{11,1}
nah hogaa yak-biyaabaa;N maa;Ndagii se ;zauq kam meraa
;habaab-e maujah-e raftaar hai naqsh-e qadam meraa 1) from a desertful of fatigue my relish will not be less 2a) my footprint is a bubble of a wave of movement 2b) a bubble of a wave of movement is my footprint
Notes:
Nazm:
The way the wave's relish for movement never lessens, in the same way my relish for movement won't lessen-- whether there be one desertful of fatigue, or a hundred desertsful of fatigue, it's all the same. (12)
Bekhud Dihlavi:
He says, no matter how tired I might become, my ardor for desert-wandering will not be lessened. The way a wave of water swells with the intention of rolling onward, in the same way my footstep has an ardor for moving forward. (26)
Bekhud Mohani:
The way a bubble moves along with the wave, and until it is destroyed doesn't pause for breath, in the same way my relish can't be lessened by the length of the road and the weariness of travel. (24)
Arshi:
Compare {157,5}. (166)
FWP:
SETS == FILL-IN; TRANSITIVITY DESERT: {3,1}
Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses (Raza p. 224); he chose to include only the first two of these verses (Hamid p. 10) in his published divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices.
This is the same 'desertful,' yak-biyaabaa;N , that appears in the title of 'A Desertful of Roses', though actually the title comes from {147,3}. Other examples: a 'cityful of longing' in {16,2}; both a 'footstepful of madness' and
a 'two-world-ful desert' in {18,2} (though of course these can be variously translated). For other yak- examples with meanings including wholeness, completeness, and/or suddenness, see {3,11x}; {11,5x}; {12,5x}; {12,6x};
{69,2}; {71,7}; {81,3} (including Faruqi's citation of a parallel verse by Mir); {192,5}; {212,2}; {217,4}. Constructions like this are idiomatic in Persian, though not in Urdu. Apart from the specific wordplay in each context, the general effect of the yak- constructions is to evoke great intensity, scope, and comprehensiveness.
Here the desert is not only invoked as a measuring-rod, but also imagined, both genuinely and paradoxically, as an ocean. Waves move in the blowing sand as they do in the sea. My footprint on the sand has the shape of a bubble (2a), and also the nature of a bubble: it travels ceaselessly along with a large 'wave of movement'. Or perhaps my fatigue eventually renders my travel ethereal: after my body collapses, my relish for travel remains, and my spirit moves along with the waves of drifting sand, so that their bubbles are my footprints (2b).
Who speaks in this verse? Presumably it is the lover, but in the verse itself his only defining quality is his unwearying relish for travel, and the
endlessness of his quest. Or is it a quest? Might it not be the movement itself that intoxicates him? This is one of those 'do-it-yourself' verses-- the context and content of the journey are left to our own imagination. The simplicity and punch of the imagery, the powerful visual scene they create, work wonderfully here; Arshi proposes a comparison with {157,5}, a verse in which an equal degree of abstraction seems to produce a much less exciting result. I'd prefer to compare it with the marvelous {190,1}, another verse about strange footsteps and deserts.
{11,2}*
mu;habbat thii chaman se lekin ab yih be-dimaa;Gii hai kih mauj-e buu-e gul se naak me;N aataa hai dam meraa 1) I loved the garden-- but now, this [degree of] irritation exists 2a) that the breath comes into my nose with a wave of rose-scent 2b) that by a wave of rose-scent, I am disgusted/harassed
Notes:
be-dimaa;Gii : 'Bad-temper, irritability, impatience'. (Platts p.202) dimaa;G : 'The brain; head, mind, intellect; spirit; fancy, desire; airs, conceit; pride, haughtiness, arrogance... ; --the organ of smell'. (Platts p.526) naak me;N dam aanaa : 'To be greatly worried or harassed'. (Platts p.1116)
Nazm:
Since the scent of a rose comes into the nose when a breath is drawn, it's not inappropriate to say that with the scent of a rose the breath comes into the nose. And 'for the breath to come into the nose' means to be bezaar
[displeased, vexed, disgusted]. Here, the second sense is intended, and he has made an iihaam toward the first sense. (13)
Bekhud Dihlavi:
The meaning is, formerly I loved the garden. Now such hatred has been born in me that the rose-scent, which formerly used to evoke joy and happiness-- now 'my breath is in my nose' from it. From the revolving of the times, love has taken on the form of hatred. (26)
Bekhud Mohani:
I had an ardor for strolling in the garden, but now, enduring so many difficulties and remaining so unsuccessful, my heart has become so disaffected from the garden that the scent of the flowers has begun to make my mind disturbed and my breath choked. (24)
Arshi:
Compare {27,4}. (166)
FWP:
SETS == IDIOMS
The idiomatic use of yih conveys a sense of emphasis (GRAMMAR).
Perhaps I am irritated because of the failure of love, perhaps because of its limits even when most successful. Does the garden now vex me by its seductiveness (when I want to lead a life of undistracted austerity), or by its sheer physicality (when I want to move into the realm of spirit)?
In either case, Nazm has pinpointed the chief source of enjoyment in the verse: its irresistibly clever exploitation of the idiom naak me;N dam aanaa (see the definition above) in both a literal and a colloquial sense. Literally, I'm so obsessively irritated at even the thought of the garden that I feel as though I'm compelled to breathe in rose-scent every time I inhale;
idiomatically, a wave of rose-scent (normally a wonderful pleasure) harasses and upsets me.
In addition, a secondary meaning of the word dimaa;G , which normally means 'brain, head, mind,' is of course 'nose'. This adds a further fillip to the wordplay involving naak . For other examples of such 'mind/nose' wordplay see {21,7}; {27,4}; {53,8}.
{11,3x}
rah-e ;xvaabiidah thii gardan-kash-e yak-dars-e aagaahii zamii;N ko sailii-e ustaad hai naqsh-e qadam meraa
1) the sleepy/drowsy road was {insolent / 'neck-lifting'} from a single lesson of awareness
2) to the ground, my footstep is the slap of an Ustad
Notes:
gardan-kash : 'Proud, haughty, vain; insolent, refractory, rebellious, disobedient; stubborn, obstinate'. (Platts p.903)
dars : 'Reading, learning to read; a lecture; a lesson, exercise'. (Platts p.512)
Gyan Chand:
For the road, the message of awareness is that people's footsteps would fall on it, and it would be aware of them. That empty road on which no one used to travel, and which used to rebel against acquaintance with footsteps-- I went on it. My footsteps fell on it like the slap of an Ustad, and it became aware of human footsteps. It's possible that 'sleepy road' might be a metaphor for the tradition of poetry. By footstep may be meant his path of poetry. In this aspect, the ground would be the 'ground' of poetry.
[Or:] A long road prided itself on being acquainted with many people's footsteps. My footstep acted on the ground of the road like the slap of an Ustad, and broke its pride. My swiftness or 'heat' of movement told it that until it was acquainted with this gait, it had no cause for pride. (84)
FWP:
SETS == POETRY
Raza p. 224. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the first two in his published divan. This is the third verse of the original seven-verse ghazal.
The road, like a lazy student, is drowsy or heedless; and with the attainment of 'a single lesson of awareness', it becomes vain and insolent as well. But the speaker is at hand to chastise it and 'put it in its place': his footsteps fall with a series of firm thumps that act on the 'ground' like punitive slaps from an Ustad (who may be teaching poetry, or some other art).
But what is that 'single lesson of awareness' of which the road becomes so prematurely and annoyingly proud? Perhaps it is road's the acquaintance with one (new?) person, presumably the speaker-- this sudden new attention makes the untraveled, long-neglected road feel uppity and put on airs. But the cure is 'the hair of the dog'-- now those new footsteps fall firmly and
regularly, like an Ustad's disciplinary slaps. If the road 'pulls its neck' up, these regular footsteps will, as is only proper, slap it right down again.
The road must thus realize that 'a little learning is a dangerous thing'. Its first heady awareness, its new acquaintance with footsteps, must be gradually converted into systematic training, into the disciplined sequence of regular footsteps and virtuous self-control. Just so must the Ustad, with disciplinary slaps and other techniques, instruct pupils in the 'lessons' of poetic
composition.
Since we're left to figure out for ourselves the relationship between the two lines, we might alternatively decide to read them separately, as contrastive:
the road learns a basic thing, and then gets uppity. Perhaps an effect of its arrogant behavior is that it doesn't learn anything more, because the speaker ceases to walk on it. By contrast, the ground is much better disciplined than the road, for it receives many 'slaps' from the feet of the Ustad. Perhaps this extra disciplinary attention results from the fact that the speaker prefers the ground to the road. It's possible to think of quite a number of ghazal-world reasons for such a preference on his part.
{11,4x}
suraa;G-aaluudah-e ((ar.z-e do-((aalam shor-e ma;hshar huu;N par-afshaa;N hai ;Gubaar-aa;Nsuu-e .sa;hraa-e ((adam meraa
1) I am a Doomsday-{turmoil/bitterness}, {trace/mark}-{polluted/stained}
by the earth/land of the two worlds
2) my {dust/mist}-tears of the desert of Nonexistence are wing-fluttering
Notes:
aaluudah : 'Defiled, polluted, sullied, soiled, stained, spoiled; smeared, immersed, covered; loaded (with), overwhelmed'. (Platts p.78) shor : 'Cry, noise, outcry, exclamation, din, clamour, uproar, tumult, disturbance... ; --salt, brackish... ; very bitter; --unlucky'. (Platts p.736) ma;hshar : 'A place of assembly or congregation ;--(for yaum ul-ma;hshar ), the day of the place of congregation, the day of judgment'. (Platts p.1008) ;Gubaar : 'Dust; clouds of dust; a dust-storm; vapour, fog, mist, mistiness;
impurity, foulness'. (Platts p.769)
Gyan Chand:
My nature has kicked up a Doomsday-turmoil in both worlds. I am manifesting that clamor everywhere. Since it is very boundless, I am going onward and onward in search of a place to manifest it. I can't find a trace of anything that would encompass it. Now my dust has emerged in another direction, even beyond Nonbeing. And there to I've kicked up a Doomsday-turmoil. Since the footstep-trace has become lost, I wander sometimes this way, sometimes that way, manifesting my Doomsday-equippedness of temperament. (85)
FWP:
DESERT: {3,1}
DOOMSDAY: {10,11}
EXISTENCE/NONEXISTENCE: {5,3}
GRANDIOSITY: {5,3}
Raza p. 224. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the first two in his published divan. This is the fourth verse of the original seven-verse ghazal.
Gyan Chand seems to take suraa;G-aaluudah to mean that the trace has been obscured or lost, so that I don't know where I'm going. I'm not sure how he actually puts the whole verse together. I'm not sure of my own reading either, but it's the best I can come up with.
On my reading, the whole verse describes the appalling combination of liminality and inclusiveness claimed by the speaker. Although he lives in the
present world, he embodies in his own person the dire turmoil/bitterness of Doomsday, which will signal the end of the world as we know it; and although he lives in the human world, he is marked by stains and dirt from the lands of both of the two worlds.
Thus his state is full of almost incomprehensible paradoxes: instead of being wet, his tears are dry, being made of 'dust' (or perhaps 'vapor' or 'mist');
instead of being derived from water, these tears are derived from a desert;
instead of being part of the present world, these tears are derived from the desert of 'Nonexistence'.
Moreover, instead of behaving like dust or mist or other inanimate clouds of particles, these tears show the speaker's agitation by being 'wing-fluttering' like birds. This isn't impossible: in {113,6} Ghalib makes the polish-lines on a metal mirror flutter their wings, and in {176,6} the wing-flutterer is a wave of blood.
In short, the speaker's nature has the impossibly amalgamated qualities appropriate to somebody who would call himself the 'turmoil of Doomsday'.
He claims everything; he's like a distant, crazed cousin of Walt Whitman.
Such cosmic grandiosity is nothing new for him: just take a look at {62,8}.
{11,5x}
havaa-e .sub;h yak-((aalam garebaa;N-chaakii-e gul hai dahaan-e za;xm paida kar agar khaataa hai ;Gam meraa
1a) the breeze/desire/affection of the dawn is the {entire / 'one-world'}
ripping of the collar of/by the rose
1b) the breeze/desire/affection of the dawn is {entirely / 'one-world'} the ripping of the collar of/by the rose
2) create the mouth of a wound, if you experience/'eat' {my grief / grief over me}
Notes:
havaa : 'Air, atmosphere, ether, the space between heaven and earth; --air, wind, gentle gale; ... --affection, favour, love, mind, desire, passionate fondness; lust, carnal desire, concupiscence'. (Platts p. 1239)
Gyan Chand:
At dawn, people go to take the air. But they don't know the reality of the dawn breeze. At dawn, how many flowers tear open their collars! As if the coming of dawn is an expression for the collar-tearing of flowers. The collar is torn only in some anxiety or distress. In this way the dawn breeze is a scene of pain and distress, of which the breeze-enjoyers are not aware.
The literal meaning of 'sympathizer' [;Gam-;xvaar] is 'grief-eater'. The poet says to his sympathizer, if you want to 'eat' my grief, then create in your body the mouth of a wound, and eat it with that. The poet has taken 'to eat' in its dictionary meaning, and created for it the necessity of a mouth. By 'eating' grief through the mouth of a wound the point is that if you want to
understand my grief, then you yourself will have to become extremely sorrowful and a temperament-sharer.
The relationship between the two lines is that from somebody's outward situation, his interior state cannot be guessed. Seeing the dawn, who can understand that it's a sign of grief? By seeing me from the outside, my inner sorrow cannot be guessed. (85-86)
FWP:
SETS == MIDPOINTS CHAK-E GAREBAN: {17,9}
Raza p. 224. S. R. Faruqi's choices. Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of seven verses, of which he chose to include only the first two in his published divan. This is the sixth verse of the original seven-verse ghazal.
For discussion of yak-((aalam and related constructions, see {11,1}. The positioning of this enigmatic little phrase is also cleverly ambiguous: it can be read as adjectival for the ripping of the rose's collar (1a), or as adverbial (1b).
As Gyan Chand observes, a major question in this is the relationship of the two aphoristic-looking lines. The word havaa is surely crucial here. It of course names the 'breeze' that blows on the rose and, deliberately or without any special intention, opens it out (and then bears away its dying petals), so that it itself causes the rose's collar to be torn. On the general significance of the tearing of the collar, see {17,9}; in the rose's case, the opening of its flower is always a prelude to its death.
But havaa also means 'affection, favor, love', and even 'lust' as well. On this reading, what the dawn wants is for the rose's collar to be torn. Perhaps it wants the rose to tear open its own collar, as a mad lover should; though of course in the ghazal world the rose is usually the beloved, not the lover.
Perhaps it wants the rose to display its beauty more visibly to the world. Or perhaps it wants to rip open the rose's collar itself, in a 'lustful' way. No matter how we read the nature of the havaa , the result is clear: the attentions of the dawn aim at the 'tearing of the collar' of the rose, and thus the death of the rose.
The second line seems to envision a sympathizer, a 'grief-eater'. For a literal use of this term, see {2,1}. This person is urged by the speaker to take some appropriate action, if he 'eats my grief'. But what exactly is it to 'eat my grief'? On the ambiguity of meraa ;Gam as either 'my grief' or 'your grief over me', see {41,6}. Here the grammar leaves it completely open whether the sympathizer feels or shares the lover's own grief, or feels a different grief born of sympathetic concern for the lover.
And ultimately it doesn't matter: we know what the outcome should or must be. If you 'eat my grief', says the lover, then go ahead, punch a hole in me-- 'create the mouth of a wound'! There are many reasons for the lover to want a wound (or another wound): most conspicuously, the only way for the lover to talk to the beloved may be through the 'mouth' of a wound, as in {214,1}.
But in what tone is the lover speaking? Is he begging for a nearer approach to death, for the kind of succor he most needs (a real friend should provide him with a wound)? Is he demanding a proof of some professed
sympathizer's concern? Is he cynically anticipating what the outcome of such 'sympathy' usually is, and urging the 'sympathizer' to get on with it? Is he fending off an intrusive sightseer with a sneering remark? Is he suggesting that the 'sympathizer' will have better access to his grief (including perhaps even a chance to 'eat' it more lavishly) if the sympathizer will carve out a new, more accessible wound-mouth? (On this grotesque view see {6,4}.) Thus we see the connection: just the way the dawn is unaffected while its breeze/affection/favor/desire dooms the rose, so the sympathizer, suffering no ill effects himself, is instructed to make another wound for the lover. The wordplay of 'mouth' and 'eat' is especially piquant (though a bit on the grotesque side) and sharp.
Of course, it's conceivable that, as Gyan Chand suggests, the sympathizer is being instructed to make such a wound in himself, not in the lover. But then, haven't we lost all significant connection with the first line? We'd be reduced to the 'outer vs. inner' dichotomy proposed by Gyan Chand, which isn't exactly compelling.