The Mughal emperor Akbar gave a name to the doab between the Beas and the Ravi - he combined the names of the two rivers to call it the Bari. The tehsil of Dipalpur, a stronghold of the Bhatti Rajput clan, lies in the Bari. It was here that the first Mongol invasion of India was deflected by Balban in 1285 (at the cost of the life of his son.)
The most noticeable feature inside old Dipalpur town is the monastery of Lal Jas Raj Dipal, venerated by locals. According to legend, Lal Jas Raj was the son of Raja Dipa Chand, the founder of Dipalpur. The boy had a lock of hair on the back of his head, while the rest of his head was shaved, a common practice for the Hindu devout. One day, while he was teasing his step-mother, she got annoyed and told him to go bury himself. The curse took hold, Dipal's body started entering the earth. When his step-mother saw what was happening, she quickly ran to his rescue but by then he had almost completely disappeared, with only his choti (lock of hair) above ground. Eventually the choti turned to stone, and the spot where Dipal had sunk became a shrine, testament to the destructive effect of cruel words on those we love.
This area at the Punjab-Rajasthan border has been the holy ground of many peoples' saints. Hazrat Bahawal Haq (Bahawal Sher Qalandar) came from Baghdad and settled outside Dipalpur. Guru Nanak lived here for a while. When Akbar visited along with his son Saleem (the future emperor Jahangir) in 1578, it was to pay homage to Hazrat Farid Ganj Shakar.
Below, Amir Ali Khan, Saleem Ali Khan, Ejaz Ali Khan and party render traditional qawwali inside the old town of Dipalpur - an act of defiance by the Shia, for the Shahi Masjid of Dipalpur flies the banner of Maulana Fazul ur Rehman, the well-known Islamist politician from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, head of the Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam. The Maulana and his men follow the Deobandi school of thought and look down upon song as un-Islamic.
The qalam is that of Bulleh Shah, the raga is Des.
There is no longer a canonical channel of these lyrics, which have spread across the doab like the braids of the Beas, here is an approximate translation of another version (performed by the Wadali brothers here.)
Charkha mera rang rangeela, ban gai teri yaad vaseela.
My charkha (spinning wheel) of many colors, has become a way of meeting Thy memories.
E mahiya tere vekhan nu, chuk charkha gali de vich panwa.
Beloved, to catch a glimpse of Thee, I place my charkha in the lane outside.
Ve loka paane main kat di, tang teriya yaad de panwa.
People think I spin cotton, but I truly weave the thread of Thy memory.
Charkhe di oo kar de ole, yaad teri da tumba bole.
I tire, set charka aside in shade, the music of Thy memory still rings in my heart.
Ve nimma nimma geet ched ke, tang kath di hullare panwa.
Humming slowly, slowly, I spin gently and dwell on the joy of meeting Thee.
Vasan ni de rahe saure peke, mainu tere pain pulekhe.
Kin let not me rest in ease, but I feel Thou art come close.
Ve hoon mainu das mahiya, tere baaju kidhar main jayiyaan.
Beloved, I ask this: If I don't go to Thee then where do I go?
Ho Eid aayi, mera yaar na aaya, tera ve khair hove ove tamd.
The festive day (Eid) has come, but my Beloved hasn't returned.
Haar singar change nai lagde, ho kisi cheez pe nazar na jamdi.
Jewelry and colors seem dull, nothing around catches my eye.
Sukha waalian needra mangne, yaar mile to main eid manva.
I only pray for sleep, let my Love come then I'll celebrate Eid.
Mix-and-match is becoming ludicrous. Farid Ayaz just passed off "Padharo mharo des" as a Sufi spiritual. Erm, a little background, then you, gentle reader, be the judge.
The tribes of Rajasthan have long exported mercenaries. These foreign legions of the desert have buttressed the ranks of kings of alluvia, and their women have been stranded in the Thar waiting for men who may never return. In the eyes of these women, the saffron/ochre of desert-turban (kesar/kasumal respectively) mix metaphorically with the mane (kesar) of the Gir lion to label the lost lover "kesaria". May he return safe to my arms. Saffron/maned lover, return to my lands - kesaria balam, padharo mharo des.
Kabir also asks us to come to his land - chalo hamaro des. But where is Kabir’s country? It is a different, more elusive country, one that you inhabit when you understand how to live in the knowledge that you will too die:
Mati Kahe Kumhar se, Tu Kya Raunde Moye,
Ek Din Aisa Ayega, Main Raundungi Toye
Clay calls out to Potter, What of thee mauling me
The day'll come soon by, Mauling thee I will be.
Here are Farid Ayaz and Abu Mohammed:
Narwar is a historic town in Madhya Pradesh in central India, roughly between Gwalior and Jhansi, east of a steep scarp of the Vindhya range where the Sind River turns sharply to the south. Classically Nalapura, the town is said to have been the capital of Raja Nala, a character in Hindu mythology who princess Damayanti of Vidarbha Kingdom chooses for husband, who loses everything to gambling, and wins it all back - a popular story told in the Mahabharata.
Dhola, son of the king of Narwar and successor to the kingdom of Nala, is wed to Maruvani, daughter of Pingal, chief of Jhangal (Bikaner), as a child: the bride is 1 1/2, the groom 3. After the formalities, Dhola returns to Narwar with this family, and soon forgets what all those lights and flutes and sweetmeats had been all about.
As a young man, Dhola is married off again, to another princess, this one named Malvani. When they hear of the second marriage, the parents of his first bride, Maruvani, send messages to Narwar asking that the lawful first daughter-in-law be fetched to her husband, but thanks to Dhola's forgetfulness and Malvani's scheming, that is never allowed to happen. There is probably an element of an alliance having lost strategic value.
So Maruvani takes matters in her own hand. She composes music in Raag Maaru - the desert raga of the Thar, and sets couplets to the music. She trains a minstrel in the couplets and sends him off to Narwar.
The night when the bard reaches the outskirts of Narwar palace is a stormy one with lightning and thunder obscuring his approach. The singer creeps up to palace walls and starts in Raag Malhar; when the preamble reaches Dhola's ears at the palace window, over air laden with static, he stands electrified, listening. Raag Malhar gives way to drizzles, the downpour subsides, the thirsty earth soaks up water and in the pungent aftermath the singer shifts to the couplets in Raag Maaru:
ढोला नरवर सेरियाँ, धण पूंगल गळीयांह !
Dhola of Narwar heed, the Treasure in lanes of Pingal !
At the mention of Pingal Dhola starts, he remembers his first bride of long ago. The singer sings out the rest of the composition, Maruvani's musical letter to her husband, that she waits for him still.
My eyes red like fruit, my sight gone from tears
Why did my love leave, and why does he forbear?
केसरिया बालम आओ नि पधारो म्हारे देस
Saffron/maned lover, come this way, arrive in my land
मारू थारे देस में निपूजे तीन रतन-
एक ढोलो, दूजी मारवन , तीजो कसूमल रंग
In the desert of Thar hide jewels three
First Dhola (chivalry), Second Maruvani (fidelity), Third the color Ochre (of blood and sacrifice)
Chagrined, Dhola sets off for Bikaner on his fastest black camel. Pingal's court bursts out in celebration when he eventually reaches. After a few days in Maruvani's palace, the couple set off to return to Narwar. Several adventures ensue. Maruvani is bitten by a snake but resuscitated by Hara-Parvati. Umra-Sumra the highwayman lays a trap for the couple in the form of a traveling musicians' mehfil, but Umra-Sumra's wife, who is from the court of Pingal, tips the would-be-victims off and Maruvani escapes with Dhola. And so on.
केसरिया बालम आओ नि पधारो म्हारे देस
नि केसरिया बालम आओ सा पधारो म्हारे देस
Saffron/maned lover, arrive to my land
Come back, come to my lands
Return to my land, come to my land, do
Saffron lover, come back to my land.
Dhola-Maru is one of the most popular love stories of Rajasthan. Probably dating from the 8th century, it is still remembered by couples in love, and women of Thar will still address a beloved as Dhola.
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.
