Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: If we show the power of a sigh

If we show the power of a sigh,
we shall drag you here this very moment.

Wait a little, O wilderness of wandering:
we shall make a fine mockery of you. [TN: a pun: *khaka urana*, "to mock", literally "to fly the dust".]

The tale of your night-black tress
will grow as far as we make it grow.

The same pain of separation, the same waiting:
what peace shall we find, then, even in death?

That stray one goes along with the rivals:
how shall we bring her onto the right road?

When was there leave to fly from the cage?
We shall drive this very wish from the heart.

The lover's state is the magic of love:
we shall tell her this tale too.

In her pride she is beyond the sky:
from where shall we find her and bring her?

Do not, O sigh, stir up such turmoil:
we shall put you too to the test some day.

The thread of our intimacy will not break:
the more she pulls, the more we shall let it out.

Granted, you are the envy of houri and fairy,
but we shall teach you to be human.

Beware the volley of the arrows of the lashes:
how long shall we save this one heart?

Why do we look for poison and dagger?
On the night of grief shall we not die anyway?

If no way is found, we shall turn to dust
and settle in your eyes.

Where are carpets and coverings in a poor man's house?
If she comes, we shall spread out our eyes.

The cypress tried to match your stature:
today we shall put it straight. [TN: a pun: *sidha banana*, "to straighten" and "to put someone in his place".]

The killing ground is no place for washing the dead,
but we shall bathe in dust and blood. [TN: martyrs are buried unwashed, in their blood.]

He is still a stranger to the road of love:
we shall show Khizr this road.

Even if there is union, what joy is there?
She will sulk, and every moment we shall coax her.

Why should we not dig into the heart night and day?
It is here that we shall find a trace of her.

This length of hope is idle, Majrooh:
we shall leave all these troubles behind.

Ghazal: Go on seeing for yourself all its benefits

Go on seeing for yourself all its benefits:
someone spoke truly who said, "Drink, and give to drink."

Do not leave it behind to be seized by the state:
eat up your gold and goods well, and squander them well.

The company you and the rival kept last night
the lowering of your eyes tells of itself.

This ruined inn is not fit to sit in:
instead of picking up provisions from here, pick up a boat.

I am suffering from last night's wine; where have I the strength? Yes, cupbearer,
clear or dregs, whatever you can find, bring it quickly.

One does not give the sick too much trouble:
do not lower your eyes so much before me.

Come and sit in my heart, and see the two worlds:
from this ruined station the view reaches very far.

If a word slips from the mouth, calamity comes:
whatever is said, listen quietly, do not move your tongue.

Where am I, and where her coming at night? But yes,
the rival's house is far more bound to yours.

My feet give way, seeing the colour of things there:
I never found a footing at that door, nor ever will.

The thought of peopling the heart is quite in vain now:
here the army of grief camps every day.

If after a lifetime I tell my desire,
she grows angry and says only, "Don't make up stories."

Though this is a false tale, it is delightful:
she says, "Tell me your story every day."

If in return for it I want half a glance,
she laughs and says, "Lower the price of your heart a little more."

It is the beginning of love; when does the heart understand?
The flood of calamity on this sea is still in full force.

I would tell my state, if my wits were in place;
here I am amazed that you should come to ask after me.

Who can bear the pain of the breath leaving the body?
My life, do not even let the word "going" come to your tongue.

She has no regard at all for love, but
if you can keep it up, lord heart, keep it up.

There is no other cure in the world for the wound of separation:
this sore heals with the ointment of union.

When does the wet eye claim to be its equal?
Do not make the spring cloud weep eight tears at a time. [TN: *ath ath ansu rona*, "to weep eight tears at a time", is to weep bitterly.]

As I picture her coming I say only this:
"O night of the promise, do not turn to dawn; she is getting ready."

There is no market there; why take the goods of faithfulness?
In her court the only trade is in tyranny and cruelty.

Now, Majrooh, you are much afraid of love;
we told you from the first not to give your heart.

Ghazal: There are no means for this to last

There are no means for this to last:
she given to neglect, and I restless.

The restless heart deserves to be killed:
it is best for quicksilver to be "killed". [TN: alchemists "kill" quicksilver to fix it.]

In the darkness of the cloud
we can think of nothing but wine.

God keep our boat!
Behind it a storm, before it a whirlpool.

When I asked for a kiss, this was the answer:
"First learn the manners of love."

It goes about searching for her everywhere:
how should sleep not fly from my eyes?

If they had died as soon as the pain of love began,
friends would not have borne this torment.

It is not possible for both to come together,
the moon-like cupbearer and the moonlit night.

That they should stay before her:
restlessness has no such strength.

I want faithfulness from the people of the world:
I seek what is not to be found.

With love went heart and faith:
the flood came, and the goods were washed away.

Let the gibes be plain, and let them be at me:
it is a fine way, this, my respects!

If there were any good in this world,
why would they call it "ruined" in describing it?

Do not test the heart with harshness,
lest this rare pearl break.

How can I get out of the sea of love?
This river has no ford anywhere.

What a flame your beauty is!
It would burn the curtains of its own veil.

What wonder is her mischief?
Such beauty, and on top of it the full flush of youth.

Ghalib has come; bring, O Majrooh,
pure wine with rosewater mixed in. [TN: Mirza Ghalib (d. 1869), Majrooh's master in poetry.]

Ghazal: With one a bond, with another a quarrel

With one a bond, with another a quarrel:
every day there it is the same wrestling.

Now she never comes into my heart;
for ages this house has lain in ruins.

Why sit idle in the season of the rose?
Rend your shirt-front and tear your collar.

If the lover's affairs are put right by a glance,
tell me, what do you lose by it?

You say, "If the rival goes, I will come":
a fine screen you have put up!

Hard-hearted one, keep the heart in good repair,
lest a crack should come in this glass.

If the rival goes, why should things not go well?
May this splitting pain leave the breast at last.

When I called her stature a cypress,
she clung to my back like a thornbush. [TN: *jhar ho kar lipatna*, "to cling like a bramble", is to pester relentlessly.]

Keep away from love as far as you can,
lest this mountain fall upon your head. [TN: the source reads پھاڑ, probably for پہاڑ, "mountain".]

You have killed me already; so as not to be disgraced,
bury my body in the earth.

Her cloud of cruelty has gathered:
why should there not be a volley of arrows upon me?

Some new guest must have arrived,
since the doors stay shut day and night.

Those muskets of the lashes are drawn up in line:
Majrooh, let the volley not be fired at you.

Ghazal: I am such a worthless ware

I am such a worthless ware
that however cheaply I sell, I am dear.

I am neither here, nor now there:
how can I tell you where I am?

I am lost in the remembrance of someone:
who can reach where I am?

Help, O singing of the nightingale!
For long I have lost my nest.

This is a way to reach my love:
if only I were the messenger's words!

My limbs are dry like the reed:
why should I not be a lament from head to foot?

I have found delight in humility:
though I am the earth, I am the sky.

Who has shown me a glory today?
I am singing "God preserve us!"

How long this speed? Enough!
Steed of longing, I keep pace with you.

The dust gives a trace of the caravan:
I am the keepsake of those who have passed.

How can my life be sacrificed at her coming?
Now she comes, when I am half dead.

Do you not remember the lightning's fall,
that I am building a nest again?

Let us see where this journey ends:
like shifting sand I am moving on.

There is no one kind in this age:
I am kind to myself.

See, you will not regret taking me:
I am the pride of the shop.

In love I took a hundred calamities on my head:
I am the sky to myself.

Why should I be valued at the table of the world?
It is true, I am an uninvited guest.

At the very start of the night of separation from her
I am looking for dagger and spear.

I did not move from her door, Majrooh:
I am a second stone of the threshold.

Ghazal: Never let a word be said against your delicacy

Never let a word be said against your delicacy;
never lift your hand from injustice and cruelty.

I am sure you too will not say that stealing is good:
now never steal your eyes away when you see me. [TN: a pun: *ankh churana*, "to steal one's eyes", is to avoid someone's gaze.]

Love is one, but every moment there is a new calamity:
this is a theme that will never grow old.

These are the very ways of stealing the heart:
never be taken in by her lowered glances.

If love is the cause of my killing, cruel one,
then never tell anyone my crime.

O eye, let the secret of the blood-soaked heart not be told;
never let the rose-coloured tears drip.

I am of small capacity; I will not hold strong wine:
never lift the veil from your face all at once.

Does anyone as sick as we are ever recover, Messiah?
Never take the trouble to come here.

A rare ware has thousands of buyers:
never tell anyone where you are.

Not I alone; even Moses could not cope with it:
never show us your glory as a test.

Whatever arrow of cruelty flew went through the heart, O sky:
never did a single shot of yours miss.

Companion, by telling of the ruin of Delhi,
never put the lancet to the old wound.

Water that has gone does not come back to the river:
never let the thought come that Delhi will be peopled again.

Those who made Delhi what it was are left no more:
never be deceived now by the name of Delhi.

Had the revered Nayyar, who lit up the world, remained, [TN: Nawab Ziauddin Ahmad Khan Nayyar of Loharu, poet and patron; a pun on *nayyar*, "shining".]
never would the age have been so dark.

Now this city is a lifeless body, companion:
never rejoice at living here.

The door of the tavern is shut; this cry is raised:
"Never come here, you companions of the cup."

God, God! Those verses of Nawab Alai, [TN: Nawab Alauddin Ahmad Khan Alai of Loharu, poet and friend of Ghalib.]
beside which the nightingale's song is never as rich!

You are the mark of parting from Anwar and Maikash: [TN: poets of the Delhi circle, lost after 1857.]
O scar, never leave the aching heart.

The nightingale's voice may stir the heart, companion,
but never sing it to hearts worn out with pain.

I am a flower-picker parted from a gathering of friends:
never show me a colourful bouquet.

The gathering of friends is assembled in your space:
O imagination, never wipe out this picture.

In my heart heaps of longing and sorrow are piled up:
never will there be such a treasure in one place.

Cupbearer of the gathering, I am a sacrifice to your neglect:
never bring this way a cup even of the dregs.

These fortunes will bring calamity if they wake at all:
O sky, never wake them from their sleep.

If you want to enjoy the gathering of pleasure, friend,
never invite sad hearts like ours.

Do not think of staying in the house of mortality, fool:
this is the path of the flood; never build a house here.

Those whose halls matched Caesar's palace:
never can the place of their graves be found.

Gone are the days when the heart took pleasure in the garden:
it is true, the times never stay the same.

The fellow singers of the garden have all flown away:
going to the garden never pleases now.

On every side in the garden is the cry of kite and crow:
sweet-singing bird, never let your voice be heard.

In the precincts of the present palace, Majrooh,
never build your own mosque of a brick and a half. [TN: *derh int ki masjid*, "a mosque of a brick and a half", is a petty faction of one's own; *qasr-e-hali*, "the present palace", may also hint at the poet Hali.]

Ghazal: I am one who burns down the house of all but God

I am one who burns down the house of all but God;
I am parted even from my own shadow.

However much I reflect,
it does not become clear what I am.

On this road there is no market for another:
I am my own guide.

What wonder if she comes to meet me?
From grief I have become something else.

My heart is brimming with the longing to sin:
I am pious only to look at.

Why should he not deserve the gallows,
who, a servant, says "I am God"? [TN: the mystic Mansur al-Hallaj, executed in 922 for crying "I am the Truth".]

The burning of my heart has turned my body to dust:
now, breeze, I am waiting for you.

At the moment of killing, from every lip of the wounds on my body,
I am saying "Bravo!" to the killer.

One so proud as she, asking after me?
This is a dream that I am seeing.

There can be no one so tough of life as I,
for I have lived through the night of separation.

When someone asked her about me, she
said, "Yes, I know him by sight."

Take me for the interpreter of the heart's state:
I have become nothing but pain.

The buyer does not even cast an eye:
I am some strange unlawful ware.

Day and night the thought of curl and tress:
in what calamities am I caught!

The desert thorns are like lancets,
and in my wildness I go barefoot.

Yesterday, when I said, "O heartless one,
I am dying of the pain of separation,"

she laughed and said, "All this is put on;
I know you very well."

Why should the wound of my heart have begun to ache, Majrooh,
that I am crying "Ah, ah"?

Ghazal: Part my head from my body

Part my head from my body:
this too is a dispute; settle it.

The charge of idol-worship against me?
Shaikh sir, fear God!

What comparison has the ruby with her lip?
This too is a thing; go on listening.

Look, she is coming soon, lord heart:
take thought for your patience that runs away.

We shall count it a blessing:
come, keep your promise of cruelty.

Shall I become her spite, or the memory of the rival?
How can one find a place in her heart?

Here we have no purpose at all
that we should ask anyone to grant.

The claimants are always lying in wait:
how can one tell one's wish there?

The sorrows Majrooh bore from grief:
how can one explain all that befell him?

He is dead, but one remembers
how he used to say, "Ah, what can one do?"

It is very hard for my love to open up:
how can this knot be untied?

Patience has many benefits, but
if the heart itself is not in one's power, what can one do?

The rival's, the watchman's, the doorkeeper's:
whose door should one go to with entreaties?

That eye of hers is not for you now, Majrooh:
think quickly of something for yourself.

Ghazal: She thought the rivals good and knew me as bad

She thought the rivals good and knew me as bad:
if she understood, what did she understand? If she knew, what did she know?

After suffering a lifetime, we sleep at ease:
O clamour of the Resurrection, do not wake us.

I would ask for a kiss, but what is to be done?
Here the lips move, and there the word is caught.

Though you spent your life in looking into it,
you did not know your own true nature at all.

What is my love's ill temper, what the rival's ill will?
The source of a hundred calamities is the heart's falling in love.

In telling my desire there was no complaint of cruelty:
what did I say, and what did you understand?

Not one night did they bring her, nor show any colour:
my laments only raised the clamour of the Resurrection.

The turning back of the screen is an outward pretext:
in any case she had to show a glimpse of her glory.

Right is on her side; let her be as cruel as she likes:
she knew the lover's heart was bound to faithfulness.

Our end came at the very beginning of love:
I did not think this business would wear away the soul so.

Majrooh, on what calamity of the age have you fallen?
Sir, you did not even know how to give your heart.

Ghazal: We would not ask for Paradise if there is no wine there

We would not ask for Paradise if there is no wine there:
throw us into Hell, but give us wine.

It is the merit of the ascetic's bad luck; otherwise why
should anyone give up wine in the hope of wine? [TN: the wine of Paradise promised to the pious.]

We have repented, it is true, but the state is still
that our mouth waters if we are shown wine.

As if the cup of life were filled with wine itself:
a fine death is his who drinks wine all his life.

She did not realise that this is how the dead come to life;
otherwise why would she sprinkle wine on my dust?

The joy of life is this: that she sits before you,
flowers scattered on this side, and wine set on that.

Your drunken eye has made the world lose itself:
what wine was in that cup, O mischief-maker?

Black eye drunk, glance drunk, herself drunk:
the coquettish idol drinks wine for fun.

We will not be blamed for breaking our repentance; what of it,
if one or two friends drank wine by mistake?