of the world's grief drawn out of my heart;

the pleasure of song in the chirping of the sparrows,
a music playing in the rush of the spring;

a flower bud bursting open to bring me someone's message,
a little cup to show me the whole world;

my arm for a pillow, the grass for a bed,
such grace in solitude as would put company to shame;

the nightingale so used to my face
that its little heart holds no fear of me;

green plants standing in rows on either side,
the clear water of the stream taking their picture;

the view of the mountains so enchanting
that the water too rises in waves to look;

the grass asleep in the lap of the earth,
the water gleaming as it winds among the bushes;

the branch of a flowering bush bending again and again to touch the water,
like a beauty looking into a mirror;

when the sun puts henna on the bride of evening,
every flower's robe turning red and gold;

when those who travel by night grow tired and stop,
let my broken lamp be their hope;

let the lightning flash and show them my cottage
when clouds have gathered on every side of the sky;

the koel of the last watch of night, that muezzin of the morning:
let me sing with her, and let her sing with me.

Let my ears owe no favour to temple or mosque;
let the chink in my hut be my sign of dawn.

When the dew comes to give the flowers their ablution,
let my weeping be my ablution, my lament my prayer.

Let such loud laments go up into that silence
that my voice becomes the caravan bell for the caravan of stars.

Let my weeping bring to tears every heart that feels pain;
perhaps it will wake those who lie senseless.

4. The Bird's Complaint

I remember the days gone by,
the springtime in the garden, the chirping of all the birds,

where now is that freedom of my own nest,
coming as I pleased and going as I pleased?

My heart is wounded whenever I remember
the buds smiling at the dewdrops' tears,

that sweet, sweet face, that delicate little form
that made my nest a home.

Its songs do not reach my cage;
if only my release were in my own power!

How unlucky I am, longing for home!
My companions are in our homeland, and I lie in prison.

Spring has come, the flower buds are laughing,
and I sit in this dark house weeping over my fate.

O God, to whom shall I tell the sorrow of this prison?
I am afraid I shall die of grief here in this cage.

Since I was parted from the garden, this is how it is:
my heart is eating grief, and grief is eating my heart.

Listeners, do not be pleased, taking this for singing:
this sound is the cry of hurt hearts.

Set me free, you who imprisoned me!
I am a voiceless prisoner; let me go and take my blessing.

5. A Child's Prayer

My wish comes to my lips as a prayer:
O God, let my life be like a candle.

Let the world's darkness go because of me;
let everywhere be bright with my shining.

Let me be the beauty of my homeland
as a flower is the beauty of the garden.

O Lord, let my life be like the moth's;
O Lord, let me love the candle of knowledge.

Let my work be to stand up for the poor,
to love the suffering and the weak.

My God, keep me from evil;
lead me on the path that is good.

6. Sympathy

On the branch of a tree, all alone,
a nightingale sat, sad at heart.

It said: "Night has come upon me;
I spent the day flying and pecking for food.

How shall I reach my nest?
Darkness has spread over everything."

Hearing the nightingale's sighs and cries,
a firefly spoke up from close by:

"I am here to help you with all my heart,
though I am only a tiny insect.

Why grieve that the night is dark?
I will light up the way for you.

God has given me a torch;
He made me shine and made me a lamp."

Those are the good people in the world
who are of use to others.

7. Song of Hindustan

Better than all the world is our Hindustan;
we are its nightingales, and it is our garden.

If we are in a foreign land, our heart stays in our homeland;
know that we too are there, where our heart is.

That highest of mountains, neighbour to the sky,
is our sentry, our watchman.

In its lap play thousands of rivers,
which make our garden the envy of Paradise.

O waters of the Ganga, do you remember the days
when our caravan came down to your banks?

Religion does not teach us to bear ill will to one another;
we are Hindi, and our homeland is Hindustan.

Greece and Egypt and Rome have all vanished from the world,
yet our name and mark remain to this day.

There is something that keeps our being from being wiped out,
though for centuries the turning of time has been our enemy.

Iqbal, we have no confidant in the world;
what does anyone know of our hidden pain?

8. The New Temple

Shall I tell you the truth, O Brahmin, if you will not take it ill?
The idols in your temples have grown old.

You have learnt from idols to bear ill will to your own people;
God too taught the preacher strife and war.

Weary at last, I left both temple and Kaaba,
I left the preacher's sermon, and left your tales.

You think there is God in images of stone;
to me every particle of my country's dust is divine.

Come, let us lift once more the veils of strangeness,
bring together those who are parted, erase the mark of division.

The town of the heart has lain empty for long;
come, let us build a new temple in this land.

Let our place of pilgrimage be higher than all the world's;
let us raise its spire to touch the hem of the sky.

Let us rise each morning and sing those sweet, sweet hymns,
and give all the worshippers the wine of love to drink.

There is strength, and there is peace, in the song of the devotees;
the salvation of the people of this earth lies in love.

9. On the Bank of the Ravi

In the stillness of evening the Ravi is lost in song;
do not ask me how my heart is feeling.

This rise and fall of sound came to me as a call to prostration;
the whole world became for me the precincts of the sanctuary.

I stand on the bank of the flowing water,
yet I do not know where I am standing.

The hem of evening is coloured with red wine;
the old man of the sky holds the cup in a trembling hand.

The caravan of day has set off swiftly towards non-being;
this is not the red of twilight: these are the sun's flowers, as it were.

Far off stand, deepening the grandeur of solitude,
the minarets over the resting place of the Chaghtai horseman.

This palace is a tale of the cruelty of change;
this palace is a book of the times gone by.

What a place! It is like a silent song;
these trees are like a gathering without a sound.

A swift boat moves on the breast of the river,
its boatman locked in struggle with the waves.

In its lightness this boat is like a glance;
it went beyond the circle of sight, far away.

Just so the ship of human life moves on;
just so it appears and just so it is hidden in the sea of eternity.

It is never acquainted with defeat;
it is hidden from sight, but it does not perish.

10. Song of the Community

China and Arabia are ours, Hindustan is ours;
we are Muslims, and the whole world is our homeland.

The trust of God's oneness is in our breasts;
it is not easy to wipe out our name and mark.

First among the idol houses of the world is that house of God;
we are its guardians, and it is our guardian.

We grew to manhood in the shadow of swords;
the crescent's dagger is our people's emblem.

Our call to prayer rang out in the valleys of the West;
none could hold back our flowing flood.

O sky, we are not ones to bow to falsehood;
a hundred times you have put us to the test.

O garden of Andalusia, do you remember the days
when our nest was on your branches?

O wave of the Tigris, you too know us;
your river still tells our story.

O holy land, we gave our lives for your honour;
our blood still flows in your veins.

The leader of our caravan is the chief of Hijaz;
through that name the peace of our souls remains.

Iqbal's song is, as it were, the bell of the caravan;
once more our caravan sets out upon the road.