The Study of Urdu Poetry

The Study of Urdu Poetry

If you study the whole record of Urdu poetry, you will see in it above all a heap of *ghazals* (lyric poems). After them you will find a large store of *musaddas* (poems in six-line stanzas), then of *masnavis* (poems in rhyming couplets), and after that a collection of *qasidas* (odes). But if you look at this whole record with thought and care, you will find in the verse of the poets of every age certain characteristics that set one apart from another. The study of just these distinguishing features is in truth the study of Urdu poetry.

First of all you should make an outward study of a poet's verse, that is, you should see what its outward structure is like and what kind of form it has. You should look at its texture of words, its syntactic constructions, and its metrical and rhetorical features. After that you should make an inward study of the verse, that is, see what kind of ideas it covers, which particular meanings the poet repeats again and again, and within the circle of which particular thoughts he mostly moves.

After the inward study you should also consider how the verse is related to the poet's mind, that is, how the poet generally goes about producing his verse. On reaching this stage you will learn that the psychology of our poets is different from that of the poets of Europe, and that our poets in turn differ from one another, each according to his own particular cast of mind. After this you should look carefully at what influence the literatures of our own country or of other countries have had on the verse being studied; that is, you should inquire how far there is an outside influence in the poet's ideas and thoughts, and what its source is.

Besides this you should also trace how the verse is related to the poet's life, that is, how far glimpses of the poet's character appear in his verse. For this study it is necessary that you also study the poet's biography and look for the agreement between his character and his verse. Last of all you should consider carefully how the verse is related to the poet's age and his surroundings.

If in this way you study the verse of all the Urdu poets from ancient times to the present and keep noting down their characteristics, you will see, to your conviction, how the language has gradually been transformed; how the grammar has kept changing; how ideas have altered; how the metrical and rhetorical features of poetry have been turned about; how the influence of one literature has run into another; and how the psychology of poets has changed as their surroundings changed. This study is in fact most interesting.

As an example, take the outward study first. Suppose you are studying the verse of Wali. You will see clearly that the use of Hindi words in his verse is much greater than in the poetry of today. In place of *bahadur* (brave) he freely uses *jodha*; for *taqat* (strength), *pran*; for *ankh* (eye), *nain*; for *dikhai dena* (to be seen), *disna*; for *didar* (sight), *daras* and *darsan*; for *ansu* (tear), *anjhu*; for *aina* (mirror), *darpan*; for *judai* (separation), *birah*; for *suraj* (sun), *sur*; for *muhabbat* (love), *prem*; for *panv* (foot), *pag*; for *tasbih* (rosary), *simran*; for *bhulna* (to forget), *bisarna*; for *khana* (food), *bhojan*; for *dunya* (world), *sansar*; for *ag* (fire), *agan*; for *rat* (night), *rain*; and so on. For the beloved he uses words such as *sajan*, *mohan*, *pritam*, *sundar*, *pi*, *piu*, *piya*, *srijan*, *sajan* and *lalan*.

You will see that the grammar of Wali's time is different from the grammar of today. He makes *ibtida* (beginning), *fazilat* (excellence), *zor* (force), *qadr* (worth), *shuhrat* (fame), *zanjir* (chain), *rasid* (receipt) and similar words masculine, and *tar* (string) and *khwab-e-makhmal* (velvet) and similar words feminine. Besides the conjugation of verbs, there are differences in pronouns and particles too. He says *haman* for *ham* (we); *tuman*, *tumna* for *tum* (you); *mon*, *manin* for *main* (I); *sin*, *son*, *sti* for *se* (from); *yu* for *yih* (this); *hor* for *aur* (and); *bhitar* for *andar* or *men* (in); *duja* for *dusra* (second); *apas* for *apne* (one's own); *mujh* and *tujh* for *mujh ko*, *mera* and *tujh ko*, *tera* (me, my, you, your); *jin ne* for *jis* (who); *tadhan* for *tabhi* (just then); *kadhin* for *kabhi* (ever); *tujh sarka* for *tujh jaisa* (like you); *jiyon kar* for *jis tarah* (as); *eta* for *itna* (so much); *sangat* for *sath* (with); and other such words.

The signs of the agent mostly do not appear in his verse. One particular thing you will also see in Wali's verse is that he joins Hindi words in the Persian possessive construction with Persian and Arabic words, for example *ghuncha-e-nikah*, *jam-e-nain*, *nur-e-nain*, *ab-e-nain*, *roz-e-nihan* and so on. In the descriptive construction too he freely joins such words, for example *shirin bachpan*, *shakar bachan*, *guldasta khush-pas*. He puts the Persian conjunction *o* (and) between two Hindi words, for example *din-o-rat* (day and night). The spelling of that time too is different from the spelling of today: for example, they wrote *kon* for *ko*, *siya* for *sa*, *nikliya* for *nikla*, *karnan* for *karna*, *ton* for *tu*, *jiyon* for *jun*, and *itnan* for *itna*.

One characteristic you will see in Wali's verse is that he makes many vowelled letters unvowelled and unvowelled ones vowelled: for example *rain* and *nain* as *ra-in* and *na-in*, *zulf* as *zu-luf*, *sham'* as *shu-ma'*, *fikr* as *fa-kar*, *qufl* as *qa-fal*, *gharaz* as *ghar-z*, and so on. You will also see in Wali's verse the allusive words of Hindi literature, for example *Patal* (the underworld), *Basak* (the serpent king), Ram, Lachhman, Sita, Kishan, Badri, Arjun's arrow, the magic of Kamrup, Lilavati and so on.

You will also notice in Wali's verse that, for the metre, he often drops certain letters: for example *gi* for *gai* (went), *i* for *hui* (became), *a* for *ai* (O), *akhan* for *ankhiyan* (eyes), *safa* for *safha* (page), *nazak* for *nazdik* (near), *ajhu* for *anjhu* (tear), *ni* for *nahin* (not), *adhari* for *andhiyari* (darkness), *pajan-hari* for *pujan-hari* (worshipper), *kon* for *kahun* (I say), *daje* for *duje* (second), *dana* for *dunya* (world), *ho* for *hue* (became), *saraj* for *suraj* (sun), *ghaghat* for *ghunghat* (veil), *ma'lam* for *ma'lum* (known), *dakhe* for *dekhiye* (see), *ki* for *koi* (someone), *mithe* (short) for *mithe* (sweet) (sweet), *sute* for *sote* (sleeping), *tata* for *tuta* (broken), *phaka* for *phika* (insipid), *bhatar* for *bahitar* (better), *rata hai* for *rahta hai* (remains), *jagal* for *jangal* (forest), *ghussa* for *ghussa* with a changed vowel (anger), and *zajir* for *zanjir* (chain). He also freely drops *'ain*, *ḥa* and *ha* in the metre in some places: for example the *'ain* of *'ashiq* (lover), the *ḥa* of *ḥairat* (wonder), and the *ha* of *hawa* (wind). [TN: many of these spellings illustrate sounds that cannot be shown exactly in English letters.]

If you look at Wali's verse with regard to rhyme (*qafiya*) and refrain (*radif*), you will see that it contains rocky "grounds" too, which Insha and Mushafi in Lucknow and Nasir and Zauq in Delhi made more popular. [TN: a "ground" (*zamin*) is the combination of metre, rhyme and refrain on which a ghazal is built; a "rocky ground" is a difficult one.] You will find some groups of ghazals whose rhymes have been deliberately joined with the refrains in the order of the alphabet, and those grounds were chosen only for practice in verse. For example, in the section of the *diwan* for the letter *wau*, the refrain is *hai*, and first a rhyme is chosen that ends in *alif*, for example *ada hai*, *hua hai*; then the refrain is joined with a rhyme ending in *be*, for example *kamkhwab hai*, *sairab hai*; and in the same way rhymes in *te*, *jim*, *he*, *re*, *sin* and so on are brought in order up to *ye*.

If in this way, studying the verse of various poets, you reach the time of Mir and Sauda, you will find the grammar of that time also somewhat different from the grammar of today, but not as much as the grammar of the time of Sultan Quli Qutb Shah and Wali. In what I have already said about Mir's poetry, the language and grammar of that time have been set out in detail. Besides this you will have to keep in view Mir's characteristic that he especially uses Hindi metres, for example: *Patta patta buta buta hal hamara jane hai, jane na jane gul hi na jane bagh to sara jane hai* (Every leaf and every bush knows my state; whether the rose knows it or not, the whole garden knows). His ghazals in these metres are especially delightful, and just as the famous Indian Persian poet of subtle conceits, Bedil, shows his special mastery in certain long metres, and no poet can rival him in those metres, so it is with Mir in these Hindi metres. In Sauda's poetry you will see this characteristic, that in his ghazals he uses the language of the qasida, that is, Arabic and Persian constructions, more, and like the qasida he chooses rocky grounds in the ghazal too.

If you study the *diwans* of Insha and Mushafi, you will find many rocky grounds in them. Insha's verse will look clean in places and in places his language will seem a hotchpotch, that is, he brings in, fittingly or not, words from all the languages he knows. If you just pick up the *diwan* of Nasikh and begin to study it, you will find that this poet does not take a single step against grammar. He uses measured, weighed words. At every step he keeps in mind the words and constructions he has given up. He has fixed for himself certain limits of language and never goes outside them. He uses everyday speech very little. He speaks a language that is wholly a reflection of Persian. He is not free in imagination, but is content with those themes which his forcibly chosen language can express. Anyone who studies Nasikh's verse closely will, seeing his language, call it at one glance dry and knotted. On the other hand he will see freshness in the language of Atish. Atish keeps the everyday speech of Lucknow in mind too. Arabic or Persian does not dominate his verse. He does not care for grammar as much as Nasikh does. The limits of his language are somewhat wider than Nasikh's.

Rind holds to everyday speech even more than he does. One who studies his verse can become acquainted with the language that was in general use in Lucknow at that time. Arabic or Persian does not dominate it at all. Pick up the *diwans* of Rashk and Amanat and you will find that these poets are drowned from head to foot in puns and wordplay. Among the later poets of Lucknow, Asir and Amir too suffer from the disease of wordplay. But Amir in his last years had given up his old manner, and the fame of Dagh's verse had moved him towards idiom and plain statement. Still, this new style could not be kept up.

Among the poets of Delhi, Nasir was used beyond all measure to walking on rocky grounds, and his influence fell on Zauq too. But Zauq and Zafar adopted a special practice of idiom. The aim of their poetry is nothing but to bring everyday speech and idioms to notice. For this reason more idioms and proverbs are found in their verse than in that of any other poet. Lexicographers cite authorities for these things from their verse. But Zauq's pupil Dagh, in his later years, did not keep idiom as the aim of his poetry. Like the old poet Jur'at, he liked to express the experiences of love fluently in plain everyday speech. In his verse there is more of daily usage than of idioms.

Momin Khan did not care for everyday speech and idioms. There are many ellipses in his verse. He says half a thing aloud and keeps half in his heart, and so many people often find his verse hard to understand. No one could follow this particular manner of his, though many tried. Ghalib too does not care for the common idioms of the language. He puts the idea first and makes the language for it himself. He does not want to dress his idea in the clothes of everyday speech. In his early manner Persian prevails, and the constructions of the poets of subtle conceits come again and again. There is a glut of genitive linkings (*izafat*). But even when he gives up this style and turns to plain statement, he still does not, like Zauq, make idiom and common speech the aim of his poetry. Each idea of his casts itself into a fitting and suitable mould, and the language born in this way looks different from the common speech of the people.

After Ghalib, Hali too was not caught in the snare of everyday speech and idioms. The axis of his poetry too is the expression of particular ideas, and his ideas take on a language that stands apart from everyday speech. Hali often writes independent poems in the form of *tarkib-bands* and *tarji'-bands* (stanza poems), *qit'as* (verse fragments) and masnavis, and unlike other poets he also has continuous ghazals on a single theme. After Hali the greatest fame has gone to Iqbal. Iqbal has received a sound education in Persian. Persian constructions sit heavily on his tongue. He expresses his ideas mostly in metaphors and similes. The Persian constructions that come again and again in his verse are most attractive and fitting. He too does not care for the everyday speech of Urdu. The main reason for this is that the world of his ideas is unique. Like Ghalib he wants to express deep philosophical ideas, on whose stature the clothes of everyday speech do not fit. Uninformed people accuse him of not knowing Urdu.

The difference between Ghalib and Iqbal is that Persian constructions are not as many in Ghalib's later verse as in his early verse. But in the early verse the Persian constructions go beyond moderation, and because of their excess the Urdu verse has become wholly Persian, needing only the change of a word or two. Iqbal's verse, on the other hand, does not have Persian constructions in such abundance as to put it outside the Urdu idiom. His verse remains Urdu as before, and those constructions seem in themselves most beautiful and fitting. The crowd of genitive linkings too is not as great in Iqbal's verse as in Ghalib's early verse, and for this reason too his verse has not gone outside the circle of the Urdu idiom. If the verse of Ghalib and of Iqbal were set side by side and their Persian constructions picked out, Iqbal's glossary would be fuller and wider than Ghalib's. In fact such constructions have been picked out from the verse of both, and glossaries of both have been prepared.

In the verse of the other poets of the present day, whose verse keeps appearing in newspapers and magazines, there is nothing special as regards form and structure. There is, however, one poet, Azad Ansari, who is among the pupils of Maulana Hali. His verse has a particular manner. He sets couplets in pairs, in which the rhyme of the first line of the first couplet matches the rhyme of the first line of the second couplet, while the second lines keep the rhyme that belongs to the original ground of the ghazal; and this is the common manner of his verse. Four of his couplets are written here as an example. The first two couplets make one pair and the second two another. The ground of the ghazal is the common one: *bismil dekhte jao*, *ma'il dekhte jao* (go on seeing the wounded, go on seeing the inclined).

The glances that were once proud of fighting with a faithless one,
now go on seeing them convinced of their own ill fortune.

The eyes that were once moths to the beloved's cheek,
now go on seeing them busy in tears of longing.

The love at whose firmness the world was amazed,
now go on seeing it fade like an unfixed dye.

The wretched love whose very nature was love,
now go on seeing it able to endure with patience.

At a glance it will be seen that besides the particular manner pointed out, there is also a likeness of construction in these couplets: the construction of the first line of the first couplet resembles that of the first line of the second, and likewise the construction of the second line of the first couplet resembles that of the second line of the second. Azad's particular manner, which is generally found in his verse, is taken from Hali. This manner occurs here and there in Hali's verse; Azad liked it and founded his ordinary verse upon it. In the same way the manner of likeness of construction is found here and there in Ghalib's verse:

They pride themselves on madness at a question: why quarrel?
We have given up on an answer: what can one say?

Envy is the punishment for perfection in verse: what can one do?
Cruelty is the price of the wares of skill: what can one say?

No poet has escaped *ta'qid* (inverted word order), that is, shifting words about in verse so that their construction differs from that of everyday speech. But Azad Ansari avoids even inversion as far as he can, and often chooses for himself patterns that do not need it. At *mushairas* (poetry gatherings) he does not try his hand at set patterns that do not suit his purpose. By accepting these restrictions Azad's verse has become very popular. But the pity is that he has not put the idea first in his poetry, and so most of his verse is a toy of words. In form and construction his verse is certainly different from that of ordinary poets, but there is no sign of depth and height of thought. In the other poets of the present day there is no novelty even of form and construction. There are, however, some poets who have tried to cast every idea of theirs in the moulds of metaphor and simile. But it is necessary for them, if they wish to gild the form and construction of their verse with metaphor and simile, to show high flight in thought too; otherwise their verse cannot live.

If, as an example, you make an inward study of poetry, you will find that Sauda is the master of praise and satire. His qasidas stand so high in this respect that no Urdu poet can rival him. Zauq in his later years certainly won fame in writing qasidas, but he cannot be compared with Sauda. The preludes of the qasidas are their important part, and it is in these preludes that qasida poets show their skill. Since qasidas can contain both external and internal poetry, either a picture of the state of society is drawn in them, or wise reflections are set out. Except for one or two of Zauq's qasidas, wise reflections are not expressed in the prelude of any of his qasidas. But in Sauda's qasidas this element is prominent; most of the preludes of his qasidas are full of these lofty ideas. Zauq was not touched even by a breath of external poetry, whereas Sauda has shown mastery of external poetry on many occasions in his qasidas.

Mir is the most distinguished poet who has drawn in his poetry true pictures of his inward experiences of the heart. In this no poet can rival him. For this reason, in the ghazal, which is the fitting mould for internal poetry, no answer to this poet has been born to this day. Mir Hasan in the masnavi, and his grandson Anis in the *marsiya* (elegy), have shown such mastery of external and internal poetry that both these kinds of poetry came to their end with them. Among the ghazal poets, Atish mostly expresses in his verse ideas of self-respect and a dervish temper. Nasikh dresses moral ideas, in a dry and insipid way, in the clothes of Sa'ib's poetry of examples. Rind shows glimpses of the feelings of love. Amir in his last years wanted to draw pictures of the feelings of love, and in imitation of Dagh wished to leave his own path and walk on another, but he did not succeed, because these ideas were against his life and character.

Amir was a most saintly man, and what he said in imitation of Dagh did not suit his lips. Someone, in a selection made from his last *diwan*, has picked out in great number couplets that mention the breasts of beloveds. The saucy hints in those couplets would no doubt seem fitting on the lips of the people of the bazaar; on Amir's face they do not suit at all. Among his pupils, Riyaz has won special fame for libertine themes, and his couplets are on many people's lips. There is a carelessness in Riyaz's life; he does not lead a saintly life like Amir. So the libertine feelings he has expressed agree with his life. In Jur'at's verse there is *mu'amala-bandi* (the depiction of the actual dealings of lovers), and in this genre he won special fame.

Nazir Akbarabadi has drawn such true and exact pictures of the fairs and festivals of the common people, their condition and thoughts, and the occupations of their life, that no poet can rival him in this. The ordinary poets did not accept his language, but that is their mistake, because when he wants to draw a picture of the life of the common people, he has no choice but to adopt their language and their speech. If the eyes of our critics are ever opened, as many studies will be written on this poet as have been written on Shakespeare, the famous English poet and dramatist. Dr Fallon has called Nazir the Shakespeare of Asia, and no one can dare doubt the truth of it. [TN: S. W. Fallon, compiler of a Hindustani–English dictionary.]

Among the poets of Delhi, Dard and Mazhar especially express Sufi ideas, and Momin Khan the theme of rivalry and jealousy. Zauq and Nasir have no special theme that they made the axis of their verse. Ghalib too often expresses the theme of jealousy, like Momin, but the verse of his that has become most popular is that in which he has expressed his lofty ideas of self-respect and the passion for freedom, and dressed them in philosophical clothes. Dagh is the master of mu'amala-bandi. He expresses the experiences of love in the idiom of daily speech so well that it is beyond praise. Most of his verse is on people's lips, and the secret of his popularity is that what he has said in this particular genre is the reflection of his real life; they are the feelings of his heart that have come before people in the mould of common speech.

Hali has a reformer's mind. His nature is sensitive. He feels in his heart the special effect of the present ruin of his community. When he hears of any event of the community's disgrace and misfortune, he becomes restless, and just as tears fall from the eyes involuntarily, so words full of pain fall from his tongue involuntarily. All his life he lamented the plight of his community, and sang this song again and again in so painful a tune that his voice set the whole community in turmoil, raised a general outcry among its members, and compelled them to change their lives and cast themselves in a new mould suited to the times. Hali's parallel is the Turkish poet Namik Kemal, who, like him, showed his people the past glory and present decline of the Turks and girded them to live and awake. That the Turkish nation still stands on its feet despite centuries of struggle and calamity is the reflection of this poet's poetry.

The storm of ideas that has arisen in our community too, from one end of India to the other, is the gift of Hali's life-giving verse. Namik Kemal had brought about a revolution in Turkish poetry. Before him the Turkish poets either expressed the feelings of love or were drowned in the colour of Sufism. After this poet the Turkish poets suddenly awoke, and they too, like Namik Kemal, began trying to breathe the spirit of nationhood. So it is with Hali. His verse too brought new life into Urdu poetry. Hundreds of small poets began to repeat his songs. But of those poets only two provided the means of their own survival; the verse of no other poet had the capacity to live. Of these two poets one is Akbar Allahabadi, who criticised the life of the community in a humorous manner. The other is Iqbal, who adopted a philosophical manner and resolved to awaken the community in that style.

Because the manner of these two poets was their own and different from Hali's, their verse won acceptance. (If these two famous poets had tried to lament the decline of the community in Hali's colour, perhaps they could never have won success like Hali's, because it was hard to produce in one's own heart the pain that filled Hali's heart.) The poetry of these famous poets can never die. Of the two, Akbar's verse, because it is in a humorous manner, has captured the hearts of high and low. But Iqbal's verse is on the lips of the educated in particular, because it consists of weighty philosophical ideas, and the flight of thought of the common people cannot reach his lofty thoughts. A second reason is that Akbar has expressed his ideas in everyday speech, while Iqbal has written poetry in a language that is Persian-like and with which the common people are not familiar.

Iqbal has now left Urdu and begun to write poetry in Persian alone, so that Muslims of other countries besides India may understand his ideas and be moved by them. The Persian-knowing Muslims of India understand this verse of his; the ordinary Muslims who do not know Persian cannot grasp it. But the people of Afghanistan and Iran can generally be moved by this verse, and the Turks and Tatars too can be its true audience. Iqbal's adoption of the Persian manner of expression is a sheer misfortune for the Urdu language, but he himself knows his own reasons best.

Apart from the inward characteristics of the verse of particular poets, if you take up the verse of the poets of Lucknow and Delhi as a whole, you will see a special distinction between the poetry of these two places. The poets of Lucknow have mostly set external themes in the ghazal, and the poets of Delhi have generally turned to internal themes. At present there is no great poet either in Delhi or in Lucknow. Only a little while ago Dagh was famous in Delhi and Amir Minai in Lucknow. Since both of them passed from sight, there remain Safi and Aziz in Lucknow and Bekhud and Sa'il in Delhi, and these four poets are not of the rank of Dagh and Amir. Sa'il and Bekhud both write poetry in Dagh's manner. But Aziz and Safi have laid the Lucknow school of poetry on the shelf. These poets have given up the force of wordplay and the worship of ornament that prevailed in Lucknow. They have also repented of the glut of external themes that filled the poetry of Lucknow before. Both these poets have now entered the school of Ghalib.

When I was editing the *Muslim Gazette* in Lucknow, I often had occasion to attend the mushairas of Lucknow. I was amazed to see that there generally all the poets were following Ghalib and called themselves pupils of his school. Still, compared with the poets of Delhi, the poets of Lucknow had one characteristic, and it was this: themes of death, the agony of dying, the funeral and the grave commonly came into their ghazals, and this characteristic is still found in the verse of the poets of Lucknow. Its influence has fallen generally on the poets of Oudh and the United Provinces, and in the verse of all of them too these themes are especially set. There is no poet who does not have two or three couplets of this colour in every ghazal.

At mushairas, when a poet reads his verse, all eyes are fixed on when a couplet of this colour will come in it, and when such a couplet is heard, a clamour of applause rises. The reason for this is nothing but that the poetry of the marsiya rose to its height in Lucknow. The poets of Delhi had no connection with this kind of poetry. In Lucknow the force of marsiya poetry has now declined, and there is no master poet there now who has made a name in this genre, though the public there is still eager to hear these painful ideas. It is the demand of this natural desire that the present poets there have tried to show in the ghazal the painful scene of the agony of dying and of death. As an example I offer here an extract from the verse of Aziz, the living poet of Lucknow:

In the agony of death, to my wandering eyes
the spell of your glance came back to mind.

It is cruel, what that faithless one says over my corpse:
that he did not even wait for anyone to come.

Someone unravelled the knots of my dying like this:
sitting at my pillow, he counted every breath.

My soul still remembers the signs of dying:
a frown upon the brow, a pain within the heart.

Coming, when he saw my hands and feet drawn tight in death,
ah, the sauciness! He only stretched, as if yawning, and stayed.

With what a claim she came to my bier, saying,
"Move these mourners aside a little, move them aside!"

Saying this at my grave, she renewed my memory once more:
"O you who are dying, now forget me from your heart."

There is a general crowd; all the sympathisers sit at the pillow,
ever since she herself has sat close to the sick man's bed.

How are the knots of death coming loose with every hiccup?
She sits there only to see this state of the sick man.

May the morning of my life be a sacrifice to the evening of grief of the one
in whose mourning your tresses were dishevelled.

Do not ask me, in my dying, why my breath has stopped:
why should the restraint of one who held back all his life be wasted?

At the last breath come as far as the pillow of the sick of grief:
why should someone's lifelong devotion be wasted?

She stands at my pillow laughing, and my breath is leaving me:
in a bad time, O heaven, does anyone ever prove a friend?

On the night of grief let me measure the hardships of dying too:
come out of my breast, O sigh, the way the breath comes out.

Farewell to the heart amid the crowd of longings, what shall I tell you?
It is as a bier goes out, my friend, from a crowded house.

The time has come when every moment a pang rises in my breast;
what they call breath comes out only very little now.

The sick man's face has become the centre of grief's power:
such is the scene that the world goes out with its face turned away.

The death of my helplessness was a tale for warning:
whoever you see turns out to be a mourner at the wake.

They measure the pull of love by the straining of the veins:
what do they know of the hardships with which the breath goes out?

Let me see the pull of the longing for a sight at the hour of death:
O soul, go out in such a way that it may be called a spectacle.

What shall I say, what not say, of the secret of this imagined existence?
In my dying they ask me, "What is your reality?"

In my dying cast the light of your face, so that my sight may brighten;
now I can no longer see your face.

When they brought the shroud for the one sick with love,
only then did the morning of your night of parting come.

Someone's breath is breaking and she sits there silent:
who is in his senses now, to see this sight of warning?

Come, it is now the hour of dying;
I have something to consult you about.

Saying this, someone loosed her hair at my pillow:
"Let us see whether he can tell evening from dawn."

Do not be troubled; the evening of life of the sick man is over;
there is only a little while more before the dawn.

The soul says in the agony of death: "You have shown me the way;
I go there myself now; he has already come."

This is my last bequest; let all my friends hear it:
let no one come to my grave speaking of the heart.

The veins have begun to strain; now the hour of dying comes;
let her go, or else all the blame will fall on her head.

This silence, this darkness, this graveyard, this desolation:
O you who sleep, how do you find rest?

What was this? She went on watching my breath break,
but when a soul left my heart, she stretched.

At the hour of death she says to the one sick with parting:
"Let someone finish the tale of longing in a single breath."

What use is it to look at the corpse of the one sick with separation?
A few blurred lines remain of a spoiled picture.

Draw back the shroud and look at the sick man's face:
today even enemies complain of your delay.

In the agony of dying, who has the strength to be patient?
When she came, some life came back into my life.

It was morning, and a few stars were twinkling;
the one sick with the evening of parting was leaving the world.

No sick man breaks his breath like this:
perhaps someone's coquetry too has a share in this death.

Fortune turned the face of existence round
when the one sick with the night of waiting turned on his side.

Someone stretched and cracked her fingers
when the sick man was finished in two hiccups.

Saying this, she came and sat at my pillow:
"Move away, you healers, for now the time is short."

If only she had come at the last breath,
we would have told the whole of our longing in a single breath.

The soul says: as many hiccups as have come,
so many times have I stumbled on the road.

In short, nowadays every poet of Lucknow and every follower of the present Lucknow school tries to bring internal themes into the ghazal instead of the external themes that it was necessary to bring in former times, but along with this he is sure to bring in ideas of the agony of dying, death, the funeral, the grave and the like. The poets of Delhi have made no such rule in their verse.

The poetry of the marsiya in Lucknow has already declined. The present marsiya poets still describe in their marsiyas such themes as the scene of morning, the heat of the day, the state of the dark night, exaggerations about the horse and the sword, the departure from Medina, the hardships of the road, the self-sacrifice of the Imam's companions, the cruelties of the enemy, the wailing of the Prophet's family over the death of their dear ones, and so on. But the truth is that Anis and his other contemporary poets brought all these themes to the height of perfection, and no corner of them remains now. For this reason the marsiya poets of today have made for themselves a new frame, the *saqi-nama* (address to the cupbearer), and each of them tries to show his skill in the saqi-nama. But this theme too is only for a few days. As an example, one stanza of a saqi-nama taken from a marsiya of Arif is offered here:

Yes, cupbearer, sun of love, pour me a cup again today;
bring from the flask again the wine I long for.

Polish again the mirror of a pure nature;
touch my lips again with the brimming goblet.

I write the praise of the heir of the cupbearer of Kausar;
if the wine be only leftovers, let them be of the drinkers of Najaf. [TN: the source reads *dagha* (betrayal), probably a misprint for *sana* (praise). The "cupbearer of Kausar" (the river of paradise) is Ali, whose tomb is at Najaf; his "heir" is Husain.]

Before turning to the psychology of the Urdu poet at the time of composing verse, it should be made clear that the demands of European poetry are one thing and the demands of ours another. For the poet in Europe the idea comes before the rhyme; with us, on the contrary, the rhyme comes before the idea. Because of this difference a great difference has arisen between the psychology of the European poet and of ours. The ancient languages of Europe, Greek and Latin, were very rich, and rhyming words could be found in them in abundance. Still, because rhyme hinders the expression of an idea, they made blank verse the custom. Of the present languages of Europe, German, French and English too are rich, and there are many rhyming words in them; still, they too write blank verse, and long poems are mostly in this manner.

In a rich language, since rhyming words are found in abundance, very little difficulty can arise in expressing an idea. Still, in continuous and long trains of thought a kind of hindrance arises, and rhymes have to be brought in with effort. For this reason master poets, putting the expression of the idea first, have removed this hindrance when necessary. In Arabic too there is an abundance of words, and rhymes are found in plenty, so much so that the lexicographers, in arranging their dictionaries, have taken account of the last letters as well as the first; and, unlike all the dictionaries of the world, in Arabic dictionaries the last letter is made the chapter and the first letter is kept as the section. A single glance at an Arabic dictionary shows how easy it is to write poetry in that language: whatever rhyme you choose, you will easily find many words of the same measure. The poetry of the Days of Ignorance is generally in the form of qasidas. In each qasida there is one rhyme from beginning to end, and from the fluency of expression in the verse of those poets the conclusion clearly follows that at the time of expressing each idea a suitable rhyme came easily to the poet's mind. [TN: the "Days of Ignorance" (*Jahiliyya*) are the centuries before Islam.]

In Persian, words are not so plentiful that suitable rhymes can easily be found when an idea is to be expressed. The language is not rich in itself; since Arabic has influenced it, the number of its words has grown. Still, words of the same measure are not found in it in the abundance in which they are found in Arabic. This is why, just as the Europeans adopted blank verse for long narratives, the Persians expressed such narratives in the form of the masnavi. In the masnavi only two rhymes have to be found for each couplet, and they are mostly found easily.

In the old poetry of India too this form was adopted for long narratives. Such long events cannot be told in the form of the qasida, because it is founded on a single rhyme; and though words of the same measure are found in abundance in Arabic, it is not possible to found a whole narrative on one rhyme. This is why long narrative poems are not found in Arabic. The Persians adopted the form of the masnavi; masnavis were not written in Arabic. If the masnavi form had been adopted in Arabic, or blank verse had come into use, then narrative poems like the *Iliad* and the *Shahnama* could have been found in that language too. The long love poetry of Arabia too is in the form of the qasida. If the Persians too had written this kind of poetry in the form of the qasida and founded the whole poem on one rhyme, things could have gone on. But the pity is that they tied the tail of the refrain to the rhyme.

Since ghazals mostly serve for singing, the Persians thought that the rule of a refrain along with the rhyme would create more music in the poem, and that the refrain and rhyme, coming in every couplet, would sound more balanced in the listeners' ears. This tune rose so high that ghazals without a refrain were no longer liked. If you take up the *diwans* of Persian, you will find very few ghazals with rhyme alone and no refrain. This is why the continuous expression of the ideas of love became difficult in the form of the ghazal. Rhyme and refrain came before the expression of the idea. The theme of one couplet began to be separate from that of the next; that is, one couplet no longer had any connection with another. If in one couplet there is a complaint of separation from the beloved, in the next there is joy at the attainment of union. If in one couplet the world is condemned, in the next it is praised. This is so strange a form of verse that its like will not be found in any language of the world. It compelled all the poets not to write continuous ghazals. Continuous ghazals are found so rarely in the *diwans* of the Persian poets that they might as well not exist.

Persian poetry was in this state when it reached India. First the poets here themselves began to write ghazals of this kind in Persian; then, when poetry began in Urdu, the same method was copied in this language too. This method of the ghazal is still current in our country. Because of it, when our poets sit down to write a ghazal, they first collect many rhymes for it and write them down in one place; then they take hold of one rhyme and try to make a couplet on it. Whatever idea this rhyme compels them to express, that idea they express. Then they take a second rhyme, and whatever idea this second rhyme demands, that idea they set forth, even if it is the opposite of the first. If the themes of our ghazals were translated into any developed language of the world in which discontinuous verse is unknown, its speakers would be amazed to see this difference of ideas of our poet in a ghazal of nine or ten couplets. They would be still more astonished that the theme of one couplet is the exact opposite of that of another. There is no telling what the poet's real idea is, whether he holds the first idea or the second, whether the voice of his heart is in the first couplet or the second.

Maulana Hali, in the preface to his *diwan*, has made an excuse for this difference and contradiction of poetic ideas. He writes: "Just as the presence of contradiction in the work of a philosopher or historian is a fault in that work, it is not a fault in a poet's verse; rather it shows his spontaneity, which should be considered the ornament of poetry. The philosopher or historian forms a fixed opinion on everything after looking at all its sides, and so his statement must be complete and exact. But that is not the poet's task. His task is that whatever side of a thing comes before him, and from it some particular feeling arises and makes his heart restless, he should describe it just so. Then, when on seeing another side another feeling arises contrary to the first, he should describe it according to that second feeling. He is not writing a book of philosophy or history, so that he must keep every side of facts and events in view; rather, just as a photographer takes separate pictures of the same building, now of the front, now of the back, now of this side and now of that, so the poet describes each side of facts and events in a separate colour.

"So it is possible that a poet should sometimes praise a thing and sometimes condemn it, and it is possible that he should condemn a good thing and praise a bad one, because in everything except pure good there is a side of evil, and in every evil except pure evil there is a side of good. Reason, learning, piety, wealth, honour and good name are generally thought praiseworthy and acceptable, but the poets have condemned them again and again. In the same way madness, ignorance, libertinism, poverty, disgrace and ill repute are generally counted blameworthy and rejected, but the poets are often their praisers."

"The poet sometimes urges a thing from one point of view and sometimes from another makes it hateful. Sometimes, compared with the ancients, because they were the masters and inventors of the art, he calls himself worthless and of no account; and sometimes, because he has added to their wealth some earnings of his own which they did not have, he prefers himself to them. Sometimes he despises the world because it is the abode of deceit and the abode of trials, and sometimes he describes its greatness and grandeur because it is the seedfield of the hereafter. He sometimes praises the same government for its virtues, and sometimes complains of it for its unpleasant actions."

We do not think correct this explanation of the difference and contradiction of poetic ideas that Maulana Hali has given. It is true that whatever side of a thing comes before the poet, and whatever feeling it brings upon his heart, it is his duty to describe it exactly. But how can it be that five minutes after this feeling has come upon him, another side of the same thing should come before him in such a way as to create a contrary and contradictory feeling and compel him to express at once the second, contradictory idea with the same force and the same passion with which he expressed the first? The photographer turns his camera in the twinkling of an eye from one side to the other and takes a second picture on a second plate, but such is not the state of the human mind. On it falls the image of an event that is before it, and from it a particular feeling arises. This feeling makes the man restless to express his emotion about it. Until this feeling is wiped from his mind, no restless feeling contrary to it can arise in his mind from another event.

The image of the first event must either be wiped off the mental plate or grow so faint that it is as if it had never been felt. Then it is possible for a contrary event to cast its image and create a second restless feeling. Condemnation of the world and praise of it cannot arise in a poet's mind in a single breath with such passion as to compel him to express it. To express so quickly, in one couplet of a ghazal, condemnation of the world and in another its praise, and other contradictory and contrary ideas of the same kind, is certainly a fault in poetry; and it is clearly understood from it that these two ideas, opposed to each other, are not the reflection of his state of mind but an artificial expression of thought to which the poet has been compelled by the demands of rhyme and refrain.

How can it be possible for a poet in one moment to urge a thing and in the next moment to make it hateful? This is against the natural psychology of man. It is certainly possible, however, that at one time a poet, for example, looked on the world with desire, and everything in it cast a charming image on his heart and kept colouring his feelings. If at that time the poet described this state of his mind, his description would be from head to foot a picture of the charming states of the world, and it would make his hearers wish, like the poet, to look on the delightful colours of the world and enjoy them fully. Then, if from successive failures and the continual occurrence of heartbreaking events the poet came to hate the world, and a feeling of disgust arose strongly in his heart, then in this second period he could express this state of his mind in a despairing tone, and it too would certainly affect his hearers, because even in this state the poet's description would be a true picture of his state of mind, and there would be truth and passion in it too.

So the poet's difference of statement and contradiction of ideas from one moment to the next does not show his spontaneity, nor is it the ornament of poetry. Rather it casts a slur on poetic truth. It does not express the real state of his heart, but gives news of the artificial and unreal nature of his poetry, and shows that the poet is only an imitator. His poetry is not the voice of his heart. He expresses, merely by way of copying and imitation, the various ideas that poets have expressed from time to time in the past, without setting on them the seal of his own state of mind. Clearly this is a grave fault in poetry; it does not adorn poetry but ruins it. This is not poetry but rhyme-measuring.

The poet does not wish to express any immediate idea or any state of his mind; rather, whatever idea each rhyme compels him to express, he carelessly sets it down, and does not care how much difference or contradiction there is in the ideas he is expressing so fast. This is the point at which the psychology of our poet differs from the psychology of the poets of Europe: here the rhyme comes before the idea, and there they consider the idea to come before the rhyme.

Besides the difference in the general psychology of the poets of Europe and India, the psychology of particular poets among us is also distinct, according to the natural bent of each poet. There is one group of poets among us that is busy day and night in fastening down the language. Its aim is to bring to notice, as far as possible, the constructions of daily speech and the idioms of the language. Clearly these constructions and idioms cannot express any new and lofty idea, but only the common thoughts that keep passing through the hearts of ordinary people, for which those constructions and idioms were made. For this reason the poets of this group are compelled to set down commonplace ideas. Zauq belongs to this group of poets, as a writer has shown in the journal *Urdu* by comparing his poetry with Ghalib's.

Poets of this kind deliberately choose grounds for their ghazals in which the refrain is a verb or one of the derivatives of a verb, and then try to set down, as far as possible, all the idioms that are formed by joining various words with that verb. For example, a poet has chosen *uthaya* (raised) as the refrain of a ghazal. The idioms formed by joining various words with *uthana* (to raise) are as follows, and this poet has set them all down in this ghazal: *dagh uthana* (to suffer a scar), *fitna uthana* (to stir up mischief), *ankh uthana* (to raise one's eyes), *sar uthana* (to rebel), *qadam uthana* (to take a step), *hath uthana* (to give up), *bira uthana* (to take up a challenge), *naqab uthana* (to lift a veil), *naz uthana* (to bear someone's whims), *bag uthana* (to raise the reins), *iza uthana* (to suffer pain), *tufan uthana* (to raise a storm), *lutf uthana* (to enjoy), *musibat uthana* (to suffer misfortune), *munh uthana* (to set off without thought).

One ghazal has the refrain *urate* (blowing away). In it the poet has fitted the following idioms: *khak urana* (to wander in the dust), *lutf urana* (to enjoy), *nishana urana* (to hit the mark), *rang urana* (to turn pale), *purze urana* (to tear to pieces), *chutkiyon men urana* (to dismiss in a snap), *khaka urana* (to mock). One ghazal has the ground *bigra* (spoiled). In it these idioms are brought: *kam bigarna*, *munh bigarna*, *mizaj bigarna*, *chalan bigarna*, *badan bigarna*, *naqsha bigarna* (for a task, a face, a temper, conduct, a body, a scheme to be spoiled). In the refrain *pakre* (seized) a poet has spent the following idioms: *gosha pakarna* (to retire into a corner), *zaban pakarna* (to catch at a word), *hath pakarna* (to take someone's hand), *rat pakarna* (for the night to come on), *do din na pakarna* (not to last two days), *dil men jagah pakarna* (to find a place in the heart), *dil pakarna* (to clutch the heart), *kan pakarna* (to repent), *bat pakarna* (to catch at a word), *daman pakarna* (to hold on to someone), *nazr pakarna* (to accept an offering). In the refrain *tore* (broke) a poet has used these idioms: *tauba torna* (to break a vow of repentance), *dil torna* (to break a heart), *ghar torna* (to break up a home), *himmat torna* (to break someone's spirit), *panv torna* (to tire oneself out), *badan torna* (to stretch the limbs), *arsh ke tare torna* (to pluck the stars from the highest heaven). One ghazal has the refrain *kha chuke* (have eaten). In it these idioms have been fitted: *shikast khana* (to suffer defeat), *dhup khana* (to sit in the sun), *rahm khana* (to take pity), *qasam khana* (to swear), *fareb khana* (to be deceived), *zakhm khana* (to be wounded), *bal khana* (to twist), *pech-o-tab khana* (to writhe), *ghussa khana* (to swallow one's anger), *ghota khana* (to plunge), *maghz khana* (to pester), *talwar khana* (to be struck by a sword), *thokar khana* (to stumble), *kan khana* (to pester with talk), *rashk khana* (to feel envy), *josh khana* (to boil).

A marsiya poet has kept *khainchte hain* (draw) as the refrain of his *salam* (salutation poem). In this salam he has made use of these idioms: *khanjar khainchna* (to draw a dagger), *khamyaza khainchna* (to suffer the consequences), *daman khainchna* (to withdraw), *hath khainchna* (to hold back), *panv khainchna* (to stretch the legs), *tul khainchna* (to drag on), *tasvir khainchna* (to draw a picture), *shikanje men khainchna* (to put on the rack), *apne tain dur khainchna* (to keep aloof), *sakhtiyan khainchna* (to bear hardships), *sar ko asman tak khainchna* (to raise one's head to the sky), *iza khainchna* (to suffer pain), *rag rag se jan khainchna* (to draw the life from every vein), *bag khainchna* (to draw the reins), *dar par khainchna* (to hang on the gallows), *naqsha khainchna* (to draw a scene), *khijalat khainchna* (to be put to shame), *kisi chiz par qalam khainchna* (to strike a thing out)…

One ghazal has the refrain *nikaliye* (bring out). In it the poet has spent these idioms: *arman nikalna* (to fulfil one's longing), *dil ka bukhar nikalna* (to vent one's feelings), *munh se uf na nikalna* (not to utter a sigh), *isharon men kam nikalna* (to get things done by hints), *wahshat men panv nikalna* (to run wild in madness), *aib nikalna* (to find fault), *nam nikalna* (to make a name), *ankhen nikalna* (to glare), *bal nikalna* (to take out the kinks), *rah nikalna* (to find a way), *tadbir nikalna* (to devise a plan), *she'r ki zamin nikalna* (to invent a ground for verse), *dil se khatka nikalna* (to remove a fear from the heart), *kisi ka zikr nikalna* (to bring up someone's name), *arzu nikalna* (to fulfil a wish), *bat bat men shar nikalna* (to pick a quarrel at every word), *jauhar nikalna* (to show one's mettle), *par purze nikalna* (to grow wings and spread out), *qadam nikalna* (to step out of bounds), *naya rang nikalna* (to start a new fashion), *matlab nikalna* (to get one's purpose), *sar nikalna* (to rise to notice).

In short, poets of this kind are always bent on fitting into their verse, as far as possible, the idioms of the language, the constructions of daily speech and proverbs. They have nothing to do with poetic imagination or lofty ideas. Zafar's four *diwans* are full of poetry of this kind, and many poets of today who take part in mushairas are also caught up day and night in this craze. On the other hand there is a second kind of poet, who tries, despite the restrictions of refrain and rhyme, to express lofty ideas and delicate feelings. But it should be remembered that such poets generally choose easy refrains and bring rhymes in which it is not hard to express ideas. Mir, Dard and Ghalib belong to this group. Although, by the demands of their age, they were sometimes compelled to choose grounds of the other kind, their general inclination is the one described.

From the revolution in poetry that took place from Hali's time, the poets who depict nature have, by its demands, given up rhyme-measuring. They are often not content, as in the ghazal, with a single refrain. Either they bring only a rhyme into their poems, without a refrain, and choose a rhyme for which words of the same measure are plentiful, for example *rawan*, *tapan*, *zamin*, *jabin*, *darya*, *sahba*, *lata hai*, *khata hai*, *raftar*, *guftar*, *kamal*, *jamal*, *qalam*, *haram*, *tahrir*, *tasvir*, *diwan*, *'uryan*, *millat*, *qudrat*, *bahar*, *ghubar*, *chaman*, *sukhan*, *bismil*, *kamil* and so on; or they choose a very short refrain that does not interfere with the expression of the idea, for example *par*, *men*, *se*, *ko*, *hai*, *hain*, *ho*, *tha*, *thi*, *the*, *ka*, *ke*, *ki*, *le*, *tak* and so on; or they express their ideas in the form of the *tarkib-band*, and in the tarkib-band they do not keep the number of couplets equal in every stanza, but are content with as many couplets as it takes to express the idea of a stanza; or they try to express their ideas in the manner of the masnavi. The poets of Persian have set the following metres for the masnavi, and most masnavis have been written in these metres.

(First) *Hazaj musaddas maqsur*, whose measure is *mafa'ilun mafa'ilun mafa'il*. At the end the foot *mafa'il* may also become *fa'ulun*. In this metre of Zulali were written Jami's *Yusuf Zulaikha*, Nizami's *Shirin Khusrau*, the masnavi of Zulali, the masnavi of Nasir Ali, and Ghanimat's masnavi *Nairang-e-Ishq*.

(Second) *Hazaj musaddas akhrab maqbuz makfuf*, whose measure is *maf'ulu mafa'ilun mafa'il*, and it is also permitted to bring *fa'ulun* in place of *mafa'il*. In this metre were written Faizi's masnavi *Nal Daman*, Khaqani's masnavi *Tuhfat-ul-Iraqain* and Nizami's masnavi *Laila Majnun*.

(Third) *Ramal musamman*, in which the first foot of each line is whole, the middle feet are shortened (*makhbun*), and the last feet of both lines are shortened and docked. Its measure is *fa'ilatun fa'ilatun fa'ilatun fa'lun*. In this metre was written the famous masnavi *Gul-e-Kushti* of Mir Najat.

(Fourth) *Ramal musaddas mahzuf*, whose measure is *fa'ilatun fa'ilatun fa'ilun*; the last foot may also become *fa'ilat*. In this metre were written the *Masnavi-e-Ma'navi* of Maulana Rumi, the *Mantiq-ut-Tair* of Shaikh Farid-ud-Din Attar, and the masnavi *Nan-o-Halwa* of Baha-ud-Din Amili.

(Fifth) *Sari' matwi mauquf*, whose measure is *mufta'ilun mufta'ilun fa'ilan*; the last foot may also be *fa'ilun*. In this metre were written Amir Khusrau's masnavi *Qiran-us-Sa'dain*, Nizami's masnavi *Makhzan-ul-Asrar*, and also the masnavi *Matla'-ul-Anwar*.

(Sixth) *Khafif musaddas*, in which the first foot of each line is whole and the rest are cut short (*maqtu'*). In it, if the last foot of the first line is *fa'lun* and that of the second *fa'ilat* or *fa'ilan*, or the reverse, both are permitted. Its measure is *fa'ilatun mafa'ilun fa'lun*, and in place of *fa'lun* may also come *fa'ilat* or *fa'ilan*. In this metre were written the masnavi *Nam-e-Haqq*, the masnavi *Ma Muqiman*, Nizami's masnavi *Haft Paikar*, Amir Khusrau's masnavi *Hasht Bihisht* and Hakim Sana'i's *Hadiqa*.

(Seventh) *Mutaqarib musamman maqsur* or *mahzuf*. Its measure is *fa'ulun fa'ulun fa'ulun fa'ul*, and in place of the last foot *fa'ul* may also come *fa'al*. In this metre were written Firdausi's *Yusuf Zulaikha*, Firdausi's *Shahnama*, Sa'di's *Karima*, Sa'di's *Bustan*, Nizami's *Sikandar-nama* and Mulla Hatifi's *Zafar-nama*.

(Eighth) *Mutadarik musamman maqtu'*, whose measure is *fa'lun fa'lun fa'lun fa'lun*. In this metre Mir's masnavi *Josh-e-Ishq* was written, but Mir made many kinds of changes in this measure: in places he has kept exactly this measure, in places it is *fa'lu fa'ulun fa'lu fa'ulun*, in places *fa'lun fa'lun fa'lu fa'ulun*, in places *fa'lu fa'ulun fa'lun fa'lun*, and in places *fa'lu fa'ulun fa'lu*. No Persian masnavi in this metre is famous. Maulana Hali's masnavi *Munajat-e-Bewa* is also in this metre.

(Ninth) *Mutaqarib musamman aslam*, whose measure is *fa'lun fa'ulun fa'lun fa'ulun*. In this metre Maulana Hali wrote his masnavi *Hikmat-ul-Haqq*. No Persian masnavi in this metre is famous. But the poetic revolution of the present day has not kept poets limited to and content with these metres of the masnavi; they write masnavis in almost all metres. This has made the field for the expression of thought very wide. In composing each couplet the poet has to think of only two rhymes, which come to mind very easily at the moment, and there is no hindrance to the continuity and flow of thought.

This last method, that is, the expression of ideas in the form of the masnavi, is becoming more and more popular nowadays, and since the poets have not limited the expression of thought to those masnavi metres that have been accepted from ancient times, more breadth and room have come out of this method. Maulana Hali wrote masnavis such as *Barkha Rut* (The Rainy Season), *Nishat-e-Ummid* (The Joy of Hope), *Hubb-e-Watan* (Love of Country), *Munajat-e-Bewa* (The Widow's Prayer) and *Kalimat-ul-Haqq* in short metres. But nowadays there is an inclination to choose long metres for the masnavi. Here, as examples, two couplets each from masnavis of the present day are given.

The fountains in the pool inside that hall went on leaping;
as the streams of water flowed, melodies went on rising from the streams.

Then the sound of the tinkling of ankle bells began to come from the floor of that hall;
this tune of the dance began to stir some instruments to play.

The jasmine flowers shine like stars,
at whose sight all the flowers of the garden are amazed.

Long, long branches are spread over the ground,
which have laid out a kind of canopy on the ground.

Some mulberries are purple, but some are yellow:
how juicy are these mulberries that Nature has made!

If there is the taste of the wine of Kausar, it is in the mulberry;
if there is the flavour of the honey of paradise, it is in the mulberry.

On every pipal tree there are flocks of parrots,
their beaks bright red, their bodies bright green.

They nibble the small fruits and throw them down;
it is as if rain were falling on the ground, patter patter.

Here the wind is free, here the waves are free;
all the birds are free, all the fishes are free.

Beauty lies here taking its ease on every side;
there is joy on every side and light on every side.

I am the candle of the gathering of life; my name is the season of youth;
my breath is the breeze of spring, my gait a wave of wine.

The hours of my life are all spent in pleasures;
these laughs, these chirpings are the messages of my life.

In my heart too is this longing: that I may stay so, without name or trace,
far from the people of the world, and the people of the world far from me.

Let the hem of my chastity not be torn by the struggle of passions;
let me stay pure and go pure, though there be dust in my house.

O Shakespeare, O painter of the human heart,
the forms of Nature were revealed to your heart.

In breadth your soul is greater than the ocean;
in height your gaze has vied with the stars.

The country's capital of survival is from them alone;
the nation's means of progress are from them alone.

If there are fruits on the branch of longing, these are they;
if there is a temper in the sword of honour, these are they.

O Aryans, come, set foot in these gardens full of beauty;
you will always enjoy the delights of paradise in the springs of this pure land.

Settle your new cities on the banks of the Ganga and the Jamna;
singing hymns and making burnt offerings, be absorbed and gladden your hearts.

That melody which the wind must sing in the gardens at dawn,
that melody which the tongue of the springs utters in the mountains,

that melody which sets the waves flowing in this wild ocean,
that melody with which strong wine fills the goblet of its whirlpool,

that melody singing which the birds always come in their rapture,
that melody whose sound is hidden in every creeping creature:

this melody with its strains has filled my ears to the brim;
my passions have woken again, my longings have come alive again.

Blood drips every moment from his eyes;
the knife in his hand flashes like lightning.

At one stroke he cuts down the green saplings;
why should not all who watch take pity on them?

When the branches of the neem, fanned by the cool breeze, begin to sway,
then the golden rays of the sun begin to shine on the leaves.

In the veins of the leaves the sap of the neem runs at full speed;
seeing this busy working, I have become a picture of wonder.

Longings rise in my heart: if only I were in the breeze of spring!
Now I would pass over a bud, now meet a flower face to face.

Now I would tell the gardens the rules of adornment;
now I would teach the nightingales the songs of spring.

A flowing nature is crushed, pressed down in a crowd;
coming under the leaves, even the grass is scorched.

Minds that could have made inventions in solitude,
when they came into company, all their foundations fell.

By the grace of the breeze scent upon scent is spreading in the air;
the miracle of the new spring is manifest in this breeze.

But when the fragrance does not touch the sense of smell,
to whom should one speak of the freshness of the breeze?

At the pillow of a patient of mine a pale candle burns;
his pulse goes on, feeble as an ant.

Suddenly a kind of glow came to his face and stayed;
the wave of life that was there quivered and was still.

That dazzling of the eyes by the brightness of the roses,
that colouring of the gardens like the garden of paradise,

that fragrance of the rose's perfume scenting the wayside,
that leaping of the breeze of Chinese musk from the lips of the bud!

On what a height my dwelling once was!
On the green branch of the Tuba tree was my nest.

With what joy the houris would seat me in their laps!
Hearing my songs, they themselves would nod their heads.

These gardens on the earth, those stars on high:
if anyone asks my heart, these are your splendours.

If ever I find a wave of fragrance in the air,
I think that you are drying your hair in the wind.

Morning will come just so, evening will come just so;
the turning of the circle of time will bring its colours just so.

The birds of the garden will always sing their songs just so;
the flowers in the garden will bring new colours just so.

In misfortunes is hidden a sign of wisdom;
they are, as it were, the surgery of Nature made plain.

If the lancet of misfortunes did not lance these boils,
their poisoned matter would never leave them alive.

O ocean, O ocean of the Creator's restless heart,
what revolution do you hide within your breast?

The pride of the intellect of ten has already drowned the corpses;
now let us see what spectacles you will show besides. [TN: the first line is obscure in the source.]

Call it the arena for displaying ability;
call it the cradle of the teaching of eloquence.

If there is a field for the progress of minds, this is it;
if there is a school of the manners of civilisation, this is it.

There was a tumult raised among my longings;
there was the throb of restless lightning in my arteries.

When the gusts of the hot wind of sorrow passed,
the leaves of the record of my heart were scattered.

What a storm of lightning and wind it was, that set the air in turmoil!
Now you alone are left, O lonely cloud, as a sign of the storm.

Hearts quaked at your thunder; a trembling had seized all living things;
it was as if the sea had burst out in the leaping streams of water.

Let the young not be heedless of this paradise of life;
if they long for pleasure, let them not incline to anger.

They should taste the sweetness of gentle manners;
they should keep watch over their manna and quails.

Let them not allow the nightingale's note to become the kite's cry,
nor the song of unity to become the clamour of "we and I".

Let them not allow the flood to wash over the field of harmony,
nor the lightning of wrath to fall on the harvest of love.

Let what was once seen as a garden not become a furnace;
let what was once thought a dwelling not become a grave.

Let them not allow the hot wind of hell to blow in this paradise,
nor the *zaqqum* tree to bear fruit in place of the Tuba tree. [TN: *zaqqum* is the bitter tree of hell in the Quran; Tuba is the tree of paradise.]

Let them not allow the storm to touch Noah's ark,
nor Satan to pass into Adam's paradise.

Let them not allow frowns of anger to come on the brows of kindness,
nor the trouble of grief to break into the time of love.