Here's a Punabi qawwali composed by Badar Ali Saheb Ansari. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan had recorded Badar Ali's qalam many years ago, here's a fresh take from Mukhtiyar Ali Mirasi - a folk singer from Bikaner.
Mukhtiyar Ali was born in a small village named Pugal near the Indo-Pak border (where the music-video below is shot), and belongs to the semi-nomadic community of Mirasis, who have been the traditional carriers of the oral tradition of the Sufiana qalam in India. The Mirasi are a Hindu, Muslim or Sikh caste found in Northern India; they are the genealogists for a number of communities in Northern India. Within the name Mirasi are a number of groups, each with its own history and its own myth. Some Mirasi groups are thought to be Muslim converts from the Hindu Dom caste, while others claim to have belonged to the Hindu Charan/bard community, said to have converted to Islam at the hands of Amir Khusrau. The word Mirasi is derived from the Arabic word miras, which means inheritance, or heritage. As hereditary genealogists, the Mirasi maintain pedigrees of their patrons and are often involved in the negotiation of marriages; they sometime style themselves as Nassab khawan, or the keepers of family trees. They are also known Pakhawaji from the pakhawaj - pakshavadya or two-sided Indian drum - that they play.
Mukhtiar Ali blends the Rajasthani folk idiom with Hindustani classical tunes, to sing the qalam of Badar Ali:
Nit Khair Mangi Sohniya Main Teri, Dua Na Koi Aor Mangdi
Tere Pairanch Akhir Hove Meri, Dua Na Koi Aor Mangdi
Everyday, Beloved, I pray Thee be well, for naught else I ask.
May I be at Thy feet in my end, for naught else I ask.
Tere Pyar Ditta Jado Da Sahara Ve, Mainu Bhul Gai Mai Jag Sara Ve
Khushi Eho Mainu Sajna Batheri, Dua Na Koi Aor Mangdi
Ever since Thy love's support, the world around me I could forget.
This joy is all I need, my love, for naught else I ask.
Tu Mileya Te Mil Gayi Khudai Ve, Hath Jode Akha Payi Na Judai Ve
Mar Jawangi Je Ankh Metho Pheri, Dua Na Koi Aor Mangdi
With Thee, I experience Oneness; folded hands, I pray we never part.
I will be no more if Thy eyes turn from me, for naught else I ask.
Eho Rab Tainu Mangiya Duawa Ve, Alla Kare Teri Aayi Mar Jawa Ve
Hathi Badar Banawi Saadi Dheri, Dua Na Koi Aor Mangdi
So I ask this of God; Allah take me instead when Thy time comes
May Badar but be of service to Thee, for naught else I ask.
'Baulanga' means the Baul Corpus in Bengali; these traditional songs, lyrics braiding one to the other, do not admit to easy demarcation of authorship.
The singer Parvati Baul tells us that the composer is an unknown Muslim fakir from Bangladesh, who describes the last few moments of Radha’s life, just before she walks into the dark waters of Yamuna river, mistaking it to be the Dark One, her beloved Krishna.
Fragrance Her letters, frailty of vine
Red are Her lips, gateway to wine
Aa’n teghe abru wa’n teere mishga’n,
Aamada har yak bar qatl aame.
Swords arched brows, lashes arrows,
With all else needed, to kill or harrow.
Gahe ba masti taus raqsaa’n,
Gahe ba shokhi aahu khirame.
Often ecstatic, peacock dancing,
Often playful, as deer prancing.
Az jisme larza’n, larza’n do aalam,
Waz zulfe barham, barham nizame.
Shivers body, shiver both worlds,
Locks fall loose, apart comes Order.
Aariz che aariz gesu che gesu,
Subhe che subhe shaame che shaame.
Cheek to cheek, lock to lock
Dawn to dawn, night to night.
Guftam che joi gufta dilo jaa’n,
Guftam che khwahi gufta ghulame.
Asked I of Love “Seek'st Thou what?",
Replied Destroyer: "Slaves, else naught."
Below, Abdullah Manzoor, Makhmoor Niazi Qawwal & Party present the qalam of Jigar (in a snippet within a longer rendition of Mere Bane Ki Baat Na Poochho.)
Yeh ishq nahin aasaan bus itna samajh leejiye,
Ik aag ka daria hai aur doob ke jaana hai
This Love is no easy affair; you might as well understand
It as a river of Fire, one that you must swim immersed, to cross.
A fellow down on his luck, having heard of the munificence of Hazrat Nizamuddin, came in from an outlying village to the khanaqah in Delhi to seek alms. The saint had nothing to give him, so he gave away his slippers.
The mendicant was disappointed, and eventually left. On the way back, he took night's shelter in a caravanserai where, as chance would have it, Amir Khusrau had halted on his way back from a lucrative foray, trading jewels with Bengal. Khusrau recognized his master's footwear, and, after the briefest of enquiries ("I smell the fragrance of my lord"), ransomed the item for all he had made from his trading expedition. "You got them back cheap, then" - was Nizamuddin Auliya's laconic comment when he had his slippers returned.
Below, Farid Ayaz and party render another Khusrau qawwali.
Ay chehra-e-zeba-e-tu rashk-e-butan-e-Azari;
Har chand wasfat mikunam dar husn-az-aan zebatari.
Surat gare naqqash chi rau surat-e-ya-ram qibi
Ya surat-e-kaskhki chuni ya tabr yoon surat gari
Tu az pari ja mukhtari az barg-e-gul na sukhtari
Shamsi nadanam ya qamar, ya zohrai, ya mushtari
Aafaq ra gar deedah am mehr-e butan warzeedah am;
Bisyar khuban deedah am lekin tu cheez-e deegari.
Man tu shudam, tu man shudi, man tan shudam, tu jan shudi;
Taakas nagoyad baad azeen man deegaram tu deegari.
Khusrau ghareeb ast-o gada uftadah dar shehr-e shuma;
Baashad ki az behr-e khuda, su-e ghareeban bangari.
O Thou whose beautiful face is envy of the idols of Azar (Abraham's father and image engraver of antiquity);
Thou remainst every moment superior to any praise of mine.
The mask maker who makes visages, if he saw Thine visage
The dryness of his past choices would make him start all over
Thou Queen of Fairies, bouquets of flowers pale beside Thee
Neither Sun nor Moon can match Thee, Resplendent Thou, Jupiter Thou
All over the world have I traveled; many a maiden’s love have I tasted;
Many a beauteous star have I seen; but Thou art unique.
I am become Thou, Thou me; I am become the body, Thou the soul;
So that none hereafter may say “I am I and Thou are Thou. (i.e. someone else)”
Khusrau a beggar, a stranger has come wandering to your town;
For sake of God's Ocean, pity the poor, turn him not from the door.
Amir Khusrau's father, Amir Saifuddin Mahmud, had been, before coming to India, a chief of clan Lachin in Turkestan during the rule of Chinggis Khan. After immigrating to India, he became a high official at the court of Sultan Shamsuddin Iltutmish. Khusrau's mother came from an Indian Rajput family; she was the daughter of the war minister of Balban.
When he was eight years old, Saifuddin took Khusrau to meet Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. As they were entering through the doors of the khanqah in what is today Delhi's Nizamuddin area, the boy cheekily said that it was up to him, and not his father, to choose his own teacher.
Saifuddin squatted down to the boy's level, looked him in they eyes, and smiled. The father left the son outside the door and went in alone to talk to the saint. In the meantime, Khusrau composed a quatrain (in Persian) to test Nizamuddin Auliya.
Tora aan shahey ke bur aiwaan-e-qasrat, qabutar gar nashinad baaz gardad.
Gharib-e-mustamandey bur dar amad, beyayad androon yaa baaz gardad?
Thou art so great a king, if on roof of thy palace a pigeon were to sit, a falcon it would become.
A poor and humble soul has come to thy door, should he enter or should he be gone?
(The 8-year-old-level pun here is that baaz might refer to a hawk as well as to a part, or the act of parting.) He got back the following quatrain in reply:
Beyayad androon mard-e-haqiqat, ke baa maa yak nafas hamraz gardad.
Agar ablay buwad aan mard-e-naadaan, azaan raahey ke aamad baaz gardad.
Come in, truthful soul, that we may become close and trusted friends.
Yet if thou art ignorant, or no wisdom have, go thou back the way thee came.
(The reply preserved the 8-year-old's rhyme scheme, and at the same time was simple, not trying to upstage his cleverness.) At this Khusrau entered the khanqah and became a mureed of Nizamuddin Auliya — faithfully serving his master throughout his life.
Below, Ghous Muhammad Nasir Qawwal and Party render the qalaam of Amir Khusrau:
Jan zetan burdi -- wa darjani hunooz;
Dard-ha daadi -- wa darmani hunooz.
Ashkara seen-e-am bashugafti;
Ham-chunan dar seen-e pinhani hunooz.
Maza girya chu namak bagudakhtyn;
Tubakhunda shukr afshani hunooz.
You stole my soul -- yet stayed in it
Caused me pain -- but are still the remedy
So openly split my breast
But are still hidden in my heart
Destroyed the kingdom of my mind
But still rule there.
Har do alam qeemate khud guftayi
Narkh bala kun ke arzani hunooz
Peeri-o-shahid parasti nakhush ast,
Khusrauwa' taki pareshani hunooz.
You said your price was equal to the Two Worlds
Ask for a higher rate, the bid is still low.
"Old age and infatuation go not together"
O Khusrau, may you trouble this reasoning.
Interestingly, the Khusrau's line on "ask for a higher rate" was quoted by Maulana Azad in his Al-Hilal exhortation to the Muslims of the subcontinent to look for more (beyond political power.)
Narkh bala. Kun ke arzani hunooz. Ask for more, what you set yourself for is still too low. For heavens sake get rid of the fear of Hindu majority. This was a Satanic suspicion created in the minds of Muslims. Power is not only a numbers game, it depends on something else also. The important factor is the real strength of a nation which is the result of its moral values and character, its unity, and, to use the Islamic terminology, the will of God and good deeds. All these suspicions were created in our minds because no joint and lofty ideal was placed before the country. If from the very beginning all the people had set their sights on one goal,one ideal,there would have been no reason to look into different directions, and all those forces, which today are shedding each others' blood, would have been united in its quest. Gentlemen, lend me your ears, because I am raising an important point. Your aimless wandering, selfishness, self seeking, dissensions, indifference to self-sacrifice and self denial, all this is result of the fact that your eyes have nothing beautiful to look at. The breath-taking beauty that we have discovered is unknown to you.
About a year after Khusrau had met Nizamuddin, Saifuddin passed away, leaving the 9-year old boy in care of his maternal grandfather. Khusrau was to express his sadness with the following couplet:
My river flowed on, the door was left half open,
The sword passed over my head, grief overtook my heart.
Sachal Sarmast (1739 – 1829, Sindhi: سچلُ سرمستُ), born Abdul Wahab Farooqi, was a Sufi poet from Sindh. Sachal Sarmast literally means 'truthful ecstatic', or, more ornately, "The Ecstatic Saint of Truth". Sachal Sarmast composed poetry in many local dialects, chiefly Saraiki and Sindhi.
Saraiki (Shahmukhi: سرائیکی) is the dialect of Southern Punjab and Northern Sindh. It is spoken by 20 million people across the Southern Punjab, southern Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, border regions of North Sindh, Eastern Balochistan, some 20,000 migrants and their descendants in India, Hindus in Afghanistan and so on. One view is that Saraiki originates from the word sarai (inn) - i.e. just as Urdu is the patois of the Mongol ordu camp, Saraiki is the language of the tavern. It is more likely that the word originates from Sauvira, a kingdom in ancient India - the language of this kingdom is Sauvīrakī. The historical bag of names for the various sub-dialects of Saraiki reflect overlapping or conflicting ethnic, local, regional designations. Hindki or Hindko – "of India" – refer to various dialects in the farther north, due to the fact they were applied by people arriving from Afghanistan or Persia. Jaṭki -"of the Jaṭs" - is the sub-dialect of Saraiki spoken where the Jats live in the Punjab; and so on.
Sachal Sarmast composed songs in Saraiki on contemporary themes, one of which was the folk epic Heer Ranjha. The plot summary (adapted from Wikipedia) is:
Heer is an extremely beautiful woman, born into a wealthy Jat family of the Sayyal clan in Jhang, Punjab. Ranjha (whose first name is Dheedo; Ranjha is the surname), also a Jat of the Ranjha clan, is the youngest of four brothers and lives in the village 'Takht Hazara' by the river Chandrabhaga (Moon-crescent, referring to its oxbows) or Chenab. Being his father's favorite son, unlike his brothers who have to toil in the lands, Ranjha leads a life of ease playing the flute (Wanjhli or Bansuri). After a quarrel with his brothers over land, his brothers' wives refuse to give him food, and Ranjha leaves home.
Eventually Ranjha arrives in Heer's village and falls in love with her. Heer offers Ranjha a job as a caretaker of her father's cattle. Visiting becomes mesmerized by Ranjha's flute and falls in love with him. They meet each other secretly for many years until they are caught by Heer's jealous uncle, Kaido, and her parents Chuchak and Malki. Subsequently Heer is forced by her family and the local priest to marry another man, Sadashiv Khera.
Ranjha is heartbroken. He wanders the countryside alone, until he eventually meets a jogi or hermit. After meeting Baba Gorakhnath, the founder of the Kanphata (pierced ear) sect of jogis at Tilla Jogian, the Hill of Hermits (50 miles north of the historic town of Bhera, Sargodha, Punjab), Ranjha becomes a jogi himself, piercing his ears and renouncing the material world.
Reciting the name of the Lord Alakh Niranjan, Ranjha wanders all over Punjab; eventually finding the village where Heer now lives.
The two return to Heer's village, where Heer's parents agree to their marriage. However, on the wedding day, Kaido poisons her food so that the wedding will not take place. Hearing this news, Ranjha rushes to aid Heer, but is too late, as she has already eaten the poison and died. Brokenhearted once again, Ranjha partakes the rest of poisoned laddu that Heer has eaten, and dies by her side.
Heer and Ranjha are buried in Heer's hometown, Jhang. Lovers pay visits to their mausoleum. The year on the mausoleum inscription is 1471 AD.
Many Sufi poets have shaped the Heer Ranjha canon. It is argued by Pir Waris Shah in the beginning of his version, that the story of Heer and Ranjha has a deeper connotation - the relentless quest of humans for God. The sociological significance is also that it is a Jat epic, and represents an obdurate Jat/Ahir narrative clinging to their rural/steppe values of cattle, flute, love - in the face of repeated conquest from urbanized Arab and Indo-Persian centers; and also the need of Sufi poets to co-opt that narrative for increased resonance.
Abida Parveen sings Sachal Sarmast:
भला हो
Be well
राँझा तख़्त हज़ारे कूँ
जहंदा इश्क़ दे आँख दे छुपियां
Ranjha of village Takht Hazara
Where Love hid from the eyes
कर मंजूर गज़ई तूने
जा ताज तख़्त कूँ रखियाँ
If you want your wishes fulfilled
Go place a crown on Takht village
कारण हीर दे बन के जोगी
अत बीण बजावण सिख्हियां
Because of Heer he became a hermit
Learnt to play the flute
मस्ताना इश्क़ दे शाही कूँ
मोय आशिक़ मंग दे बिकियाँ
Ecstatic in Love, that King
O sell me to that Lover
जहंदा इश्क़ लगानी में वारियाँ
सो राँझा - शाह हज़ारी दा
मालिक हज़ारी दा
तख़्त हज़ारी दा
साईं भला राँझा - शाह हज़ारी दा
O you who join the queue of lovers
O to follow Ranjha - that King of Hazara
That Lord of Hazara
Of the village Takht Hazara
The good saint of Hazara - the King of Hazara
अनना अहमद बिल्ला मी मी
तुस्सा चाक दा हुसन में खोईआं
सो राँझा - शाह हज़ारी दा
मालिक हज़ारी दा
तख़्त हज़ारी दा
साईं भला राँझा - शाह हज़ारी दा
You who see the One and Ahmad (Muhammad) as in you
Lose yourself in the beauty of the cattle herder
O to follow Ranjha - that King of Hazara
That Lord of Hazara
Of the village Takht Hazara
The good saint of Hazara - the King of Hazara
कर सिंगार सोहणी दे अंगियां
तुस्सा स्याहियां मुश्किल मलों
सो राँझा - शाह हज़ारी दा
मालिक हज़ारी दा
तख़्त हज़ारी दा
साईं भला राँझा - शाह हज़ारी दा
I decorated and made beautiful my body
You only ever poured ink and trouble on me
O to follow Ranjha - that King of Hazara
That Lord of Hazara
Of the village Takht Hazara
The good saint of Hazara - the King of Hazara
मैं थी वार क़ुर्बान ताहीं तो
सर सचल दा सब होने तो
तख़्त हज़ारी दा (etc.)
I want to go sacrifice myself there
Make my head (Sar) truthful (Sachal) there
At the village of Takht Hazara (etc.)
Here is a geotagging tour diary to Takht Hazara and the graves of Heer Ranjha. It is also interesting to recount the traditional invocation that happens at the beginning of a rendering of the epic:
Awwal-akhir naam Allah da lena, duja dos Muhammad Miran
Tija naun mat pita da lena, unha da chunga dudh sariran
Chautha naun an pani da lena, jis khave man banhe dhiran
Panjman naun Dharti Mata da lena, jis par kadam takiman
Chhewan naun Khwaja Pir da lena, jhul pilave thande niran
Satwan naun Guru Gorakhnath de lena, patal puje bhojan
Athwan naun lalanwale da lena, bande bande de tabaq zanjiran
First and last, I take the name of Allah; second, of Muhammad, the prophet
Third, I take the name of mother and father, on whose milk my body thrived
Fourth, I take the name of bread and water, by eating which my mind is calmed
Fifth, I take the name of Mother Earth, on whom I place my feet.
Sixth, I take the name of Khwaja (my teacher or Lord in the Sufi tradition), who gives me cold water to drink
Seventh, I take the name of Guru Gorakh Nath (a reflection both on the seer who initiated Ranjha, and the Naga or Snake cults of Dravidian India) who is worshiped with a platter of milk and rice
Eighth, I take the name of Lalanwala (i.e. Lord Jhulelal of the Sindhis, of Damadam Mast Qalandar fame) who breaks the bonds and the chains of captives.
Ghalib makes for an unlikely Sufi. Interrogated after the Mutiny, he informs his British interlocutor he is only half-Mussulman (Drink, yes; eat pig, no.) He is very much a man of this world, the here and now. On Paradise, he writes to a friend:
In Paradise it is true that I shall drink at dawn the pure wine mentioned in the Qu'ran, but where in Paradise are the long walks with intoxicated friends in the night, or the drunken crowds shouting merrily? Where shall I find there the intoxication of monsoon clouds? Where there is no autumn, how can spring exist? If the beautiful houris are always there, where will be the sadness of separation and the joy of union? Where shall we find there a girl who flees away when we would kiss her?"
Yet he believes "the search for God within liberates the seeker from the narrowly orthodox, encouraging the devotee to look beyond the letter of the law, to its essence."
The object of my worship lies beyond perception's reach;
For men who see, the Ka'aba is a compass, nothing more.
Below, Abida Parveen renders Ghalib.
बेखुदी बेसबब नहीं ग़ालिब।
कुछ तो है जिसकी पर्दागारी है।
This out-of-yourself-ness, not without its purpose is, O Ghalib
There's surely something here -- that lies behind veils.
दिल ओ मिज़्श्गाँ का जो मुकदमा था।
आज फ़िर उसकी रू बकारी है।
Heart and eyelash (tears) have long been litigants (against Beloved)
Today for both, another summons to appear.
फ़िर उसी बेवफा पे मरते हैं।
फ़िर वही जिंदगी हमारी है।
Dying for that Betrayer again,
It's my same old life, all over again.
फ़िर दिया पारा-ऐ-जिग़र ने सवाल।
एक फरियाद आहोजारी है।
Issues mercury (i.e. thermometer) of liver a question
The response - a sigh of the same complaint.
(Jigar - the liver - was thought to be seat of emotion and friendship in Islamic medicine.)
फ़िर हुए हैं गवाह इश्क तलब।
अश्क बारी का हूक्म जारी है।
Again in witness is summoned: Love
An order is passed to bring forth: tears.
फ़िर कुछ इस दिल तो बेक़रारी है |
सीना ज़ोया-ए-ज़ख्म-ए-कारी है |
There's restlessness in this heart again,
This bosom seeks wounds afresh.
The extended metaphor of litigation comes easily to Ghalib, who shuttled around the courts of authorities (even all the way to Kolkata) imploring them for a bigger pension. Note how Abida starts in a ghazal and moves into qawwali around minute 6. Somewhere in there is a guitar playing a chord from Air Supply: Making Love, Out of nothing at all. Out of nothing at all.
'Jigar' was the takhallus of the noted Urdu poet Ali Sikandar (1890–1960); technically, jigar means liver (the organ), though the implied meaning is 'something so unique that one cannot live without it'; hence a close friend is a 'jigri dost.' 'Jigar' was born Moradabad, Uttar Pradesh; he lost his father at an early age and did not have an easy childhood. At a madrassa he was taught Arabic and Persian. His poetry teacher was Rasa Rampuri, and in turn he taught the likes of Majrooh Sultanpuri. He never received any formal higher education, yet it was said of him no university could have taught him - he was only the second in the history of Aligarh Muslim University to be awarded an honorary D. Litt. (the first one was Iqbal.) His fame has grown in the years since his death, and in the Urdu world he is already being mentioned in the same breath as Iqbal and Ghalib.
Below, Iqbal Bano renders Jigar:
हर सू दिखाई देते हैं वो जलवागर मुझे
क्या-क्या फरेब देती है मेरी नज़र मुझे
Har su dikhai dete hain wo jalwagar mujhe,
kya-kya fareb deti hai meri nazar mujhe.
Revealed in every street that charm-weaver
What deceptions my own eyes do make.
आया ना रास नाला-ए-दिल का असर मुझे
अब तुम मिले तो कुछ नहीं अपनी ख़बर मुझे
Aaya na ras nala-e-dil ka asar mujhe,
ab tum mile to kuch nahi apni khabar mujhe.
No solace get I from my heart's cries
Since we met, know not I my own news.
डाला है बेखुदी ने अजब राह पर मुझे
आँखें हैं और कुछ नहीं आता नज़र मुझे
Dala hai bekhudi ne ajab rah par mujhe,
aankhen hain aur kuch nahi aata nazar mujhe.
Strange paths has bewilderment led me to,
I have my eyes, yet fail to see a thing.
करना है आज हज़रत-ए-नासेह का सामना
मिल जाए दो घड़ी को तुम्हारी नज़र मुझे
Karna hai aj hazrat-e-naseh se samana,
mil jaye do ghadi ko tumhari nazar mujhe.
Have to face Exalted's chastisement today,
In that may Thy gaze meet mine for a while.
यकसाँ है हुस्न-ओ-इश्क़ की सरमस्तियों का रंग
उनकी ख़बर उन्हें है न मेरी खबर मुझे
Yaksan hai husn-o-ishq ke sarmastiyon ka rang,
un ke khabar unhen hai na apni khabar mujhe.
Unsteady are the colors of love's rapture,
Neither they aware of their selves, nor I of mine.
मैं दूर हूँ तो रू-ए-सुख़न मुझ से किसलिए
तुम पास हो तो क्यों नहीं आते नज़र मुझे
Main dur hun to ruh-e-sukhan mujh se kis liye,
tum pas ho to kyon nahi aate nazar mujhe.
If we be apart what use then the faces of words?
If we be close why then do not I see you?
दिल ले के मेरा देते हो दाग़-ए-जिगर मुझे
ये बात भूलने की नहीं उम्र भर मुझे
Dil leke mera dete ho daagh-e-jigar mujhe,
ye baat bhulane ke nahi umr bhar mujhe.
You take my heart, leave behind an ache in Jigar
This can't be forgotten tho' all my life be spent.
Jami, the greatest of Persian/Tajik Sufi poets, was born in Jam (Ghor, Afghanistan) c. 1414. He describes how he came to take his pen-name:
My birthplace is Jam, my pen
Has drunk from Shaykh-ul-Islam Jam
Hence in the books of poetry
My name is Jami for reasons two.
Interestingly, Jami remained a staunch Sunni in his Sufism and the center of his passion became not the personage of Beloved but rather the spirituality of prophet Muhammad.
Manzoor Niazi Qawwal performs Jami:
Naseema, Janib e Bat'ha Guzar Kun
Zey Ahwalam Muhammad Ra Khabar Kun
O Breeze! whenever you go to Bat'ha (i.e. Medina)
Give news of me to Muhammad there
Tu'ee Sultan e Alam Ya Muhammad
Ze Ru e Lutf Su e Mann Nazar Kun
You are the King of all world O Muhammad
Look at me with your sweet beautiful gaze
Bey Bareen Jan e Mushtaqan Dar'a Ja
Fida e Roza e Khair-ul-Bashar Kun
Approach me. I, your follower, helpless perish
At your mausoleum, O Best of Men
Musharraf Garchey Shud Jami Zey Lutfash
Khudara Ee Karam Bar-e-Jigar Kun.
Jami has been blessed by You
But for God's sake bless him again.
Another version by Molvi Haider Hassan Akhtar Qawwal, with more of a contemprary naat-texture is below (notwithstanding exuberant mashing-in of Khusrau past minute 8):
Having worked and taught in Samarkand, Jami passed his last days in Herat. His epitaph reads:
When your face is turned from me
like the moon hidden on a dark night,
I shed stars of tears; yet my night stays dark
even with all those shining stars.
Muhammad Iqbal (Urdu: محمد اقبال) (1877 – 1938) was a poet and politician in British India. His voice is an important counterpoint to the syncretist Sufi; during his lifetime Iqbal underwent a transformation from Indian to Muslim.
Written in 1904, Iqbal's Saare Jahan Se Achchha Yeh Hindustan Hamara (Better Than the Whole World This Hindustan of Ours) quickly became an anthem of opposition to the British rule in India. The song, an ode to Hindustan—the land comprising present-day Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan—both celebrated and cherished the land even as it lamented its age-old anguish. It remains one of the most popular of Urdu songs to this day.
Later in life, Iqbal wrote another song for children, Tarana-e-Milli (Anthem of the Religious Community), which was composed in the same metre and rhyme scheme as Saare Jahan Se Achcha, but which renounced much of the sentiment of the earlier song. The sixth stanza of Saare Jahan Se Achchha is:
Maẕhab nahīṉ sikhātā āpas meṉ bair rakhnā, Hindī haiṉ ham, wat̤an hai Hindūstāṉ hamārā.
Religion does not teach us to bear mutual ill-will, We are of Hind, our homeland this Hindustan of ours.
contrasts with the first stanza of Tarana-e-Milli:
Cīn o-ʿArab hamārā, Hindūstāṉ hamārā, Muslim haiṉ ham, wat̤an hai sārā jahāṉ hamārā
China (i.e. Central Asia and Xinjiang) and Arabia are ours, Hindustan is ours, We are Muslims, the whole world is our homeland.
Here is Iqbal's antidote to the Sufis' Belovedism, performed by Raahat fateh Ali Khan.
कभी ऐ हक़ीक़त-ए-मुन्तज़र नज़र आ लिबास-ए-मजाज़ में
के हज़ारों सज्दे तड़प रहे हैं मेरी जबीन-ए-नियाज़ में
Kabhi aye haqeeqat-e-muntazar, nazar aa libas-e-majaz mein
ke hazar sajde tadap rahe hain meri jabeen-e-niaz mein
For once, O awaited Reality, reveal Thyself in dress (ie form) material
For a thousand prostrations quiver in agony on my pensive brow
तू बचा बचा के न रख इसे तेरा आईना है वो आईना
के शिकस्ता हो तो अज़ीज़तर है निगाह-ए-आईना-साज में
Tu bacha bacha ke na rakh isey, tera aeena hai woh aeena
ke shikasta ho to aziz-tar hai nigah-e-aaeena saaz mein
Do not try to protect it, thy mirror is the mirror that
Be dearer in mirror-Maker's eye if it broken be
न कहीं जहाँ में अमाँ मिली जो अमाँ मिली तो कहाँ मिली
मेरे जुर्म-ए-ख़ानाख़राब को तेरे उफ़्वे-ए-बंदा-नवाज़ में
Na kaheen jahan mein amaan mili, jo amaan mili to kahan mili ?
mere jurm-e-khana-kharab ko, tere ufw-e-banda nawaz mein
Nowhere in all world I found refuge, where refuge found I where was it?
My house of sin and misdeed - their only refuge was in Thy grace
न वो इश्क़ में रहीं गर्मियाँ न वो हुस्न में रहीं शोख़ियाँ
न वो ग़ज़नवी में तड़प रही न वो ख़म है ज़ुल्फ़-ए-अयाज़ में
No more has Love that fire, no more beauty that cheer
Neither anguish in Ghaznavi nor hair-lock-curls of Ayaz are
Mahmud of Ghazni (971-1030), founder of the Ghaznavid Empire, fell in love with Malik Ayaz, a Turkish slave who was rewarded with generalship, and their relationship became the epitome of idealized love in Islamic literature. The story goes that Ayaz asked Mahmud who the most powerful man in the kingdom was. When the sultan replied that it was himself, Ayaz corrected him, claiming that in fact Ayaz was the most powerful, since Mahmud was his slave. “Slave to a slave” became a favorite trope in Persian literature. One day, Ayaz sported a lock of wanton curl in his hair, which so aroused the Sultan's lust that he had to remove himself lest the sin of carnality be committed and the general turned into a catamite. Upon his return, he observed that sensing Mahmud's discomfiture (or perhaps out of more prosaic precaution) Ayaz had cut off the incendiary lock.
जो मैं सर-ब-सज्दा कभी हुआ तो ज़मीं से आने लगी सदा
तेरा दिल तो है सनम-आशनाअ तुझे क्या मिलेगा नमाज़ में |
Jo mein sar ba-sajda huwa kabhi, to zameen se aane lagi sada
tera dil to hai sanam ashna, tujhe kya milega namaz mein ?
Even as I lower'd my head in prostration a cry arose from the ground:
Thy heart's in Beloved-idolatry, what reward wilst thou for prayer get?
In a letter to Jinnah in 1937 Iqbal wrote:
"A separate federation of Muslim Provinces, reformed on the lines I have suggested above, is the only course by which we can secure a peaceful India and save Muslims from the domination of Non-Muslims. Why should not the Muslims of North-West India and Bengal be considered as nations entitled to self-determination just as other nations in India and outside India are."
This makes him an early proponent of the two-nation theory which resulted in the partition of India. In another ghazal he says:
The lion who had emerged from the desert and toppled the Roman Empire is
As I am told by the angels, about to get up again.
You the dwellers of the West, should know that the world of God is not a shop ...
Your civilization will commit suicide with its own daggers.
It has been noted that Iqbal’s politics routed through his poetry keeps him firmly in place as Pakistan’s supreme icon today. Like Samuel Huntington he frames the world exclusively in terms of us-versus-them and the superiority of one civilization over all others. More on Pervez Hoodbhoy's take on Iqbal is here.
जो मैं सर-ब-सज्दा कभी हुआ तो ज़मीं से आने लगी सदा
तेरा दिल तो है सनम-आशनाअ तुझे क्या मिलेगा नमाज़ में |
