The writing on the wall… نوشتہِ دیوار

I was walking around downtown in a rather old part of the city (lets just say somewhere in North America) where graffiti and other public artworks (wanted or unwanted) seem to crop up with regularity. Of course, my own politics/opinions about graffiti are mixed since a part of me thinks its urban art and expression while another part of me believes it to be a form of vandalism. However, I can not help but have a reaction to it and a part of the reaction to this particular picture formed a rather weak ghazal in my head that I present below.

جہانِ فن میں  تیرا کردار ہے کیا؟

دیکھ تو سہی نوشتہِ دیوار ہے کیا

What is your role

In this world filled with art

Take a look

At the writing on the wall

 

اپنی  دولت  پے تو  اِتراتا  ہے کیا؟

جب نہیں عشق مستیِ پندار ہے کیا؟

Is it your wealth

That makes you proud?

If you have no drive in your heart

Then its your ego which intoxicates you

 

نہ گھبرا عشق کی افسردگی سے تو

دلِ  رنجیدہ  کوئی  مردار  ہے  کیا؟

And be not afraid

If your soul is gloomy

A sad heart

Can yet be revived

 

تیرے نام سے ہی تو عزت ملی ہمیں

کون  جانے  تیرا نام  بردار ہے کیا

If I got any respect

It was due to the glory of your name

Who knows

Where your name bearer ranks

 

نگاہ  پرعزم تو دل میں  خوفِ جفا

استاد جاتا ہے کوئے یار ہے کیا؟

He looks firm

But fears being hurt

Is he going towards

His lovers house?

 

پرچمِ ہاشمی و حسینی جس کے ہاتھ

تونہی بتا رتبہِ عباس علمدار ہے کیا؟

The signs of Hashim and Hussain

Were given to him

Go ahead and tell me

The rank of Abbas

A Friend to the Angels… یارِ ملائک

Shams Tabraiz was one of the many influences on Rumi. I do not think it is possible to describe how difficult it was to write that sentence since the relationship between Rumi and Tabraiz is one of the most complicated ones with regard to theology, mysticism and even poetry. I am actually afraid to write anything about the two (other than using the poetic license of verse) since I would not presume to put anything down which seeks to explain one of the most beautiful connections that ever existed. Rumi of course, is one of the great masters of mysticism and esoteric knowledge. Quite literally a source of inspiration for generations of poets and writers from the East as well as the West. Tabraiz being his master/teacher/guide/friend/supporter (the number of slashes only show the jumble in my own thoughts concerning the two!) also holds his own place in the hearts of Eastern writers.

I recently reread some words by Rumi concerning death and rebirth into a higher from which in the original persian sound tremendously beautiful. I also found a related verse by Shams which was as follows; “Ma ba falak budaym yar e malaik budayum”, which in English means, I was living in the heavens, I was friends with the angels. The essential idea being that before we were born we were in the heavens as spirits therefore death will only take us back to the place which is our essential home. Of course, neither Rumi nor Shams had a death wish but I do feel that their poetry and words have an understanding of death as moving to a higher plane of existence.

I have been told that some of my poetry can be quite morbid as it deals with subjects such as death or growing old but I would like to explain that it is simply a move from one plane of existence to another. As Iqbal put it, “Maut kia shay hay? Faqat alam-e-maani ka safar” (what is death but a journey to a different plane of meanings). That, I believe has to be remembered as the essence of what poetic death means and quite a few orders of sufi as well as esoteric schools of thought agree with that idea. With the notion of remembering and forgetting, I present this poor effort for your amusement below.

j

باخدا   ہمیں   اب  وہ  رات   یاد  نہیں

اس رات میں کہی کوئی بات یاد نہیں

I do not recall that night

I do not recall anything

That was said

That night

j

سادہ دل لوگ ہیں، جشنِ آزاد مناتے ہیں

جیت انہیں یاد  ہے،  کوئی مات یاد نہیں

They are a simple people

They are celebrating their freedom

They remember a victory that took place ages ago

They do not remember recent defeats

j

موارخ  سے یہی  پوچھا  کرتا ہوں میں

کمالِ مغرب یاد ہیں، خرافات یاد نہیں؟

Is ask my historian friend

You easily recall the wonders of civilisation

You forget

Its discontents

j

کس جوش سے مانگتے ہیں اسلامی ریاست

خلافت  تو یاد  ان  کو،   مساوات  یاد  نہیں

With fervor he asks for

The power to govern

He remembers ruling others

Not being equal to the ruled

j

پھر عشق کی رہ چلے؟ آفریں حافظے پے

رنگِ  عشق   یاد   ہے،  آفات  یاد  نہیں؟

You are walking the path of love again?

What a wondrous memory my friend!

You recall the beauty of love

Not its miseries

j

ما  با  فلک   بودیم،  یارِ  ملائک   بودیم

استاد تجھے تبریز کی یہ بات یاد نہیں؟

I was living in the heavens,

I was friends with the angels.

Do you not remember

These words of Tabraiz?

The search for a believer… کوئی مردِ مومن

 

دل ڈھونڈتا ہے کوئی  مردِ مومن  حجازی سا

کوئی رومی سا، اقبال سا یاں امام رازی سا

I seek a believer

A traveller

One like Rumi

Or Iqbal or Raazi

 

کیا ہوا جو معرکہِ الفت میں جان چلی گئی

شہیدِ عشق  بھی لگتا ہے  یہاں غازی  سا

So what if you were killed

In the batter of love

The victor here

Appears much like the martyr

 

عادات و اطوار  میں  مشابہت  بہت  ہے

محبوبِ حقیقی بھی لگتا ہے مجازی سا

Different

Yet similar

The divine lover somehow

Seems like the earthly one

 

نہ سیکھا کچھ تاریخ سے مسلمانوں نے

ترکِ عثمانی  بھی لگے ہے اب  تازی  سا

The muslims did not learn their lessons

From history

Even the Ottoman Turk

Appears to be an outsider to Turkey

 

کسے دکھا رہے ہو استاد یہ  محرابِ ریا

جسم تو نمازی ہے، پر دل بے نمازی سا؟

Why make a display

Of your peity o Usatad?

Your body makes the motions

Your heart remains without prayer