Faiz, Subh-e-Azadi, and Pakistan’s 78th Birthday:

Today (well, technically yesterday, since it’s past 12) is Pakistan’s Independence Day. I personally felt no extraordinary zeal or zest for the land of the pure. Is it my lack of patriotism (sun), my anxiety about belonging (moon), or rising sedition? (Please pardon my astrological metaphors; recently learned from a friend.)

I never—of course, I am exaggerating; that’s what poets do anyway—felt much for my own birthday. Perhaps I am still unable to grasp the importance (or the dread and brevity) of the flow of time.

If time is creativity unfolded, I don’t feel progress. If it is a movie playing with no rewind, I still lack the desire to go back.

Well, what truly irked me, apart from flu and fever (the need for aspirin is also mentioned prophetically in the impending poem), was this Faiz poem shared as some token of acknowledgment at best, and as an assertion of independence’s happiness at worst.

Kabir once mentioned this poem too, as an object of contention between him and Yasser Latif Hamdani. Kabir was clear: this is a sad poem. Hamdani, on the other hand, considered it a happy poem.

While I am both an imbiber and propagator of melancholy, sadness, and gloom, I once tried to write a happy poem:

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a happy poem

خون کے لالہ زار سے لایا ہوں نذر کے لیے

لالہ کے جس کے داغ میں میرا وجود ہے نہاں

(I have brought as an offering from the crimson fields of blood,
In the scar of that tulip, my very being is hidden.)

~Ghamidi

Have You Done Your Homework?

Please send me.

I have taken five Disprins

after a chronic inflammation,

an allergy from poppies

south of Peshawar—

those twisted, contorted beings:

large, colorful, and delicate,

lobed, covered with fine hairs—

the hairs I used to have,

thriving in a dry, sunny land,

withered in the flames of Sinai

set upon tulips.

For a second or two,

I thought my khoon-e-jigar (liver’s blood)

in every rag-e-saaz (the pulse of melody) was imploding—

but then, the condition is mandatory

for harf-e-ahang (the word of harmony) to brim

with sooz-e-darun (the fire within).

But now, everything will be fine.

Since you have placed

your extinguishing hand on my forehead,

I am blossoming.

The effect of the red poppies is over.

This man’s hot blood

is buffered by thy cool air of desert.

Let me spawn love songs

in my rusted larynx.

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And I failed. It is not a happy poem. It is a delusional act. The placement of the hand was nothing but a mirage blossoming in the desert of impossibilities.

Well, Faiz’s poem—I don’t know what to say. To me, it is nothing but agony and loss. Right after the “tragedy.” Lament for the moth-eaten Pakistan. Loss of memories. Loss of friends turning to woes (see every war). It is satire, but so naked and obvious.

It may be too late to defy the axing of the subcontinent, but at least we cannot mistake a sad poem for a happy one (if happy poems can exist at all).

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subh-e-azadi

ye daaġh daaġh ujālā ye shab-gazīda sahar

vo intizār thā jis kā ye vo sahar to nahīñ

This stained, patchy light, this night-bitten dawn—

This is not the morning we had awaited.

ye vo sahar to nahīñ jis kī aarzū le kar

chale the yaar ki mil jā.egī kahīñ na kahīñ

This is not the morning for which, full of hope,

We had set out, believing our beloved would meet us somewhere.

falak ke dasht meñ tāroñ kī āḳhirī manzil

kahīñ to hogā shab-e-sust-mauj kā sāhil

In the desert of the sky, the last destination of stars,

Somewhere, the shore of the languid night-wave must exist.

kahīñ to jā ke rukegā safīna-e-ġham dil

javāñ lahū kī pur-asrār shāh-rāhoñ se

Somewhere, the heart’s ship of sorrow will pause,

After traversing the secretive, youthful blood-strewn paths.

chale jo yaar to dāman pe kitne haath paḌe

dayār-e-husn kī be-sabr ḳhvāb-gāhoñ se

As the beloved departed, how many hands clung to the hem,

From the impatient dream-lands of the realm of beauty.

pukārtī rahīñ bāheñ badan bulāte rahe

bahut aziiz thī lekin ruḳh-e-sahar kī lagan

Arms kept calling, bodies kept beckoning—

The devotion to the dawn was precious, yet intense.

bahut qarīñ thā hasīnan-e-nūr kā dāman

subuk subuk thī tamannā dabī dabī thī thakan

The hem of luminous beauties was so close,

Desires gentle, exhaustion repressed, hidden deep.

sunā hai ho bhī chukā hai firāq-e-zulmat-o-nūr

sunā hai ho bhī chukā hai visāl-e-manzil-o-gām

It is said that the separation of darkness and light has already happened,

It is said that the union with the destination has already occurred.

badal chukā hai bahut ahl-e-dard kā dastūr

nashāt-e-vasl halāl o azāb-e-hijr harām

The custom of the people of pain has already changed:

The joy of union is lawful, the torment of separation forbidden.

jigar kī aag nazar kī umañg dil kī jalan

kisī pe chāra-e-hijrāñ kā kuchh asar hī nahīñ

The fire of the heart, the longing of the eyes, the burning of the soul—

All these bear no effect upon anyone in the remedy of separation.

kahāñ se aa.ī nigār-e-sabā kidhar ko ga.ī

abhī charāġh-e-sar-e-rah ko kuchh ḳhabar hī nahīñ

From where did the beloved breeze come, and where has it gone?

Still no news reaches the lamp at the head of the path.

abhī girānī-e-shab meñ kamī nahīñ aa.ī

najāt-e-dīda-o-dil kī ghaḌī nahīñ aa.ī

Still, no diminution has come in the heaviness of night,

Still, the hour of salvation for eyes and heart has not arrived.

chale-chalo ki vo manzil abhī nahīñ aa.ī

The destination we set out for has still not arrived.