Whitney will read verses from his translation of sarga 8 of Bilhaṇa’s Sanskrit Vikramāṅkadevacarita. The handout is available on this link: https://uchicago.box.com/s/xphzo3ri1eenw7hw3fl7gqkkxai8ff7c

Andrew Ollett will bring Prakrit verses from Līlāvaī. See the texts here: http://prakrit.info/ll/

Francesca Chubb-Confer |  fchubbconfer@uchicago.edu
Iqbāl ghazals from Payām-i Mashriq (1923)

To see the original format of the translations, see this pdf:
https://uchicago.box.com/s/q6u5vxvwl2ij1ntp54m0wh1nsnptq98t.

Persian text of ghazal #16: https://ganjoor.net/iqbal/payam-mashregh/sh231/

دانهٔ سبحه به زنار کشیدن آموز
گر نگاه تو دو بین است ندیدن آموز

پا ز خلوت کدهٔ غنچه برون زن چو شمیم
با نسیم سحر آمیز و وزیدن آموز

آفریدند اگر شبنم بی مایه ترا
خیز و بر داغ دل لاله چکیدن آموز

اگرت خار گل تازه رسی ساخته اند
پاس ناموس چمن دار و خلیدن آموز

باغبان گر ز خیابان تو بر کند ترا
صفت سبزه دگر باره دمیدن آموز

تا تو سوزنده تر و تلخ تر آئی بیرون
عزلت خم کده ئی گیر و رسیدن آموز

تا کجا در ته بال دگران می باشی
در هوای چمن آزاده پریدن آموز

در بتخانه زدم مغبچگانم گفتند
آتشی در حرم افروز و تپیدن آموز

“Learn”
(ghazal #16, radif: āmūz)

Learn to string a prayer bead
on a sacred thread.
If your sight’s two-seeing,
learn to unsee.

Set foot outside the bud’s
seclusion. As perfume,
diffuse into the dawning breeze
and learn to breathe.

If you were created
worthless dew, rise –
and on the tulip’s scarred heart
learn to drop.

If you were formed
a fresh-blooming rose’s thorn,
protect the garden’s honor:
learn to prick.

If the gardener uproots
you from your flower bed,
verdantly, once more, verdantly,
learn to blossom.

So that you come out
burning more, bitter still,
withdraw into the cask
and learn to age.

How far will you remain
enfolded in others’ wings?
In the air of the garden
learn to fly free.

I knocked on the door of the tavern.
The young Magi said to me:
light a fire in the sanctuary,
learn to flare hot.

Persian text of ghazal #3 (from: https://ganjoor.net/iqbal/payam-mashregh/sh218/)

می تراشد فکر ما هر دم خداوندی دگر
رست از یک بند تا افتاد در بندی دگر

بر سر بام آ  نقاب از چهره بیباکانه کش
یست در کوی تو چون من آرزومندی دگر

بسکه غیرت میبرم از دیدهٔ بینای خویش
از نگه بافم به رخسار تو رو بندی دگر

یک نگه یک خندهٔ دزدیده یک تابنده اشک
بهر پیمان محبت نیست سوگندی دگر

عشق را نازم که از بیتابی روز فراق
جان ما را بست با درد تو پیوندی دگر

تا شوی بیباک تر در ناله ای مرغ بهار
آتشی گیر از حریم سینه ام چندی دگر

چنگ تیموری شکست آهنگ تیموری بجاست
سر برون می آرد از ساز سمرقندی دگر

ره مده در کعبه ای پیر حرم اقبال را
هر زمان در آستین دارد خداوندی دگر

“A/new”
(ghazal #3, radīf: digar)

At every beat our thinking hews
new gods: freed from one knot,
we loop ourselves
into another.

Come out on the roof.
Drop that veil, daring,
from your face—

for in your alley
there’s no one
wanting more than me.

Jealous of my own seeing eye,
I weave my gaze
over your cheek.

One glance, one
wry smile, one
lucent tear:

there is no other oath in any measure of love.

I take pride in my passion.
From a restless ligature
on the day of separation,
it bound my life to your pain again.

So that you sing
more brazenly—oh springtime bird—seize
some fire from the sanctum of my chest.

The Timurid harp is broken.
Its harmony resounds
from another Samarqandi string.

Oh keeper of the sanctuary!
Don’t let Iqbal in to the Ka’ba:
he always has some new gods up his sleeve.

Persian text of ghazal #5 (from: https://ganjoor.net/iqbal/payam-mashregh/sh220/)

به این بهانه درین بزم محرمی جویم
غزل سرایم و پیغام آشنا گویم

بخلوتی که سخن می شود حجاب آنجا
حدیث دل به زبان نگاه می گویم

پی نظارهٔ روی تو می کنم پاکش
نگاه شوق به جوی سرشک می شویم

چو غنچه گرچه به کارم گره زنند ولی
ز شوق جلوه گه آفتاب می رویم

چو موج ساز وجودم ز سیل بی پرواست
گمان مبر که درین بحر ساحلی جویم

میانه من و او ربط دیده و نظر است
که در نهایت دوری همیشه با اویم

کشید نقش جهانی به پردهٔ چشمم
ز دست شعبده بازی اسیر جادویم

درون گنبد در بسته اش نگنجیدم
من آسمان کهن را چو خار پهلویم

به آشیان ننشینم ز لذت پرواز
گهی به شاخ گلم گاه بر لب جویم

“Pretext”
(ghazal #5, radīf: mī __ū-yam)

This is my pretext
for finding someone here who understands:
singing ghazals, encoding lovers’ secrets.

In that strange solitude
where speech becomes a veil,
I tell the heart’s tale with a sidelong glance.

To purify my seeing you,
I immerse my longing sight
in a stream of tears.

Even if all my doings
are knotted tight as a bud,
I swell from yearning for the glowing sun.

My being is a wave
of ceaseless floodwaters:
don’t suspect that in this sea I seek the shore.

Between him and me
is what binds sight to the eye.
At the edge of all distance I’m always with him.

He traced a world
on the film of my eye;
I’m a prisoner to the illusionist’s hand.

The closed doors of this dome
cannot contain me: I rankle
like a thorn in the side of the ancient sky.

Now that I have a taste for flying,
I don’t sit in my nest. Instead,
a spring branch, sometimes, the lip of a stream.

Persian text of ghazal #11: https://ganjoor.net/iqbal/payam-mashregh/sh226/

از ما بگو سلامی آن ترک تند خو را
کاتش زد از نگاهی یک شهر آرزو را

این نکته را شناسد آندل که دردمند است
من گرچه توبه گفتم نشکسته ام سبو را

ای بلبل از وفایش صد بار با تو گفتم
تو در کنار گیری باز این رمیده بو را

رمز حیات جوئی جز در تپش نیابی
در قلزم آرمیدن ننگ است آب جو را

شادم که عاشقان را سوز دوام دادی
درمان نیافریدی آزار جستجو را

گفتی مجو وصالم بالا تر از خیالم
عذر نو آفریدی اشک بهانه جو را

از ناله بر گلستان آشوب محشر آور
تا دم به سینه پیچد مگذار های و هو را

“Toward”
(ghazal #11, radif: -ū rā)

To that fiery Turk
send my salaam,
whose glance struck flame
to a city of desire.

This point will be discerned
by pain-acquainted hearts.
I said my penance—but never
smashed the wineglass.

Oh, nightingale:
I’ve told you a hundred times
about the rose’s faithfulness,
but you hold close again
that ghostly scent.

The secret of life is in the seeking.
You won’t find it
except in quickening;
the stream’s disgrace is to rest in the sea.

I’m glad you gifted lovers
immortal burning,
and created no cure
for the torment of the seeking.

You said: don’t try for union with me,
I outpace imagination.
You brought about a new excuse
for streaming tears.

Bring resurrection’s upheaval
to the garden.
Don’t calm your cries
until the breath is twisted up inside.

— F. Chubb-Confer

Our first poem for today comes from the Rasikapriyā (1591) of Keshavdas, the founder of literary theory in Hindi. It describes the love play of Radha and Krishna as an example of the erotic sentiment when lovers meet in secret:

अथ प्रच्छन्न संयोग शृंगार
सवैया

बन में बृषभानु कुमारि मुरारि रमें रुचि सों रस रूप पियें ।
कल कूजत पूजत काम कला बिपरीत रची रति केलि कियें ।
मनि सोभित स्याम जराइ जरी अति चौकी चलै चल चारु हियें ।
मखतूल के झूल झुलावत केसव भानु मनों सनि अंक लियें ।।२०।।

atha pracchanna saṁyoga śr̥ṅgāra
savaiyā¹

bana maiṁ br̥ṣabhānu kumāri murāri ramaiṁ soṁ rasa rupa piyeṁ
kala kūjata pūjata kāma kalā biparīta racī rati kelī kiyeṁ
mani sobhita² syāma jarāï jarī ati caukī calai cāru hiyeṁ
makhatūla ke jhūla jhulāvata³ kesava bhānu manoṁ sani aṅka liyeṁ

Now, the erotic sentiment in union, when in secret:
(In the savaiya meter.)

In the forest, Brishbhanu’s young daughter and Murari
immerse themselves in pleasure and imbibe the juice of beauty.

Cooing gently, they perform worship to the arts of Love (Kama)
and fashion Passion (Rati) upside-down as they play love-games.

Shyam, radiant with jewels, is set alight
as his square pendant moves quickly on his handsome chest.

Oh Keshav, they swing back and forth in a swing of black silk,
as if the sun had taken Saturn into his lap.

Reading taken from the Keśavadās Granthāvalī edited by Vishvanathprasad Mishra (Allahabad: Hindustani Academy, 1954).

1Erroneously labeled as kavitt meter in Metropolitan Museum of Art 18.85.5b.

2Reading from Metropolitan Museum of Art 18.85.5b: sohati.

3Reading from Metropolitan Museum of Art 18.85.5b: jhūlāṁ jhulāvatu.

Folio from the Rasikapriyā of Keshavdas, Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The second poem comes from the Padmāvat (1554) of Malik Muhammad Jayasi. It describes the love-making of Ratansen and Padmavati (Padmini) after they have finally been married:

कडवक ३१८

कहौं जूझि जस रावन रामा । सेज बिधंसि बिरह संग्रामा ।
लीन्ह लंक कंचन गढ़ टूटा । कीन्ह सिंगार अहा सब लूटा ।
औ जोबन मैमंत बिधंसा । बिचला बिरह जीव लै नंसा ।
लूटे अंग अंग सब भेसा । छूटी मंग भंग भे केसा ।
कंचुकि चूर चूर भै ताने । टूटे हार मोंति छहराने ।
बारी टाड सलोनी टूटीं । बांहू कंगन कलाईं फूटी ।
चंदन अंग छूट तस भेंटी । बेसरि टूटि तिलक गा मेंटी ।
पुहुप सिंगार संवारि जौ जोबन नवल बसंत ।
अरगज जेउँ हिय लाइ कै मरगज कीन्हें कंत ।।

I say— they fought like Ram and Ravan!

The bed was destroyed in the battle against viraha!

Lanka was taken and the golden fort fell.

All the adornment and makeup was looted!

The pride of youth was razed

And the viraha that had stood between them gave up its life.

Clothing was plundered from every limb,

Hairs escaped from their partings and scattered.

Bodice threads were crushed to atoms,

Necklaces broke and pearls were scattered.

Beautiful bracelets and armbands broke,

And bangles exploded off of wrists!

Sandalwood paste was rubbed right off of limbs,

And tilaks were wiped away.

The flower of eros that has been nurtured by the spring of youth,

Was ground by pleasure into a perfume that scented the heart.

From the Jāyasī Granthāvalī edited by Mataprasad Gupta (Allahabad: Hindustani Academy,  2011; originally 1951).

For the first meeting of the quarter, we will read a sequence of poems from the Kṣaṇadāgītacintāmaṇi that illustrates the awakening of love and physical self-awareness.

Word version: https://uchicago.box.com/s/3r75ybz3n1fqohg51qsyo2do4eo1ppkv

(৫)

তিরোথা ধানশী (বয়ঃসন্ধি)[1]

1. শৈশব যৌবন দরশন ভেল।
   দোহু দল-বলে ধনি দ্বন্দ্ব পড়ি গেল॥[2]
2. কবহুঁ বান্ধয়ে কচ কবহুঁ বিথার।[3]
   কবহুঁ ঝাঁপয়ে অঙ্গ কবহুঁ উঘার॥[4]
3. থির নয়ন অথির কছু ভেলা।[5]
   উরজ-উদয়-থল লালিম দেলা॥[6]
4. শশীমুখী ছোড়ল শৈশব দেহে।
   খত দেই তেজল ত্রিবলী তিন রেহে॥[7]
5. অব যৌবন ভেল বঙ্কিম-দিঠ।
   উপজল লাজ হাস ভেল মিঠ॥
6. চরণ চঞ্চল চিত চঞ্চল ভাণ।
   জাগল মনসিজ মুদিত-নয়ান॥
7. বিদ্যাপতি কহে কর অবধান।[8]
   বালা-অঙ্গে লাগল পাঁচবাণ ॥[9] ৫

1. śaiśava yauvana daraśana bhēla |
   dohu dala-bale dhani dvandva paṛi gela ||
2. kabahũ bāndhaẏe kaca kabahũ bithāra |
   kabahũ jhā̃paẏe aṅga kabahũ ughāra ||
3. thira naẏana athira kachu bhēlā̆ |
   uraja-udaẏa-thala lālima dēlā̆ ||
4. śaśī̆mukhī̆ chōṛala śaiśava dēhe |
   khata dei tejala tribalī tina rēhe ||
5. aba yauvana bhēla baṅkima-díṭha |
   upajala lāja hāsa bhela míṭha ||
6. caraṇa cañcala cita cañcala bhēla |
   jāgala manasija mudita naẏāna ||
7. vidyāpati kahe kara avadhāna |
   bālā aṅgē lāgala pā̃cabāṇa || 5

Meter: 15 mātrās (4/4/4/3); except for 1b and 2, which are in syllabic paẏār.

See also the translation of the version given in the Padakalpataru in Edward C. Dimock and Roushan Jahan, trans. Bengali Vaiṣṇava Lyrics: A Reader for Advanced Students, 3rd ed. (Chicago: South Asian Languages Research Program, University of Chicago, 2006), 42. You will see that the translators made very different choices when interpreting the text.

Commentary in Rādhāmohan Ṭhākur’s Padāmr̥tasamudra, song no. 91:

tato’py utkaṇṭhavantaṃ śrīkr̥ṣṇaṃ paśyantī spaṣṭa-yuddhollekhena punas tulya-balatvena varṇayantī paścānmilanāśvāsa-vacanaṃ “śaiśava yauvana daraśana bhela”-ityādinā āha | asmin gīte’pi “jāgala manasija”-ity atra tasyā hr̥di jāgradavastho’pi madano mudrita-nayana āsīd ity arthe tasya dr̥ṣṭy-abhāvena bodhitā | tat-kārya-yogyatvena bālyasyātiprābalyaṃ vyañjitam | 91 |

Then, when seeing Kr̥ṣṇa longing [for Rādhā, the messenger] is describing [her] by mentioning the visible war [that takes place in her body] and the confrontation of both camps (i.e. childhood and youth). She says words that appease him and announce their future meeting: “Childhood and youth confronted each other…” Moreover, in this song the line “Love awoke…” [means] that in her heart intoxicating Love is awake but still has his eyes closed; this points to the fact that she learned about love without even seeing [her lover]. This appropriate behavior [for a young girl] suggests that childhood is still predominant. 91

1. Childhood and youth confronted each other,
   between both camps she felt confused.
2. She ties her hair, then lets it loose.
   She draws her veil, then lets it down.
3. Her still gaze turned a bit restless,
   her dawning breasts a little red.
4. Childhood who left the limbs of the moon-faced
   when fleeing wounded her:
   the three folds on her belly.
5. Now a maiden, her glance is playful;
   shyness arose and sweetened her smile.
6. Her restless feet bespeak a restless heart.
   Love awoke but still his eyes are closed.
7. Vidyāpati says, take heed,
   five-arrowed Love struck the girl’s body. 5

(৬)

বড়ারি রাগ (বয়ঃসন্ধি)

1. খনে খনে নয়ন-কোণে অনুসরই।
   খনে খনে বসন ধূলি ভরে ভরই॥
2. খনে খনে দশনকো ছটছটি হাস।
   খনে খনে অধর আগে গহে বাস॥
3. বালা শৈশব তারুণ ভেট।
   লখই না পারই জেঠ কনেঠ॥
4. হৃদয় মুকূলিত হেরি থোরি থোরি।
   খনে আঁচর দেই খনে ভই ভোরি॥
5. চঙকি চলয়ে খনে খনে চলু মন্দ।
   মনমথ-পাঠকো করি অনুবন্ধ॥
6. বিদ্যাপতি কহ শুন বর কান।
   তরুণিম শৈশব চিহ্নই না জান॥ ৬

1. khane khane naẏana-koṇe anusaraï |
   khane khane vasana dhūli bhare bharaï ||
2. khane khane daśanako chaṭachaṭi hāsa |
   khane khane adhara āge gahe vāsa ||
3. bālā śaiśava tāruṇa bhēṭa |
   lakhaï nā̆ pāraï jēṭha kanēṭha ||
4. hr̥daẏa mukūlita hēri thori thōri |
   khane ā̃cara dei khanē bhaï bhōri ||
5. caṅaki calaẏe khane khane calu manda |
   manamatha-pāṭhako kari anubandha ||
6. vidyāpati kaha śuna vara kāna |
   taruṇima śaiśava cinhaï nā jāna || 6

Meter: Couplets 1 and 2 are syllabic pāẏars (2b is one foot short). The rest follows the 15 mātrā pattern.

Commentary in Rādhāmohan Ṭhākur’s Padāmr̥tasamudra, song no. 90:

tataḥ śrīkr̥ṣṇasya vākyaṃ śrutvā—nāma-śravaṇa-mātreṇaitādr̥śī daśā bhūtā, vayaḥ-sarvāṅga-saundaryādivarṇane na jāne kiṃ bhaviṣyati!—evaṃ kīdr̥śī votkaṇṭhā, kīdr̥g vā buddhi-kauśalaṃ—ta[ṃ] niṣṭaṅkayāmīti manasi kr̥tvā śrīmatyāḥ saundaryādikaṃ saṃgopya tāruṇya-śaiśavayos tulya-balatvena vyaṅgyena yuddha-rūpeṇa tad-agre sakhī “khene khene naẏana-koṇa anusaraï”-ityādinā vayaḥsandhiṃ varṇayati |
prathamato nayana-koṇa-cāñcalyena tāruṇya-balaṃ vyaktam | tato dhūli-dhūsarāṅgatvena śaiśava-balasyaurjityam | dvitīya-caraṇasya prathamato’ṭṭa-hāsādinā bālyasya prābalyaṃ, parārdhe vastreṇa mukhāvaraṇena kaiśorasya prābalyam | tr̥tīya-caraṇa etad-rūpam | caturtha-caraṇe prathamatas tāruṇya-balaṃ tato bālasyātiprābalyam | atrāyam bhāvaḥ | ubhayos tulya-bala-kathane’pi vāk-kauśalena bālya-balasyādhikyaṃ sūcitaṃ—bālyoktyā gīta-viśrānteḥ || 90 ||

Then, after hearing Kr̥ṣṇa’s speech, she thought: “He is in such a state simply after hearing her name, who knows how he will react to the description of the beauty of her young body! I will reveal how much she longs for him and tries to find stratagems to obtain him.” The companion first conceals her (i.e. Rādhā’s) charms and through the suggestive confrontation of youth and childhood presented as a war, she describes the transition between two ages (vayaḥsandhi): “Sometimes she throws side glances…”
First she manifests the power of youth with the restlessness of her gaze. Then, [she suggests] the strength of childhood with her body covered with dust. In the second couplet, it is first the predominance of childhood through her loud laughter, and in the second half it is the predominance of youth with the covering of her face with her garment. It is the same in the third couplet. In the fourth couplet [we observe] first the power of youth and then of childhood. Such is the mood [of the song]. Even if she mentions the comparable strength of both, using verbal cleverness she points to the relative superiority of childhood because the song ends with a reference to this latter state. 90

1. Sometimes she throws side glances,
   sometimes she covers her garment with dust.
2. Sometimes her teeth shine in a beaming smile,
   sometimes she pulls her hem over her lips.
3. The girl’s childhood and youth met;
   one cannot tell which prevails.
4. She glimpses at her blossoming breasts,
   sometimes she pulls her hem, sometimes she is careless.
5. Sometimes she rushes her gait, and then walks slowly
   following Love’s first lesson.
6. Vidyāpati says: “Listen, excellent Kr̥ṣṇa,
   one cannot tell youth from childhood.”

(৭)

তথারাগ (দূতীর শিক্ষা)

1. দূতী সেয়ানী করহ সোই ঠাট।
   পণ্ডিত হাম পড়াওব পাঠ॥
2. চেতন মঝু ঝষ-কেতন-তন্ত্র।
   অবগাহি লেঙ শিখঙ রস-মন্ত্র॥
3. আপন তন কাঞ্চন হামে দেই।
   যতনহিঁ প্রেম-রতন ভরি লেই॥
4. বিদ্যাবল্লভ ইহ আজীব।
   ইহ বিনু দোঁহুকো জীউ না জীব॥ ৭

1. dūtī̆ seẏānī̆ karaha soi ṭhāṭa |
   paṇḍita hāma paṛāoba pāṭha ||
2. cetana majhu jhaṣa-ketana-tantra |
   avagāhi leṅ śikhaṅ rasa-mantra ||
3. āpana tana kāñcana hāme dēi |
   yatanahĩ prēma-ratana bhari lēi ||
4. vidyāvallabha iha ājīva |
   iha binu dõhuko jīu nā̆ jīva || 7

Meter: 15 mātrās.

1. Clever messenger, work things out
   so a master like me may teach her a lesson.
2. My heart follows the ways of the fish-bannered god:
   I dive in and learn the mantra of pleasure.
3. I will give away the gold of my limbs
   and strive to get my fill of love’s gems.
4. Vidyāvallabh, it should always remain [so];
   without it, these two couldn’t live.

[1] বাঙ্গালরাগ-কন্দর্পতালৌ (সমুদ্র)
[2] ধ্রু (সমু্দ্র)
[3] বিথার] উঘারি (সমুদ্র), বিথারি (পদ)
[4] উঘার] বিঘারি (সমুদ্র), উঘারি (পদ)
[5] থীর নয়ন অথীর কছু ভেল (সমুদ্র)। থীর … অথির (পদ)
[6] দেল] দেলা (সমুদ্র)
[7] Couplets 4 and 5 are absent in PAS and PKT.
[8] কর অবধান] শুন বর কান (সমুদ্র)
[9] ধৈরজ কর পিছে মিলাওব আন (সমুদ্র)

This week Nikhil will bring Telugu compositions from the repertoire of Carnatic music. (Click here to see the texts).

SALC Lunchtime Lyrics: Telugu compositions from the repertoire of Carnatic music

Translations by Nikhil Mandalaparthy

November 25, 2017

“O Rangashayi”

Vāggēyakāra (composer):       Tyagaraja (1767-1847)

Rāga:                                       Kāmbhōji

Tāḷa:                                        ādi tāḷam (8 beats)

1. ఓ రంగ శాయి పిలిచితే
   ఓయనుచు రా రాదా
2. సారంగ ధరుడు జూచి
   కైలాసాధిపుడు కాలేదా
3. భూలోక వైకుంఠమిదియని నీలోన నీవేయుప్పొంగి
   శ్రీ లోలుడైయుంటే మా చింత తీరేదెన్నడో
4. మేలోర్వలేని జనులలో నే మిగుల నొగిలి దివ్య రూపమును
   ముత్యాల సరులయురమును కాన వచ్చితి
   త్యాగరాజ హృద్భూషణ

1. ō rangaśāyi pilicitē
   ō yanucu rā rādā
2. sāraṅga dharuḍu jūci
   kailāsādhipuḍu kāledā
3. bhū-lōka vaikuṇṭham-idi-yani nī-lōna nīvē-yuppongi
   śrī lōluḍai-yuṇṭē mā cinta tīrēdennaḍō
4. mēlōrva-lēni janula-lō nē migula nogili divya rūpamunu
   mutyāla sarula-yuramunu kāna vacciti
   tyāgarāja hṛd-bhūṣaṇa

1. O Rangashayi! When I call you,
   Can’t you say something and come to me?
2. Didn’t he who holds an antelope
   Become the lord of Kailasa by beholding you?
3. Considering this place to be your earthly heaven, having too much fun,
   If you remain enamored with Lakshmi, when will you put an end to our worries?
4. Surrounded by envious people, I have suffered greatly;
   I have come to see your divine form, the pearl necklaces radiant on your chest,
   Ornament of Tyagaraja’s heart!

“Enta mātramuna”

Vāggēyakāra (composer):       Annamayya/Annamacharya (15th century)

Rāga:                                       Bṛndāvaṇi and Māyāmālavagauḷa, tuned by Kadayanallur S. Venkataraman (b. 1929)

Tāḷa:                                        miśra cāpu (7 beats)

1. ఎంత మాత్రమున ఎవ్వరు తలచిన అంత మాత్రమే నీవు
   అంతరాతరములెంచి చూడ పిండంతేనిప్పటి అన్నట్లు
2. కొలుతురు మిము వైష్ణవులు కూరిమితో విష్ణుడని
   పలుకుదురు మిము వేదాంతులు పరబ్రహ్మంబనుచు
   తలతురు మిము శైవులు తగిన భక్తులునూ శివుడనుచు
   అలరి పొగడుదురు కాపాలికులు ఆది భైరవుండనుచు
3. సరి నెన్నుదురు శాక్తేయులు శక్తి రూపు నీవనుచు
   దరిశనములు మిము నానా విధములను తలపుల కొలదుల భజింతురు
   సిరుల మిమునే అల్పబుద్ది తలచినవారికి అల్పంబగుదవు
   గరిమిల మిమునే ఘనమని తలచిన ఘనబుద్దులకు ఘనుడవు
4. నీ వలన కొరతే లేదు మరి నీరు కొలది తామరము
   ఆవల భాగీరధి దరి బావుల ఆ జలమే ఊరినయట్లు
   శ్రీ వెంకటపతి నీవైతే మము చేకొని ఉన్నా దైవమని
   ఈవలనే నీ శరణననియెదను ఇదియే పరతత్త్వము నాకు

1. enta mātramuna evvaru talacina anta mātramē nīvu
   antarāntaramul-enci cūḍa piṇḍ-antē-nippaṭi annaṭlu
2. koluturu mimu vaiṣṇavulu kūrimitō viṣṇuḍani
   palukuduru mimu vēdāntulu parabrahmambanucu
   talaturu mimu śaivulu tagina bhaktulunū śivuḍanucu
   alari pogaḍuduru kāpālikulu ādi bhairavuḍanucu
3. sari nennuduru śāktēyulu śakti rūpu nīvanucu
   dariśanamulu mimu nānā vidhulanu talapula koladula bhajinturu
   sirula mimunē alpabuddhi talacina-vāriki alpam-bagudavu
   garimala mimunē ghanamani talacina ghana-buddhulaku ghanuḍavu
4. nī valana koratē lēdu mari nīru koladi tāmaramu
   āvala bhāgirathi dari bāvula ā jalamē ūrinayaṭlu
   śrī veṅkaṭapati nīvaitē mamu cēkoni unna daivam-ani
   ī-valane nī śaraṇani-yedanu idiyē paratattvamu nāku

1. However much one thinks of you, you are that much to them.
   Reflecting on those differences, one sees this. As they say, the size of the cake depends on the amount of flour.
2. Vaishnavas lovingly serve you as Vishnu;
   Vedantins speak of you as the Supreme Soul;
   Shaivas and proper devotees think of you as Shiva;
   Kapalikas gleefully praise you as Adi Bhairava.
3. Shaktas rightfully believe you are a form of Shakti;
   You are approached through various paths; in different ways, people seek your grace.
   For narrow-minded people who only think of you for wealth, you become limited and small.
   For noble people who reflect on your glory, you become vast and majestic.
4. You are full in yourself, just as lotuses grow to fill a pond;
   Beyond the Ganges, the wells on its banks are filled with the same water;
   If you really are Venkatapati, the god that has accepted us,
   Then I seek your protection; this is my supreme truth.

“Payyeda”

Vāggēyakāra (composer):       Kshetrayya/Kshetrajna (17th century)

Rāga:                                       Nādanāmakriya

Tāḷa:                                        tripuṭa tāḷam (7 beats)

1. అయ్యయ్యో వెగటాయెనే
   పయ్యెదమీద చేరి పవ్వళించి యుండే సామికి
2. వెలది నా మోము రెప్పవేయక కనుగొన
   కలయ నిండు సంజ చీకటి గమ్మితే
   కాలికి నీ ముద్దు మోము గాన రాక యుండునని
   తెలిపి ప్రోద్దుండగానే దీపము దెమ్మనే సామికి
3. ననబోడి వినుమమ్మ నాపై చాలా ప్రేమచే
   తన దంతమున నా యధరము నొక్కి
   మొనసి మాటాడితే మోవి విడువవలెనని
   యనువున చేసైగ లాడుచున్నసామికి
4. మదిరాక్షి వినుమమ్మా మా మువ్వగోపాలుడు
   నిదురించిన కౌగిలి వదలీ నని
   పదరి శయ్యమీద దుప్పటి కొంగులు నాలుగు
   ముదముతో గట్టిగా ముడిగొను మనుసామికి

1. ayyayyō vegaṭāyenē
   payyedamīda cēri pavvaḷinci yuṇḍē sāmiki
2. veladi! nā mōmu reppa-vēyaka kanugona
   kalaya ninḍu sanja cīkaṭi gammitē
   kaliki nī muddu mōmu gāna-rāka yunḍunani
   telipi proddunḍagānē dīpamu demmanē sāmiki
3. nanabōḍi vinumamma! nāpai cāla prēmacē
   tana dantamuna nā yadharamu nokki
   monasi māṭāḍitē mōvi viḍuvavalenani
   yanuvuna cē saiga lāḍucunna sāmiki
4. mādirākṣi vinumamma! mā muvvagōpaluḍu
   nidurincina kaugali vadalīnani
   padari śayyamīda duppaṭi kongulu nālugu
   mudamutō gaṭṭigā muḍigonumanu sāmiki

1. The lord who always slept
   with his head on my breasts
   is—ayyayyo!—now sick of me.
2. His eyes fixed, unblinking, on my face,
   he would say,
   “When dusk falls, your face, alas,
   will be hidden in the dark,”
   and then ask me, in broad daylight, for a lamp.
3. Biting my mouth in love play,
   since to talk would be to let go,
   my lord would speak only
   with his hands.
4. Lest in sleep
   his embrace should loosen,
   he would ask me to tie down
   the four corners of our blanket.

Ayyayyo, he’s now sick of me

Translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao and David Shulman, from When God is a Customer

— N. Mandalaparthy

This Monday (Nov. 20) we will read a Malay syair with Nadine.

Ada kepada suatu hari,
Sakit saudagar laki isteri,
Adalah kiranya tujuh hari,
Tidak bergerak kanan dan kiri.

Saudagar tahu akan dirinya,
Hampirlah mati kepada rasanya,
Lalulah memanggil akan anaknya,
Dicium kepala dengan tangisnya.

Katanya wahai cahaya mataku,
Tinggallah tuan buah hatiku,
Hampirlah mati gerangan aku,
Baiklah tuan tingkah dan laku.

Serta harta aku tinggalkan,
Tuan seorang yang menyukakan,
Sampai habis semua diterimakan,
Faedahnya akan diberikan.

Jikalau tidak anakku berakal,
Harta pusaka di manakan kekal,
Habis harta badan tinggal,
Laksana perahu bersauh tunggal.

Kerana harta tiada berguna,
Jikalau tidak akan sempurna,
Sekalian itu habislah fana,
Hanyalah tinggal badan merana.

Budi dan bahasa janganlah lupa,
Muliakan olehmu ibu dan bapa,
Mana yang datang padamu berjumpa,
Janganlah lambat tuan menyapa.

Kerana adat orang berbeza,
Tiada memandang harta dan benda,
Tegur dan sapa itu yang ada,
Itulah penambah di dalamnya ada.

There was a day,
A merchant couple fell ill,
The count was seven days,
That they neither moved left nor right.

The merchant knew about his state,
It seemed he was close to dying,
So he called his child,
And crying, kissed his head.

“Oh light of my eyes,” said he,
Sir, you’ll be alone,
I’m near death I fear,
Please sir, keep good behavior.

And I will leave my wealth,
Only you who enjoy it,
Will receive it completely,
And so its benefit will be given.

If you aren’t clever my child,
Wealth will never last,
Wealth gone, the body will remain,
Like an anchored boat, alone.

Riches are useless,
Otherwise they would be enough,
But the ephemeral will finish,
Leaving only the body in anguish.

Please don’t forget courtesy and grace,
Ennoble your mother and father by your conduct,
Whenever someone comes to meet you,
Don’t delay, sir, to greet them.

People’s customs differ,
Some don’t look at wealth and possession,
Cordial meeting and greeting, that’s what there is,
That’s the true increaser of what is inside.

— Nadine Faisal

Here is a link to the text we will read with Talia: Rāmabhadradīkṣita’s Śṛṅgāratilakabhāṇaḥ

Rāmabhadradīkṣita’s Śṛṅgāratilakabhāṇaḥ;

#metoo selections

(ongoing readings with and advice by Whitney Cox)

71 (Śārdūlavikrīḍita)

tais taiś cāṭu-vacobhir ārdra-hṛdayām ānīya śayyāgṛhaṃ
savyājaṃ śayane niveśya ca kṛte kāñcī-guṇa-sraṃsane |
pāṇibhyām api nīvibandham acirād ācchādayantyā bhiyā
tanvyās tat-prathamā niṣedha-madhurā dhanyo giraḥ śroṣyati ||

71

leading this tender-hearted girl to the bedroom
with such and such flatteries,
He’ll get her in bed with some pretext
as he loosens the thread of her belt
afraid, she’ll quickly cover her garment’s knot with her hands–
this lucky bastard will listen to her words,
which are new to this,
Sweetened by her attempts at warding him off.

53 (Śārdūlavikrīḍita)

kiṃ vedâdhyayanena kiṃ nu tapasā kiṃ kṛcchra-cāndrāyaṇaiḥ
kleśaḥ pratyuta tena mā cara sakhe mūḍhopadiṣṭān vidhīn |
rantuṃ kiṃtu nirodhi-hasta-valaya-pratyupta-ratnâṅkura-
-cchāyā-pūrita-nimna-nābhi-sudṛśāṃ nīvīṃ rahaḥ sraṃsaya ||

53

the hell with studying the veda,
the hell with austerities,
the hell with the painful moon-fast–
These only cause pain.
Don’t follow, my friend, these rules taught by fools.
Rather, to enjoy yourself,
Loosen, once you get them alone, the belts of beautiful women,
Their deep navels filled with lights from the gems set in the bangles on their hands
which try to stop you.      

142 (Puṣpitâgra, or aupacchandasika)

nava-nakha-pada-ramya-kaṇṭha-mūlaṃ rada-pada-danturitâdhara-pravālam |
ramaṇa-lulita-candana-stanâgraṃ kimapi gṛṇāti vapus tavâpadānam ||

Your throat beautified with fresh nail marks,
Your coral lip toothed with traces of bites;
on the tip of your breast– sandal paste, disheveled by your lover;
your body announces just what excellent work you’ve been doing…

kiṃ bravīṣi— “nâham asmi bhājanaṃ bhāva parihāsasya” iti/

Nipuṇika: i myself am no object of your joke, sir.

(vihasya) kiṃ na jāne tava vaidagdhyam/

Bh: (laughing) don’t I know of your skills?

143 (śikhariṇī)

divā vā naktaṃ vā divasa-viratau vâpy uṣasi vā
girau vā gehe vā vana-taru-tale vā sarasi vā |
jaḍaṃ vā dhīraṃ vā taruṇam api vā vṛddham api vā
vilajjā-līlābhir nanu ramayasi tvaṃ nipuṇike ||

Whether it’s day or night
evening or the crack of dawn
on the mountain or in the cave,
under a forest tree, or at the lake,
Whether the man be stupid or clever, young or old–
you always manage to pleasure him with your shameless tricks,
don’t you Nipunika, you clever girl?

Kiṃ bravīṣi —
bhāva, bibhemi viśṛṅkhalād bhavato vāg-jālāt |

Nipunika: Sir, I am terrified of your uncensored speech traps.

119 (Śārdūlavikrīḍita)

ratna-syūta-nicola-garbhita-kucâbhoga-skhalad-bhūṣaṇaṃ
gharmâmbhaḥ-kaṇikârdra-patra-makarī-ramyânanâmbhoruham |
lolâpāṅga-niruddha-kāmijanatā-nīrandhra-pārśvaṃ vadhūr
eṣā nṛtyati nṛtta-deśika-karâsphālokta-tāla-kramā ||

An ornament wobbles on the curves of her breasts,
held in a case embedded with jewels;
Her beautiful lotus-face is painted with henna,
wet with her drops of sweat;
Her lovers, swarming around her,
are held back by her playful sideway glances.
This young woman is dancing,
following the beat of her dance teacher’s clapping hands.

atha tu citralekhām anumanyase, tadānīm–

124 (Śārdūlavikrīḍita)

vāmâṅka-sthitayā rahastvad urasi nyastaikavakṣojayā
kiṃcid vakrita-kaṇṭhanâli-viṣama-vyālambi-hāra-srajā |
nâbhīmūla-vilekhibhir nakhamukhair udbodhitânaṅgayā
vaktraṃ te cibuke gṛhītam anayā vāmā-bhruvā cumbyatām ||

But then again, if you choose Citralekhā, then —

124

lying on your left hip in private
her one breast placed on your chest,
her necklace unevenly hanging down her neck,
which is somewhat turned sideways,
her desire aroused by the tips of your nails,
scratching beneath her navel.
May this woman of beautiful brows, gripping your chin,
kiss your face.

Here is a tentative translation of the pada as it is given in The Wishing Stone of Nightly Songs followed by Radhamohan Thakur’s Sanskrit commentary in his Padamritasamudra (The Ambrosial Ocean of Songs):

(৭)

(মুগ্ধার মিলন-ভীতি)

ভাটিয়ারী

1. পরিহর এ সখি তোহে পরণাম।
   হাম নাহি যাওব সো পিয়া-ঠাম॥
2. অনেক যতন করি করাওলি বেশ।
   বান্ধিতে না জানিয়ে আপন কেশ॥
3. ইঙ্গিতে না জানিয়ে কৈছন মান।
   বচনক চাতুরি হাম নাহি জান॥
4. কবহু না জানিয়ে সুরতক বাত।
   কৈছে মিলব হাম মাধব সাথ॥
5. সো বর-নাগর রসিক সুজান।
   হাম নব-নাগরী অলপ গেয়ান॥
6. ভনয়ে বিদ্যাপতি কি বোলব তোয়।
   আজুক মিলন সমুচিত হোয়॥ ১৯

1. parihara e sakhi tohe paraṇāma |
   hāma nāhi yāoba so piẏā-ṭhāma ||
2. aneka yatana kari karāoli beśa |
   bāndhite nā jāniẏe āpanā keśa ||
3. iṅgite nā jāniẏe kaichana māna |
   vacanaka cāturi hāma nāhi jāna ||
4. kabahu nā jāniẏe surataka bāta |
   kaiche milaba hāma mādhava sātha ||
5. so vara-nāgara rasika sujāna |
   hāma nava-nāgarī alapa geẏāna ||
6. bhanaẏe vidyāpati ki bolaba toẏa |
   ājuka m[ī]lana samucita hoẏa || 19

1. Friend, leave your entreaties,
   I will not go to this lover.
2. You had me dressed up so carefully,
   but I can’t even tie my own hair.
3. I can’t read signs, I’ll make a fool of myself.
   I do not know witty speech.
4. I never learned anything about love making,
   how could I go meet with Mādhava?
5. He is a true man about town, a skilled connoisseur,
   I am new and rather ignorant in this domain.
6. Vidyāpati says: “What can I tell you?
   Today is the right time to meet him.”

Text of the song given in the Padāmr̥tasamudra no. 132 with Rādhāmohan Ṭhākur’s Sanskrit commentary:

suhaï-rāga-vr̥hadekatālī-tālau |

tataḥ pūrvokta-mohadaśāṃ śrutvā svābhāvika-rati-janita-paramārdra-cittāpi mugdhācaraṇaṃ saphalaṃ kurvatī gūḍha-rūpeṇa tatra nija-gamanaṃ vyañjayanty api spaṣṭa-rūpeṇa tad-ucitaṃ parihara e sakhī ityādi-vākyam āha |

Then, after hearing about [Kr̥ṣṇa’s] state of bewilderment mentioned before, although her heart is melting due to natural arousal, she behaves like an unexperimented woman, and even if, secretly, she suggests that she will herself go [meet with Kr̥ṣṇa], openly, she says what befits [an unexperimented woman like] her: Friend, leave…

1. parihara e sakhi tohe paraṇāma |
   hāma nāhi yāoba kāhnuka ṭhāma || dhru ||

e sakhi: etad vākyaṃ parihara tyaja | parihara e sakhi tohe paraṇāma | hāma nāhi yāẏaba so piẏā-ṭhāma || iti dr̥ṣṭa-pāṭhasya saṅgatārthānabhidhānād eka-pustaka-dr̥ṣṭatvāc ca lipikara-pramādajatvaṃ bodhyam |

1. Friend, leave those requests,
   I will not go meet with Kāhnu.

Friend: Leave—abandon—such speech. Friend, leave such requests, I will not go to this lover: because of the lack of relevant meaning in this context and because I saw [this reading] in one book only, I shall consider it a mistake due to some copyist’s carelessness.

2. vacanaka cāturī hāma nāhi jāna |
   iṅgita nā bujhiẏe nā jāniẏe māna ||

vacana-cāturyādikaṃ na jānāmi, ataḥ kathaṃ tena sākaṃ milanaṃ karomi? nanu paramacaturāsi tvam | adhunaiva kaṭākṣeṇa tvayā kiṃ kiṃ cāturyaṃ na prakāśitam | athavā tat tiṣṭhatu | vāgyuddhārthaṃ gamanaṃ na |

2. I do not know witty speech,
   I can’t read signs, I ignore what’s proper.

I ignore witty speech and the rest, hence how could I meet with him? No, you are very clever. Just recently, what cleverness haven’t you displayed with your side-glances? So, leave this nonsense. You are not going [to him] for verbal sparring.

3. sahacarī meli banāẏata beśa |
   bāndhite nā jāniẏe āpanā keśa ||

ata āha: bāndhite nā jāni āpana keśa-ityādikam | tasmād ati-bālikāvasthā mama |

3. My friends together dressed me,
   I can’t even tie my own hair.

Then she said: I can’t even tie my own hair, etc. From this [we understand:] “I am still a very young, unexperienced girl.”

4. kabhu nāhi śuniẏe surataka bāta |
   kaichane milaba mādhava sātha ||

surata-vārtā kadācid api na śrutā | tasmād viphalaṃ gamanam |

4. I never heard about love-making,
   how could I meet with Mādhāva?

She (or I) never heard about love-making. So, going there would be in vain.

5. so nava-nāgara rasika sujāna |
   hāma abalā ati-alapa-geẏāna ||

nanu tvad-darśanenaiva tat-pīḍā-nivr̥ttiḥ | surataṃ vināpi taj-jātīya-sukhaṃ ca bhaviṣyatīty ata āha: so nava-nāgara-ityādikam | sa rasiko’tas tasya sukhaṃ bhaviṣyati | mama tena kim?!

5. He is a true man about town, a skilled connoisseur,
   I am a weak, ignorant girl.

No, no, merely seeing you will put an end to his pain. Even without making love, from this (i.e. meeting in person with you) he will experience pleasure. Thus, she says: He is a true man about town, etc. He is a connoisseur, he will find his pleasure; but what good does it do to me?!

tasmād adhunālpajñānāyā vacanādi-cāturyābhāvān mān-hānir bhaviṣyati | paścād avaśyaṃ miliṣyāmīti dhvanitam |

Now, because I am ignorant and lack cleverness in speech etc., this will only bring shame upon me. Which implies: “Later, I will meet him for sure.”

6. vidyāpati kaha ki bolaba toẏa |
   aba ki milana samucita hoẏa || 132

vidyāpatir ahaṃ tvayi kiṃ kathayāmi, tasya daśā śrutvāpi yad etat kathayasi | kiṃ tu śr̥ṇu | adhunaiva milanaṃ samyag ucitaṃ bhavati | anyathā kiṃ prayojanam || 132

6. Vidyāpati says: “What can I tell you?
   Now is the right time for you to meet him.

Me, Vidyāpati, what can I tell you if, even after hearing about his state, you say such things? But listen: now is indeed the proper, right time to meet him. There is no need to consider other options.

— Th. d’Hubert

On Monday, October 30th, Francesca Chubb-Confer will read two ghazals in Urdu and Persian by Asad Allah Khan “Ghalib” (1797-1869).

See the handout for the original format of the translations: Ghalib Handout.

Ghazal #20, Urdu

یہ نہ تھی ہماری قسمت کہ وصالِ یار ہوتا
اگر اور جیتے رہتے یہی انتظار ہوت

ترے وعدے پر جیے ہم تو یہ جان جھوٹ جانا
کہ خوشی سے مر نہ جاتے اگر اعتبار ہوتا

تری نازکی سے جانا کہ بندھا تھا عہد بودا
کبھی تو نہ توڑ سکتا اگر استوار ہوتا

کوئی میرے دل سے پوچھے ترے تیرِ نیم کش کو
یہ خلش کہاں سے ہوتی جو جگر کے پار ہوتا

یہ کہاں کی دوستی ہے کہ بنے ہیں دوست ناصح
کوئی چارہ ساز ہوتا کوئی غم گسار ہوتا

رگِ سنگ سے ٹپکتا وہ لہو کہ پھر نہ تھمتا
جسے غم سمجھ رہے ہو یہ اگر شرار ہوتا

غم اگرچہ جاں گسل ہے پہ کہاں بچیں کہ دل ہے
غمِ عشق گر نہ ہوتا غمِ روزگار ہوتا

کہوں کس سے میں کہ کیا ہے شبِ غم بری بلا ہے
مجھے کیا برا تھا مرنا اگر ایک بار ہوتا

ہوئے مر کے ہم جو رسوا ہوئے کیوں نہ غرقِ دریا
نہ کبھی جنازہ اٹھتا نہ کہیں مزار ہوتا

اسے کون دیکھ سکتا کہ یگانہ ہے وہ یکتا
جو دوئی کی بو بھی ہوتی تو کہیں دو چار ہوتا

یہ مسائلِ تصوّف یہ ترا بیان غالب
تجھے ہم ولی سمجھتے جو نہ بادہ خوار ہوتا

yeh na thī humārī qismat keh wisāl-e yār hotā
agar aur jītē rehtē yehi intiẓār hotā

tirē waʾdē par jīyē hum to yeh jān jhūṭ jānā
keh khūshī sē mar na jātē agar iʾtibār hotā

tirī nāzukī sē jānā keh bāṇdhā thā ʾahd bodā
kabhī tū na toṛ saktā agar ustuwār hotā

ko’ī mērē dil sē pūchhē tirē tīr-e nīm-kash ko
yeh khalish kahāṇ sē hotī jo jigar kē pār hotā

yeh kahāṇ kī dostī hai keh banē haiṇ dost nāṣiḥ
ko’ī chārah-sāz hotā ko’ī gham-gusār hotā

rag-e sang sē ṭapaktā woh lahū keh phir na thamtā
jisē gham samajh rahē ho yeh agar sharār hotā

gham agarchih jāṇ-gusil hai peh kahāṇ bacheṇ keh dil hai
gham-e ʾishq gar na hotā gham-e rozgār hotā

kahūṇ kis sē maiṇ keh kyā hai shab-e gham burī balā hai
mujhē kyā burā thā marnā agar ēk bār hotā

hū’ē mar kē hum jo ruswā hū’ē kyūṇ na gharq-e daryā
na kabhī janāzah uṭhtā na kahīṇ mazār hotā

usē kaun dekh saktā keh yagānah hai woh yaktā
jo dū’ī kī bū bhī hotī to kahīṇ do chār hotā

yeh masā’il-e taṣawwuf yeh tirā bayān Ghālib
tujhē hum walī samajhtē jo na bādah-khwār hotā

It wasn’t our fate to be together.
If we’d kept on living,
we’d be waiting still.

I lived on your promise—
we both knew it was false.
If there was ever any trust,
wouldn’t I have died of happiness?

You were so exquisitely fragile:
and so I knew your vow
was likewise breakable.
If it had been knotted tight,
you never could have broken it.

Let anyone ask my heart
about your half-drawn arrow;
that thrill as it rankles.  Where would I be
if it had pierced me through?

What kind of friends
give you advice?
If only they could cure or lift my grief!

If you understand grief as sparks,
a ceaseless burning blood
would drip from the stone’s struck vein.

How can we escape life-breaking
heartache?  We still have hearts.
If it weren’t the grief of love,
it would be the grief of all living.

Who could I tell about the torment
of that long night’s loneliness?
What harm was it to die,
if only once?

In death, I was disgraced.
Why wasn’t I plunged into the sea,
a silent funeral, an unmarked grave?

Who could have seen him?
That oneness is one.
If there were any trace of twoness,
somewhere the two of us would have met.

These Sufi problems!  This discoursing!
You’d be a saint, Ghalib,
if you didn’t drink so much.

Ghazal #172, Persian

دود سودایِ تتق بست آسمان نامیدمش​
دیده بر خوابِ پریشان زد جهان نامیدمش​

وهم خاکی ریخت در چشمم بیابان دیدمش​
قطره‌ای بگداخت بحرِ بیکران نامیدمش​

باد دامن زد بر آتش نوبهاران خواندمش​
داغ گشت آن شعله از مستی خزا‌ن نامیدمش​​

غربتم ناسازگار آمد وطن فهمیدمش​
کرد تنگی حلقهٔ دام آشیان نامیدمش​

​بود در پهلو به تمکینی که دل می‌گفتمش​
رفت از شوخی به آیینی که جان نامیدمش

او به فکرِ کشتنِ من بود آه از من که من​
لاابالی خواندمش نامهربان نامیدمش​

دل زبان را رازدانِ آشنایی‌ها نخواست
گاه بهمان گفتمش گاهی فلان نامیدمش​

هم نگه جان می‌ستاند هم تغافل می‌کُشد​
آن دمِ شمشیر و این پشتِ کمان نامیدمش​

در سلوک از هرچه پیش آمد گذشتن داشتم​
کعبه دیدم نقشِ پایِ رهروان نامیدمش​

​بر امیدِ شیوهٔ صبر آزمایی زیستم​
تو بریدی از من و من امتحان نامیدمش​

​بود غالب عندلیبی از گلستانِ عجم​
من ز غفلت طوطیِ هندوستان نامیدمش​

dūd sawdā-yi totoq bast āsemān nāmīdam-ash
dīda bar khwāb-i parīshān zad jahān nāmīdam-ash

vahm khākī rīkht dar chashmam biyābān khwāndam-ash
qatra’ī bogdākht baḥr-i bī-kirān nāmīdam-ash

bād dāman zad bar ātash nowbahārān khwāndam-ash
dāgh gasht ān sho‘la az mastī khazān nāmīdam-ash

ghorbat-am nā-sāzgār āmad vatan fahmīdam-ash
kard tangī ḥalqa dām-e āshiyān nāmīdam-ash

būd dar pahlū be tamkīnī kih dil goftam-ash
raft az shūkhī be āyīnī kih jān nāmīdam-ash

ū be fikr-i koshtan-i man būd āh az man kih man
lā-ubālī khwāndam-ash nā-mehrbān nāmīdam-ash

dil zabān rā rāzdān-i āshnā’i-hā nakhwāst
gah bahmān goftam-ash gāhī fulān nāmīdam-ash

ham nigah jān sitānad ham taghāful mī kushad
ān dam-i shamshīr va īn pusht-i kamān nāmīdam-ash

dar sulūk az har che pīsh āmad guzashtan dāshtam
ka‘be dīdam naqsh-i pā-yi rah-ruvān nāmīdam-ash

bar omid-i shīva-yi sabr āzmā’i zīstam
to boridi az man va man imtiḥān nāmīdam-ash

būd Ghāleb ‘andalībī az golestān-e ‘Ajam
man zi gahflat ṭūṭī-yi Hindūstān nāmīdam-ash

A smoky veil spread darkening. I called it
sky.  A dream disquieted my sight. I called it

world.  A mirage blew dust in my eyes.  I called it
desert.  A single drop dissolved.  I called it

boundless ocean.  The wind swept its hem through the flames.  I called it
spring.  Sparks danced and whirled to ash.  I called it

autumn.  Melancholy in exile, I called it
home.  The noose tightened.  I called it

my nest.  Something quickened in my side.  I called it
my heart.  It left so brazenly, I called it

life.  It had a mind to kill me.
Uncaring, unkind I called it.

The heart was reticent to share
its secret with the tongue.  Sometimes I called it

just some nobody.  Fleeting glance, feigned carelessness
both devastate.  One a sword’s edge, and one I called

a taut bow.  Along the path, whatever came
before me passed me by.  I saw the Ka’aba, called it

faint travelers’ footprints.   In hope of patient charms
I exist on trial.  You cut yourself from me: I called it

putting me to the test.  Ghalib—a Persian nightingale!—
I ignorantly called an Indian parrot.

— F. Chubb-Confer