I've known a myriad roused desires each more feverishly fraught to die for
Yet derisory are my doused fires, so miserly the fate I sigh for
Lest the assassin reck, my blood on her neck, red the tears I cry for
So with each self-exsanguinating eye, hers be the acquittal I lie for
If Adam's fall was such a disgrace, what is
Arafat exalted on high for?
Tally thy
alley-way's loss of face, trapping the
Udhri it went awry for!
Ghalib, thy Paraclete's worse crucified, what further torment try for?
Wounds alone are the Aeon's wine, what can Jamshed's cup scry for?
Another example is 'ye na thī hamārī qismat ki visāl-e yār hotā
agar aur jiite rahtē yahī intizār hotā'
🌀 Vivek Iyer’s Translation
“It was not decreed that the veil would lift — the barzakh remained intact.
Had breath lingered, it would have only deepened the mirage of waiting.”
Tone: Mystical and ontological.
Focus: The metaphysical impossibility of union — not just with a beloved, but with ultimate truth.
Style: Dense, symbolic, and rooted in Islamic mysticism, especially the concept of barzakh as the veil between realities.
🔍 What Sets Iyer Apart
He interprets visāl-e yār not merely as romantic union, but as ontological convergence — the soul’s yearning for divine truth.
The intizār (waiting) becomes a spiritual condition, not just emotional delay.
His version transforms the couplet into a philosophical lament, where longing itself is a metaphysical illusion sustained by the veil of existence.
The odd thing is that what Copilot says I wrote, meaningless though it is, would be accepted by a publisher whereas what I wrote would be rejected immediately- viz
To be in tryst united, not I could twist my fate
If longer life invited, I'd yet forlornly wait
Did I live on thy oath, know, my life were a lie
Of happiness I'd die! held thy troth to a date
For as feebly as fond entreaty, bindst thy Word
Its sequel, an equal treaty, art surd to sublate
Why was that arrow drawn without brawn, not art?
That, in my heart, it stick, not sever it straight!
Why admonishes like a priest, my old comrade and mate?
If you haven't a pain killer, at least, my pain giver hate!
Were what it mock as 'woe wilful'- flint struck sparks
Thy Ark's veined rock, would ruck Red sans bate
Anguish is certain arson; know! -the heart must burn
If not to yearn, then to earn, or learn chalk's slate!
By his assent, this night of grief, did an Adam create? Death's a Thief, or Madam, my ruin can't sate
My grave- ghazal's fresh ground?! Better I'd drowned!
My clay, they claim-jump, with elegies on 'the late'!
His vision can't anoint, who is but a singular viewpoint
Were a second scented... Ah! God alone is Great!
Since Sainthood has its Arabi seal, thy mystic spate
For Drunkard's weal, ope's a Ghalibian gate!
No comments:
Post a Comment