Gone are the days by Mirza Ghalib

Gone are the days when I would

 smell your fragrance

And remember your face at the sight

of a flower

                                                           

Gone are the days when I would sing

of Qais’s grandeur

And praise the gorgeous nature

of Farhad

 

Gone are the days when admiring

your stature

I would contend with the cypress

and the rose

 

Gone are the days when I would free

Some birds

Upon hearing the arrival

of a message from you

 

Don’t trap me in your tresses now,

gone are the days

When I would be happy to snare

myself in such travails!

 

I’m caught up with a different order

of Justice now

Gone are the days when I would

complaint my woes to you

 

The desire of going to Ka’ba

maddens me Ghalib

Gone are the days when I would

long for Khalq and Nowshad!

 

© translated from Persian by Ashaq Hussain Parray

 

Birth of a Poem

A poem can begin anywhere─

From a pair of shoes

A submerged grave

Or from a flower that blooms at the foot of a grave

Everyone finds a home in the end─

Ants under a prayer mat

Girls in my voice

A squirrel weaves home over a dead bull’s skull

A poem too shall have a home

In the heart of an exile or some awaiting eyes

A poem can complete a wheel

Left incomplete by its creator

A roaring sky is not enough for a poem

But it can easily fit in a platter

Flowers, tears and bells can be put into it

It can be sung in the dark

And dried in the heat of festivals

You can see it

In empty utensils, vacant kurtas and cradles

You can hear it

Accompanying pushcarts and funerals

You can kiss it

Amidst crowded seaports

You can knead it

in a tub made from stone

You can grow it

In the mint beds

No night can darken

A poem

No sword can cut it

And no wall can imprison it

A poem

Like clouds

Like air, like a street

May part ways anywhere

Like a father’s hand.

Sarvat Hussain ©translation by Ashaq Hussain Parray

Weaving Poverty

How much courage do you need to think

About my father beyond the Shawls, and the Shikaras;

Beyond the fishermen and the frozen forests;

And the roaring 1990s, and that bloody Jhelum

That ferried the Gods across the mountains;

Once in a blue moon, we visit each other

(Though the soldiers often visit us during CASOs)

And wonder whether the past was our present

Or if the otherwise is true;

We trace our memories as far back

As the black crow’s beak can tell;

It once did caw-caw God’s name and fell;

(Mother says, “Crows grow a beak every century

And perish after the number reaches seven”)

My father weaves exquisite oriental carpets

That grow trees of hope; birds of spring─

As the trees turn into woods and the birds

Travel to the warm zones, the carpet falls down,

Done, on a broker’s shoulder bound to New Delhi;

My father loses track─ his eyes blur and thighs tremor;

“One day”, he says, “I shall own birds and the spring

And gather dew drops in my lawn or rest like a king. 

© Ashaq Hussain Parray

The Tryst between History and Memory

I am tied to the bonnet of history riding fast
On the roads built over the bones of my ancestors;

A bird flying high over my head falls down dead
Shot by the accurate fire, a hiding sniper fired;
As I parade through the blood canals of past
Smoke and dust slap my eyes;
If only the Gods were kind to us─ in this slaughterhouse
Of ailing minds, of marked bodies; of wounded souls;
Hush! where is that sound coming from?
Must be the dawn of darkness cracking past
The despair of hope wandering where the light flew
Into a gorge of sorrows that defy human intellect;
There is an art to darkness, of darkness; one that grows into
A heart of hope without flaws tied to my existence;
If only we were kind to us─ in this amnesiac life
Of killing with joy, of bartering sorrows, of dealing with the dead;
Hope is a thing past when history defies your memory;
Hope is a thing lost when memory defies your history;
The present leaves us smitten; the steel insects of time
Biting us while we grope to awake;
There is an art to darkness; one that grows dark
Into memory exposed like a dandelion head
That grows into my lawn; I was never the gardener
Of my lawn; the records prove it neither;
History tied me to a bonnet; I am sailing through
Life─ of un-forgiveness; of rushing to the judgement
Despite the scriptural warning; “thou shall not judge.”
Am I wrong if I stake claim to my body?
Am I wrong if two roads don’t divulge in my case
And I have no choice to make?
I stay gazing like the ancient human worried;
Shocked; dazzled; by the too much of history;
History be kind to my memory; memory be kind to my history
The two can meet and have lunch together;
Who denied us lunch together? ─ In rain;
Through snow; in wind; through fog!
We could be kind to each other;
And seek refuge in a lunch together ─ where
I make no claim to sit on a chair while the attendant
Waits for my call; where the bill that I pay
Does not hurt his eyes;
History- be kind to us; memory; be kind to us.

©Ashaq Hussain Parray

No Country for Women

This is no country for young women and others

Where the old men counsel each other how better

To sell the vernal dreams teeming in thousands

Of poverty-stricken bosoms;

This is no country for young women and others

Where the carpenter happily carries a crucifix

To hang my brother in his own lawn

While Mary watches blood dripping down

The face of Jesus;

This is no country for young women and others

Where a pack of people tell each other that:

I was not born here,

I never lived here

Or I had fled persecution

And sought refuge here

This is no country for young women and others:

Where my ancestors dreamt of living one day

With dignity and walking the roads

Like their own.

Judas! My brother, I don’t hate you

Though you desert me every day

You pretend to be my friend!

We were born at the same place

Though dyed in different colours!

Judas! My brother don’t desert me

While I am taken to the cross

I will write on my bosom with blood:

I was born here before God ordered

The Chaos to settle down, I was here when

The first rains washed away the dirt of earth!

©Ashaq Hussain Parray

Pencil Poems

Pencil

       (I)

Sitting on a bench

A girl in blue jeans

Pares a pencil

And a rose sprouts.

The pencil writes

Black words

On a white paper

As if black butterflies.

The pencil writes

Words white

On the canvass of heaven

As if the moon and the stars!

The pencil carves

Golden wings

On the lap of the universe

As if the dreams of a girl!

              (II)

Near the leg of a table,

A paralyzed hand asked

To a broken blue pencil:

“Can you write?”

Hesitant, the pencil answered:

“Yes. I can write”

And I can paint

Even your portrait!

If only

You could pare with a blade

The plaster from my soft skin!”

Amazed! I

Kept listening to the Zee TV

The voice of Hussein Bakhsh:

“Rahne Do Abhi Sagar-O-Mina…!”

“Let the goblet of wine near me…!”

  (III)

My lovely little daughter

Lights a pencil

With a sharpener!

In the space of white paper

Light begins to scatter.

A black sparrow takes flight with a tree

A fountain springs off the peacock’s eyes

In the air Agni on his chariot flies

An aeroplane taxis on a road

A tiger talks to a cow.

On the top of a black tree

Rises the one-eyed sun

And above it a piece of cloud

And on the cloud’s forehead

A bluefish flying.

In the waves of a stream

A golden butterfly swimming!

My dear daughter

In her merriments

Draws many pictures!

But when the school teacher

Gives homework to her

My doll often casually in anger

Breaks the nib.

The flame of pencil extinguishes

And the horizon of white paper

Is left with only spirals of smoke!

Jayant Parmer © translation Ashaq Hussain Parray

The tower of Babel

Did you hear about the tower of Babel?

Did you hear about its top storey?

Seers and prophets told me

There is a high throne

At the top storey of the tower

On which sits God 

God and his God

His holy existence

And under the ground of Babel,

Jacob’s children

Are kept living in dying pain.

This is their fate

While God sits relaxed since genesis.

Jaun Elia ©translation Ashaq Hussain Parray