班贾拉之歌、人之书和贫穷

The Banjara's Song

Leave greed and desire a while, sir; don't roam from land to land, worn out:
the bandit Death goes plundering day and night, beating his drum.
What of ox and buffalo, bullock and camel, what of the heavy load of sacks,
what of wheat and rice, of beans and peas, what of fire, smoke and embers?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

If you are a rich Banjara, and your consignment is heavy,
heedless one, there is another, a greater trader, above you.
What of sugar and sugar-candy, loaf-sugar and kernels, what of salt, sweet or bitter,
what of raisins and dried grapes, ginger and pepper, saffron, cloves and areca-nut?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

You load your oxen, fill your bullocks, and set off east or west;
either you will bring back increased profit, or you will meet with loss.
When the bandit Death strikes you down with his spear on the road,
wealth and riches, grandson and great-grandson, not one of the family will be of use.
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

All this camp and gear that goes with you now at every stage,
the pot of gold and coin and money, the gun, the shield and the sword:
when the leader of the body has departed, who wandered from land to land,
then there is neither cooking-pot nor pitcher, neither halva nor bread.
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

When, going along, your sack is left behind upon the road,
not one ox will come to graze the grass upon your dust.
This consignment you have loaded will be divided into shares;
daughter, son, son-in-law, boy, and even the Banjara's wife will not come near.
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

This load you go about with, sir, do not count this load your own;
in some moment, some hour, some instant now, the load of the body is a shroud.
What of the silver plate and bowl, what of the brass box and lid,
what of vessels of gold and silver, what of the earthen pot and the china?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

Why do you wander from forest to forest with all this bustle and din?
Not a straw will go with you when your grain and water are stopped.
House and home, upper rooms and pavilions, what of fine muslin and lawn,
blinds and curtains and new carpets, what of red beds and painted palaces?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

These rubies and emeralds, this silver and gold will be of no use to you,
when your capital is scattered on the road and every moment your life is at stake.
Kettledrums and banners and standards, wealth and pomp, armies and hosts,
what of cushion and bolster, country and house, what of stool and chair, throne and canopy?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

Why do you load your soul with the burden of these heavy sacks?
When Death's camp has been pitched, the trader's losses are double.
What of jewelled harness, gold ornaments, what of rolls of lace and gold border,
what of horses with golden saddles, what of elephants with red howdahs?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

Do not be proud of your swords, nor swell with trust in your shields:
all will break their tethers and flee at the sight of Death's spears.
What of caskets of pearls and diamonds, what of heaps of treasure and goods,
what of bundles of brocade and figured silk, what of bales of shawls?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

Why build a strong house? The curve of your own body is hollow.
You raise high ramparts; there the pit of the grave has opened its mouth.
What of moat and trench and great bastions, what of tower and priceless battlement,
fort and rampart, gun-carriage, cannon and castle, what of powder-flask, powder and ball?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

Why go dying from wood to wood every moment over gain and loss?
Think a little in your heart, heedless one: an enemy is close behind you.
What of maid and slave-girl, nurse and midwife, what of servant and well-behaved disciple,
what of temple and mosque, tank and well, what of fields and farms, flowers and garden?
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

When Death swings the whip and drives this ox of the body,
someone will gather up your grain, someone will sew and stitch your sack;
you will lie a heap alone in the forest, eating the dust of the grave.
In that forest then, alas, Nazeer, not a straw will come to look in.
All the pomp will lie where it is when the Banjara loads up and goes.

The Book of Man

He who is king in the world, he too is a man,
and he who is poor and a beggar, he too is a man;
the rich and the destitute, he too is a man;
he who eats delicacies, he too is a man;
he who chews scraps, he too is a man.

Saints and pole-stars and helpers, the friends of God, were men;
deniers were men too, and those full of unbelief;
what wonders and revelations and miracles they took up!
Even he who by the force of his abstinence and austerity
went and met the Creator, he too is a man.

Pharaoh, who laid claim to being God,
and Shaddad, who built a paradise and made himself a god,
and Nimrod, who openly called himself God:
this is a thing to understand; what more shall I say?
Whatever has come to pass here, he too is a man.

Here all appears in man, in beauty and in ugliness;
Satan too is a man, who works deceit and force,
and he who is the guide and leader, he too is a man.

Man has built the mosque here too, sir;
men become the imam and the one who gives the sermon;
men read the Quran and say the prayers,
and it is men who steal their shoes,
and he who keeps an eye on them, he too is a man.

Here man lays down his life for man,
and man strikes man with the sword;
man too takes off man's turban,
man shouts and calls to man,
and he who hears and comes running, he too is a man.

Man travels with his goods as a wayfarer,
and man kills him, putting a noose round his neck;
here man is the prey and man the net;
man too turns out to be truthful, my dear,
and he who is full of lies, he too is a man.

Here man is the wedding and man the marriage;
the qazi and the attorney are men, and men the witnesses;
men walk along beating drums for no good reason;
it is men who run lighting torches along the way,
and he who rides to be wed, he too is a man.

Here man is the herald and calls out again and again,
and men are the footmen and men the riders;
hookah, flask and shoes under their arms they run;
the bearers run with the palanquin on their shoulders,
and he who lies in it, he too is a man.

It is men who sit setting out their shops,
and men who go about with trays on their heads;
one says "take this", another says "bring it, bring it";
what kinds of things they make and sell!
And he who is buying, he is a man.

Playing tabla and cymbals, tambourines and sarangis,
it is men who sing in every way, here and there;
men too make the dancing-girl dance to the beat,
and men dance too, and then see the fun:
he who watches the dance, he too is a man.

Here man is priceless among rubies and jewels,
and man has become worse than dust;
the black one too is a man, who is like a griddle turned over;
the fair one too is a man, who is a piece of the moon;
he who is ugly and ill-favoured, he too is a man.

There are men who glitter so,
whose feet are of silver and heads of gold,
whose gleam spreads from the west to the east,
who are drowned in brocade, cloth of gold, shawls and double shawls,
and he who is covered in rags, he too is a man.

I am amazed, friends; look, what a masquerade this is:
man is the thief and man himself the watch;
there is snatching and grabbing and shouting and clamour;
look, and man here is like tin,
and he who is forged of steel, he too is a man.

At death it is men who make the shroud ready;
they wash and bathe him and lift him on their shoulders;
they recite the creed as they go, and weep bitterly;
it is men who do all the business of the dead,
and he who has died, he too is a man.

From the noble to the base, from the king to the minister,
it is men who do all the deeds that please the heart;
here man is the disciple and man the master;
it is man who is called good, Nazeer,
and he who is the worst of all, he too is a man.

Poverty

When poverty comes upon a man's state,
in how many ways poverty torments him!
Poverty makes him sit thirsty all day,
poverty puts him to sleep hungry all night;
only he knows this pain upon whom poverty comes.

The physician, they say, has the greatest dignity;
nawabs and khans pay him honour;
but once poor, he may be Luqman himself, it makes no difference here;
were he Jesus, no one would ask after him, sir;
poverty drowns even the physician's wisdom.

Those who are called men of learning, scholars and sages,
once poor, forget even the creed;
those who teach the boys of the poor,
poverty never leaves them all their lives.

If a poor man falls into ecstasy in the middle of a gathering,
all think he has spread this net for bread;
if he falls and falls, no one will hold him up;
though a poor man have a hundred thousand learning and skill,
poverty brings it all and mixes it into the dust.

When it comes to counting out the shares of bread,
they give one to the poor man, and four apiece to the rich;
if he asks for more, they scold him again and again;
how shall I tell, friend, the state of the poor, alas?
Even here poverty chews up the poor man.

The poor man has no thought for his honour;
he gives his life for every single loaf;
every moment he falls upon the tray of bread;
just as dogs fight over a bone,
so poverty makes the poor fight.

The thing that no one does for shame, alas,
the poor man sees it through, alas;
he understands nothing of lawful, knows nothing of forbidden, alas;
what they call shame and modesty, good name and repute, alas,
poverty blows away all that modesty and shame.

Poverty is the thing that, in whatever house it fills,
then goes in at the doors of every house that was that house's;
wife and children weep as though grandmother had passed away;
the neighbours ask, "What, has grandmother died?"
Poverty raises a clamour in the house without a corpse.

It is fitting that one should cry out in mourning,
but the poor man cries "alas, alas" without any grief;
if someone dies, where will he find the means to carry him?
What shall I say, alas, of the humiliations of this poverty?
Poverty buries the dead without a shroud.

What shall I tell of the disgrace and destitution of poverty?
Without a broom, the dust blows about the house;
cobwebs cling in the corners, spiders in the thatch;
those who have not the money for wood to burn,
poverty makes them float their dead in the river.

No nose-ring was left to the wife, no bangles on the children's hands;
the husband's clothes lay pawned in the shopkeeper's house;
when the beams were sold, they lay in the ruins;
neither chain stayed on the door, nor the stones set in the ground;
at last poverty has the house dug up brick by brick.

When poverty comes and presses even upon the painter,
in a moment it makes all the artist's colours sour;
at the sight of his face people turn their faces away;
what colour can he put into picture and design?
Poverty drains the colour from his own face.

When poverty comes upon the lover's state as well,
his beloved will not let him sit near her;
if he comes at night, she turns him out on the spot,
for fear, that is, that he may not give her money the next morning:
poverty fixes this slur on lovers.

However famous and lovely the dancing-girl may be,
when poverty comes, the net falls on her ears and head;
they throw her dance into mockery;
she dances, minding her steps upon the floor,
and poverty makes her dance on its fingers.

Her heart is not at rest; what price can she name?
When her scarf is torn, with what shall she hide her face?
Though she dance and sing from evening till morning,
where others get eight or seven, she gets only two pennies;
poverty shames her with this shame.

The woman of the trade whose heart is sore with ruin,
when some onlooker comes and keeps her,
she does not say no even to three-quarters of a penny;
ask this pain of her alone, alas, whom
poverty keeps awake all night in company.

She thinks in her heart: the coin I get,
I will send for a farthing's betel and a farthing's tooth-powder;
with the half-farthing left I will have water drawn;
then she thinks in her heart: what on earth will I eat?
In the end poverty has her parched grain roasted.

When poverty saddens the heart of the singer,
he wanders round every house with his tambura,
setting his heart on the hope of a quarter-ser of flour;
when it is time for the evening raga Gauri, he sings the morning Bibhas:
so far poverty drives away his wits.

The poor man arranges his daughter's wedding by talk alone;
where is the money to go and buy a dowry?
His wife's throat is like a cracked drum;
even the sweeper-woman of the house makes jokes;
poverty takes away all his authority.

If it is his son's wedding, there are no in-laws and no companions;
there are no lights, and no sound of music comes;
the mother walks behind, wrapped in a dirty sheet;
the son is made the bridegroom, and the father is the wedding party:
poverty sends off the poor man's procession like this.

If he sets out at dawn after the wedding, this is the trouble:
the rogues, the grandfather, the eunuch and the bard crowd round,
dragging him along from place to place;
he goes on ahead, quarrelling as he goes,
and behind, poverty claps its hands.

At the door the women clap their hands,
and inside the house the singing-women sit and curse;
the flower-woman runs with baskets, hanging on his neck;
the water-carrier stands and speaks vulgar words:
poverty shows him this disgrace, this ruin.

Someone says he is a mean wretch, someone that he is a good-for-nothing;
the daughter knows her father is a good-for-nothing;
the sons cry out that father is a good-for-nothing;
the wife says in her heart, "Well, he's a good-for-nothing";
at last poverty fixes on him the name of good-for-nothing.

No one takes the poor man's pain to heart;
no one heeds even the poor man's word;
no one knows his caste, his lineage and descent;
then no one recognises even his face;
so far poverty makes him fall from sight.

When he has come to ruin through poverty,
then no one casts a glance at his state;
someone calls him a wretch, someone brands him with disgrace;
the words he never heard in all his life, alas,
poverty comes and makes him hear those words.

The stove is cold, the water-pot has a crack;
nothing to drink, nothing to eat, and not even a plate;
everyone is free and easy with the poor man;
the poor man's wife, it is true, is everyone's sister-in-law here;
poverty loses all the honour of his heart.

However fine a man may be, through want
someone calls him a donkey, someone dubs him an ox;
his clothes all torn, his hair grown long and spreading,
his mouth dry, his teeth yellow, dirt caked on his body:
poverty gives him the whole look of a prisoner.

Every moment it lessens the love of friends;
it lessens the affection of acquaintances;
it lessens the kindness of kin and the regard of strangers;
it lessens shame and modesty, honour and respect;
yes, poverty makes the nails and hair grow.

When poverty came, where was nobility left?
Where was that regard for caste, that good breeding?
When his clothes were torn, where was respect among people?
Where was the question of honour and courtesy?
Poverty seats him among the shoes at the gathering.

If a poor man lovingly picks up someone's boy,
the boy's father looks at the bangles on his hand and foot;
someone says, "Let him not steal a shoe somewhere":
rascal, pickpocket, thief, cheat, cut-purse;
poverty fixes a hundred kinds of fault on him.

It keeps no one's pride of honour;
it mixes all the glory of dignity into the dust;
it wears out his life in a hundred labours;
it turns the poor man's mind to theft;
at last poverty makes him beg.

In the world, friend, from the king to the faqir,
may the Creator make no one captive to poverty;
in a moment it makes the noble a beggar;
what ruin of poverty shall I tell, Nazeer?
He knows, whose heart poverty burns.