Muhammad Iqbal's India 5: The Radiant One (The Gayatri Mantra, translated)

Aaftaab (Tarjumaa Gaayatri)
by
Muhammad Iqbal

Ai aaftaab! Rooh-o-rawaan-e-jahaan hai tu
Shiraazaa band-e-daftar-e-kaun-o-makaan hai tu


Baais hai tu wajood-o-aadam ki namood ka
Hai sabz tere dam se chaman hast-o-bood ka


Kaayam yeh ansaaron ka tamaashaa tujhi se hai
Har shai mein zindagi ka taqaazaa tujhi se hai


Har shai ko teri jalwaagari se sabaat hai
Tera yeh soz-o-saaz saraapa hayaat hai


Woh aaftaab jis se zamaane mein noor hai
Dil hai, khird hai, rooh-e-rawaan hai, shaoor hai


Ai aaftaab! Hum ko zia-e-shaoor de
Chasm-e-khird ko apni tajjaali se noor de


Hai mehfil-e-wajood ka saamaan taraaz tu
Yazdaan-e-sakinaan-e-nashaib-o-faraaz tu


Tera kamaal har hasti-e-har jaandaar mein
Teri namood silsilaa-e-kohsaar mein


Har cheez ki hayaat ka parwardigaar tu
Zaaidgaan-e-noor ka hai taajdaar tu


Nahi  ibtedaa koi, na koi intehaa teri
Azaad-e-quaid-e-awwal-o-aakhir zia teri


The Radiant One (The Gayatri Mantra, translated)
translated from the Urdu by
Mustansir Dalvi

O Radiant One! Yours is the spirit
that brings life to the world.
You are the timekeeper,
you account for all there is.

You are the reason
for the being of it all,
for all things green and fecund
that spring from your very breath.

The elements dance
to your pulsating beat.
Life, the universe and everything
is drawn out from you.

Every speck there is, stays
anchored in your presence.
Existence itself relies upon
your warmth and your radiance.

This radiance itself
is the light of the world;
its heart, its sense,
its intellect and its soul.

O Radiant One! Grant us
the grace of wisdom.
Let our eyes see reason
in your resplendent glow.

You bestow the very means
for this carnival of being.
You are the Lord of all things
great and small.

Yours is the wonder,
animating every essence.
Every mountain range
is a sign of  your presence.

Nurturer of sentience,
you are the sovereign-
each beam of light
is held in your thrall.

With neither beginning
nor end, you remain unchained
from the finitude
of firsts and lasts.


Translation and Transliteration
© Mustansir Dalvi, 2012, All rights reserved.

First Post Mumbai: The Body on the Street

Here is an excerpt from my new column on FirstPost.Com:
Kuber Sarup case: We’re just bodies on Mumbai’s moral streets
for full article , click on link above.

excerpt:
Any student of semiotics knows that an act is separate from its perception. The two are loosely linked at best and understood by common-law agreement. Meaning is never inherent; we ascribe meaning to something. How we do is based on our own background and world view. Body language therefore is hardly subject to normative judgments. To do so would be like asserting that only Marathi should be spoken in public in Mumbai. If such linguo-fascism is sniggered at, why should the acts of bodies be subject to similar homogeneity? 
In our public realm, we are no models of perfection when it comes to inadvertent action: remember Clan Bachchan proudly and collectively emerging after voting, holding up erect middle fingers? Everyone did a double take, then laughed it off, good naturedly. No one threw the book of Indian Culture at them.

Muhammad Iqbal's India 4: The Child's Prayer

Bachche ki Dua
by
Muhammad Iqbal
Lab pe aati hai dua ban ke tamannaa meri
Zindagi shama ki soorat ho Khudaaya meri

Door duniya ka mere dam se andheraa ho jaaye
Har jagaah mere chamakne se ujaalaa ho jaaye

Ho mere dam se yoonhi mere watan ki zeenat
Jis tarah phool se hoti hai chaman ki zeenat

Zindagi ho meri parwaane ki soorat, Ya Rab!
Ilm ki shama se ho mujhko muhabbat, Ya Rab!

Ho meraa kaam gareebon ki himaayat karnaa
Dard mandon se, zaeefon se muhabbat karnaa

Mere Allah! Buraaee se bachaanaa mujhko
Nek jo raah ho us raah pe chalaana mujhko


The Child’s Prayer
translated by
Mustansir Dalvi

The prayer on my lips
is my desire manifest.
O Lord! Make my life
glow like the candle-flame.

Let my breath disperse the dark
that holds the world in thrall.
Let my radiance result
in brightness everywhere.

With each breath, let me
bring glory to my land,
like the blossoms that are
the glory of the meadow.

O Lord! Let my life be
like the moth who seeks
the eternal love
of the flame of wisdom.

Let my exertions, my deeds
assuage all those in need.
Let me, ever devoted, be
to the afflicted, to the elderly.

Allah! Preserve me
from all the evil in the world.
Lead me down that path that is
the path of righteousness.


Translation and Transliteration
© Mustansir Dalvi, 2012, All rights reserved.

Muhammad Iqbal's India 3: Nanak

Nanak
by
Muhammad Iqbal


Qaum ne paigham-e-Gautam ki zaraa parwaah na ki
Qadr pahchaani na apne gauhar-e-yakdaanaa ki


Aah! Badqismat rahe awaaz-e-haq se bekhabar
Gaafil apne phal ke sheereeni se hota hai shajar


Aashkaar usne kiya jo zindagi ka raaz tha
Hind ko lekin khayaali falsafe par naaz tha


Shamaa-e-haq se jo munawwar ho yeh woh mehfil na thi
Baarish-e-rehmat hui lekin zameen qaabil na thi


Aah! Shudar ke liye Hindostaan ghamkhaana hai
Dard-e-insaani se is basti ka dil begaanaa hai


Barehman sarshaar hai ab tak mai-e-pindaar mein
Shamaa-e-Gautam jal rahi hai mehfil-e-agyaar mein


Butkadaa phir baad muddat ke magar roshan hua
Noor-e-Ibrahim se Aazar ka ghar roshan hua


Phir uthi aakhir sadaa tauheed ki Panjaab se
Hind ko ek mard-e-kaamil ne jagaaya khwaab se


Nanak
translated by
Mustansir Dalvi

The nation paid no heed
to the message of Gautam.
They ignored the worth
of this singular pearl.

Oh! The unfortunates,
deaf to the voice of truth,
like the tree, oblivious
of the sweetness of its own fruit.

He illuminated brightly
the mysteries of life, but Hind
was steeped, too deep
in faux philosophy to notice.

These were not soirees lit
by the candlelight of conviction.
Rains of grace fell, but the land
stayed dry, too sterile to be quenched.

Oh! For the lowest castes
Hindostan is a place of sorrow,
its heart is bare of compassion
for the pain of humankind.

While the Brahmin lies wasted,
inebriated in his own vanities,
the lamp of Gautam’s wisdom
enlightens foreign cities.

This abode of idols glowed again
after a long dark time
like the radiance of Abraham
lighting up the house of Aazar.

Then finally, from the Punjab
rose the clarion call of the One.
Hind was shaken from its slumber
by this quintessence of Man.


Translation and Transliteration
© Mustansir Dalvi, 2012, All rights reserved.

Muhammad Iqbal's India 2: Himalaya

Himaala (1901)
by
Muhammad Iqbal

1
Ai Himaala! Ai faasil-e-kishwar-e-Hindostaan!
Choomta hai teri peshaani ko jhuk kar aasmaan
2
Tujh mein kuch paidaa nahin dereena rozi ke nishaan
Tu jawaan hai gardish-e-shaam-o-sehar ke darmiyaan
3
Ek jalwaa thaa kaleem-e-toor-e-Seena ke liye
Tu tajjali hai saraapaa chasm-e-beena ke liye
4
Imtihaan-e-deedaa-e-zaahir mein kohistaan hai tu
Paasbaan apnaa hai tu, deewaar-e-Hindostaan hai tu
5
Matlaa-e-awwal falak jiskaa ho, woh deewaan hai tu
Soo-e-khilwat gaah-e-dil daaman kash-e-insaan hai tu
6
Barf ne baandhi hai dastaar-e-fazeelat tere sar
Khandazan hai jo kulaah-e-mehr-e-aalam taab par
7
Teri umr-e-raftaa ki ik aan hai ahd-e-kuhan
Waadiyon mein hai teri kaali ghataa’en khaimaazan
8
Chotiyaan teri suraiyaa se hain sargarm-e-sukhan
Tu zameen par aur pehnaa-e-falak teraa watan
9
Chashmaa-e-daaman tera aaena siyyal hai
Daaman-e-mauj-e-hawaa jiske liye roomaal hai
10
Abr ke haathon mein rahwaar-e-hawaa ke waste
Taaziyaanaa de diyaa barq-e-sehr-e-kohsaar ne
11
Ai Himaala! Koi baazi gah hai tu bhi, jise
Dast-e-qudrat ne banaayaa hai aanasir ke liye
12
Hai! Kya fart-e-tarab mein jhoomtaa jaataa hai abr
Feel-e-be-zanjeer ki soorat udaa jaataa hai abr
13
Jumbish-e-mauj-e-naseem-e-subah gahwaaraa bani
Jhoomti hai nashaa-e-hasti mein har gul ki kali
14
Yun zubaan-e-barg se goya hai iski khaamoshi
Dast-e-gulcheen ki jhatak maine nahin dekhi kabhi
15
Keh rahi hai meri khaamoshi hi afsaana mera
Koonj-e-khalawat khaana-e-qudrat hai kashaana mera
16
Aati hai nadi faraaz-e-koh se gaati hui
Kausar-o-tasneem ki maujon ko sharmaati hui
17
Aaenaa-e-shaahid-e-kudrat ko dikhlaati hui
Sang-e-raah se gah bachti, gah takraati hui
18
Chhedti jaa is iraaq dil nasheen ke saaz ko
Ae musafir! Dil samjhaa hai teri awaaz ko
19
Laila-e-shab kholti hai aake jab zulf-e-razaa
Daaman-e-dil khenchti hai aabshaaron ke sadaa
20
Woh khaamoshi sham ki jis par takallum ho fida
Woh darakhton par tafakkur ka samaan chhaayaa hua
21
Kaanptaa phirtaa hai kya rang-e-shafaaq kohsaar par
Khushnuma lagtaa hai yeh ghazaa tere rukhsaar par
22
Ai Himaala! Daastaan us waqt ki koi sunaa
Maskan-e-aabaa-e-insaan jab banaa daaman teraa.
23
Kuchh bataa us seedhi saadhi zindagi kaa maajraa
Dagh jis par ghazaa-e-rang-e-takalluf ka na tha
24
Haan, dikha de, ai tasawwur! Phir woh subah-o-shaam tu
Daud peeche ki taraf, ai gardish-e-ayyaam tu!


Himalaya
translated by
Mustansir Dalvi

1
O Himalaya!
O great wall of Hindostan!
Heavens themselves genuflect
to kiss your brow.
2
No signs of wear,
nor of withering upon you.
Young as ever, you abide
the cycles of dusk and dawn.
3
Like Moses, yearning
for Sinai’s burning bush,
your profile is like a beacon
sought out by every discerning eye.
4
To the everyday gaze
you are mere mountain,
but for us you are our vanguard,
the fortification of Hindostan.
5
You are a poetic masterwork
whose first verse is the firmament.
You induce the human heart
to solitude, to turn into itself.
6
The snow has bequeathed
the supreme turban upon you,
its swathes cock a snook
at the burnish’d crown of the sun.
7
The ages past are but a twinkle
in your eternal eye.
Dark clouds swirl endlessly
in your wild vales.
8
Your peaks parley
with the Pleiades.
You are of the earth, and yet
you bestride the heavens.
9
The stream by your side
is a sparkling mirror,
the caress of the breeze,
a fluttering handkerchief.
10
In the clouds’ grasp
is handed the lash of lightning
to rein in the whinnying,
galloping breeze.
11
O Himalaya!
Are you an arena at large
that the hand of nature
has created to replicate itself?
12
Look! How the clouds
in drunken raptures lurch.
They lumber along, free
like elephants unchained.
13
The gentle zephyr of dawn
rocks like a cradle. Every flower,
every bud is inebriated,
happy just to be alive.
14
What kind of silence
does the bloom express:
“I have never felt the jerk
of the florist’s hand.
15
It is in my silences
that my tale is told.
This corner is nature’s refuge,
this where I reside.”
16
Here comes the stream
rolling down from high,
its resonant song shames
the rivers and founts of paradise.
17
Held up like a looking glass
to the bounty of nature,
see how it sidesteps, how it hits
the pebbles in its path.
18
Like a lute, pluck the strings
of this delighted heart.
O Wanderer! The heart
is mindful of your call.
19
When Laila of the Night
lets her dark curls fall,
heartstrings are tugged
by rippling waterfalls.
20
The silent dusk it is
that halts all utterance.
The pall of contemplation
cast wide over the trees.
21
The colour of dusk trembles
on the mountains’ face.
How delightful it is,
this rose tinted snow.
22
O Himalaya! Tell us
of the days of yore
when the fathers of men
first sought shelter in your breast.
23
Tell us something
of those simple times
that were not yet stained
by the colours of artifice.
24
Show me, O my mind’s eye,
the days and nights gone by.
Turn back the clock, and race
to an earlier, a better time!

Translation and Transliteration
© Mustansir Dalvi, 2012, All rights reserved.

Muhammad Iqbal's India 1: Ram

Ram
by
Muhammad Iqbal


Labrez hai sharaab-e-haqueeqat se jaam-e-Hind
Sab falsafi hai khitta-e-maghrib ke raam-e-Hind


Yeh Hindion ke fikr-e-falak-ras ka hai asar
Riffat mein aasmaan se bhi ooncha hai baam-e-Hind


Is des mein hue hain hazaaron malik sarisht
Mashoor jinke dam se hain duniyaa mein naam-e-Hind


Hai Raam ke wajood pe Hindostaan ko naaz
Ahl-e-nazar samajhte hain isko Imaam-e-Hind


Aijaaz is chiraag-e-hidaayat ka hai yahi
Roshantar-az-seher hai zamaane main shaam-e-Hind


Talwaar ka dhani tha, shuja’at mein fard tha
Paakeezgi mein, josh-e-muhabbat mein fard tha


Ram
translated by
Mustansir Dalvi

The cup of Hind is brimful
with the wine of certainty.
The philosophers of the Maghreb
acknowledge its worth as one.

It is the prescience
of the Indian mind
that makes the star of India
rise far above the firmament.

This is the land where
Men like angels thrive.
From their spirit is the glory
of India in all mankind.

India has been enriched
by the very presence of Ram.
Those that know, know of him
as the Prophet of Hind.

The wonder of Ram
is the light of his message.
Brighter than all the dawns
of the world is this dusk of Hind.

An intrepid warrior, Ram
was unique in valour,
singular in veracity
and fiery in love.

Translation and Transliteration © Mustansir Dalvi, 2012, All rights reserved.

Urban Bawl 5: Glass Teat

An edited version of this piece is the fifth in the series of my Urban Bawl columns in Time Out Mumbai for their 'Back of the Book' page.
This is published in the Feb 17-March 1 2012  (Vol 8 Issue 13) issue of Time Out Mumbai.

Glass Teat
We are gathered here today, we motley few, in this small chamber of
600 words, to mourn the death of our foster mother- television.

Her glass teat nourished us through our impressionable years. Her
mortal remains still lactate a daily pint of sari-clad, big bindi
infidelities and perversions in patriarchies, but we never developed a
taste for that sort of thing. When she was alive, she nurtured us
through two golden ages- the single screen, multilingual Bombay
Doordarshan during the seventies and the first multiplex age of
satellite television in the early nineties.

Those were heady days; she came to us piped through cables that flew
across rooftops, down rainwater pipes and through our windows. Her
riches were bounteous, given freely in Star TV, MTv, BBC, TNT, the
forbidden fruits of Jain TV, and of course, latesht movies of every
genre that the cablewallahs themselves curated.

But now she is gone. We could see the decline coming, the morphing of
‘Yo! MTv’ to ‘Oye! MTv’ was the harbinger. We ignored these symptoms,
preoccupied with wolfing down channels by the hundreds. Her toxic
desi-fication, complicated by relentless proscriptions in the nouvelle
vague of branded dish-content made her terminal. Toward the end, we
kept her going by restricting ourselves only to the news and English
movie channels, but even these modest needs were soon confounded.

How expectations can be belied. We searched for news, but had to make
do with cookery. Or Bollynostalgia, advertisements, spiritual
discourses, car shows, advertisements, cellphone promos, talking heads
dissecting soap operas on other channels or Sachin’s hundredth hundred
and advertisements.  We wondered, wasn’t all this better suited to the
specialized channels? But our mother was past the stage of response.

We turned to Hindi news channels and saw these headlines: ‘Shahrukh
Khan ne pahili baar shirt utaara!’ We clicked our remote for Breaking
News (all capitals and martial music) as it happened: ‘Deepika ne
Aishwarya ko Auntie kahaa!’ We felt elated. All was well with a world
where the younger peedhi showed such rispact for the elderly. News,
sans editorializing had been sublimated in a cacophony of bombastic
music and kitschy reconstructions. The bathos of Mumbaikars, who never
made news normally, was only reinforced when they surfaced briefly
from one terror attack to the next.

We sought relief in the superficiality of cinema and got Godard.
Jean-Luc invented the violation of continuity editing; fillum channels
emulated this grand tradition. Movies were downsized with ‘jump cut’
to pander to the tastes of ultraconservatives and babies. While our
Censor Board made cuts with surgical precision, the television
channels hacked though everything ‘deemed offensive’ with a machete.

Some progressive channels showed us cinema as it was made, and
preferred the middle-path of the blur and the bleep. Luis Bunuel was
outmatched, as ‘You Don’t Mess With the Zohan’ was remade into a
surrealist masterwork. The word ‘terrorist’ was bleeped out maybe a
zillion times, both in sound and subtitles. Cigarette smoke was
pixellated as per the government regulations. You could not see a
bleeding hand because your namby-pamby sensibilities would not take
it. We learn language in the laps of our mothers, so, appropriately
she taught us, replacing older words for new: ‘Prick’ was therefore a
no-no, we now use the more refined ‘testicle’. Thusly was our
vocabulary enriched, each day.

In passing, our foster mummy left us terminally infantilized. Her love
for us made her blind; she could never accept that we have grown up.
She has left behind a legacy of baby-talk and absences. God rest her
soul, as she looks down at us drooling mindlessly as we flit from
channel to channel to channel.