Ghani Khan in English

[Islaw Khan]

A Poppy Flower


In a desert, once, on a hunt did I find,

With a radiant smile, a flower so fair;

Sadly, I approached and sighed, “Ah! Of my kind

Are you too – a hapless flower from a beloved's hair.

Frail fingers wouldn't take you to a soft face so close,

Nor would you be kissed by lips delicate and rose.”

With a silent smile the flower replied, “Don't lose heart!

This desert I wouldn't give up for the gardens of Iran,

A solitary I am here while legions are there,

Amidst this cursed soil I stand apart.

In this gray desert, a flamboyant flame of divine light am I,

Beauty's silent song, a miracle from the sky.

In your garden, there are thousands of flowers like me –

A nameless droplet in a nameless sea.

You too, in your desert, don't feel forlorn,

To behold you at last shall come a sore Ghani Khan.

[Islaw Khan]

Entreaty [with English translation]


na may sta da nari shudi dy pakar
na da zulfi wal pa wal laka khamar
na da bati pashan danga ghari ghwaram
nargasay stargy na daki da khumar
na ghakhuna dy laluna da adan
na nangy dak sara sara laka anar
na pasti da sarindy pa shan khabari
na wajood laka da saar way mazadar
khu bas yow shai rata ra ukhaya dilbara
da lala pashan zargy ghawaram daghdar
yow dawa ukhaqi chi da ghum ao muhabat way
lakuno laluna dy karam zaar


Poems - translation





I do not need your red sculpted lips,

Nor hair in loops like a serpent,s coils

Nor a nape as graceful as a swan,s,

Nor narcissus eyes full of drunkenness,

Nor teeth as perfect as pearls of heaven,

Nor cheeks ruddy and full as pomegranates,

Nor a voice mellifluous as a sarinda,

Nor a figure as elegant as a poplar,

But show me just this one thing, my love,

I seek a heart stained like a poppy flower

Pearls by millions I would gladly cede,

For the sake of tears borne of love and grief.

[Islaw Khan]

Heaven And Earth


Would there be elation and youth, the beloved and a chalice full;
Several flowers and a few friends in a mellow evening.
Passion be light and fire, and the heart a flaming tandoor;
I would gladly give up your heavens to embrace such a life.
I’d far prefer this gain because no color is at rest;
Each moment, each hue of life, is your time’s helpless slave;
And the mullah says, in paradise, time would be my slave –
If he were somehow undone, all my troubles would end.
If I find eternal youth, it would become a curse;
I cherish it now as its beauty is soon consumed.
An eternally full moon, an eternal sweet sixteen,
Eternal youth, a river of wine, is it a reward or hell?
I’d weep after this world, and yearn for the night’s crescent,
And remember everyday, the thin mist of eventide.
Sick of faithful houris, I’d seek a fickle beloved;
Man is a hunter by nature, and revels in hunting.
I would fast on revelry’s riverside,
And sulk after the cupbearer’s half-full chalice.
Anything eternal becomes a curse and a catastrophe;
It suits only you, this eternal beginning and end.
Man seeks in each new palace a new beloved;
Seeks red flowers in a wasteland, seeks lighting at night;
He’s lost in unending darkness, and blinded by perpetual light;
He is the child of change and cannot stay the same.
If you took him to heaven, this nature and this being,
He’ll soon be searing and weeping with sore eyes.
O lord of great bestowal, turn this world into heaven!
The formula is simple, comprising these three things –
As I’ve said before, a beloved, youth, and a chalice,
So that my silly head is amused from time to time;
And after this worldly death, endow me to the Mullah,
If the wretch would be appeased by mere dreams of houris.
Give me a houri here – lively, full, and fair –
A loving white candle, which burns and flames
In her glance myriad colors; in her nature myriad moods;
With manners such as spring – now sunshine, now rain;
Would she be under one skin, a harem of women;
Now brimming and vivacious, now quiet and retiring;
And in my tired heart, kindle restive flames,
Blazing like fire and dancing like a rill,
And with one impatient glance, intoxicate me so
As to leave everyone amazed and the cupbearer envious.
In place of those thousands give me one here;
Turn my eternal youth to a few years’ rejoicing;
If you cannot do this, lord, keep your fat houris;
I neither need them there nor miss them here.
Those fat and fair ones who yield without entreaty;
Wide and hungry eyes, wallowing in malmal.
Lord! My beloved lord! Just grant this one prayer,
Or else, your Ghani would pine away in love.

[Islaw Khan]

Wasiat (extract)


Though tombstones fine of bluish slate
Should ornament, adorn, my grave,
But I were to have died a slave,
Come, spit on and defile them!
If my body were not bathed,
In my blood, and sanctified,
Do not ever desecrate
Precincts of the mosque with it.
And if I were not to be
Into numerous pieces hacked
By the forces of the foe,
Mother, dear, how could you
Over me lament and cry?
I shall soon this land, deprived
Both of honour and of pride,
Into Paradise transform,
Or the ranks of Pukhtoon youth
Decimate, their streets denude.

[Islaw Khan]

When Man Sits Down In Dust


Manhood stands tall and high, and becomes madness;
The self takes leave of being and becomes ecstasy.
When iron sated with blood embraces love,
It turns into a bewildered sitar string.
When time robs man of love and the loved one,
He sees the beloved’s glory and his own.
How man sprouts when he sits down in dust!
A manjila resting on riches becomes a serpent.
Don’t shower houris and gilman over me. Enough!
God, I swear, I’m not concerned with anyone save you;
Where today, I walk oblivious and proud,
God knows, to this garden, who will be the heir.
I am a Pukthun and am not afraid of death;
I am angered at an empty life and a desolate end.
The river of doubt runs deep through my heart,
Wondering when the brilliant waterfall of hope will flow.
My heart gazes at your indifferent eye and so
At times the great string breaks into tears.
Is music lament or rapture – I cannot decide;
Every tone now moves us, now becomes shrill.

[Islaw Khan]

On, On, And Onwards


I am in love with light but do not fear the dark;
If I don’t regret sin, I don’t boast of sinning either.
Yesterday a seed, today a flower, tomorrow I’ll turn to dust;
I am a gust of wind blowing over the desert garden –
Now, a breeze, now rain, at times I sear in flames,
But I move ever onwards –
I’ll be lost if I stand still

If I chance upon flowers, I fill my lap with fragrance
And I spread it all over, smiling and cheering;
If I chance upon a world of colors, I become a rainbow;
In parti-colored glory, I dance like a white candle.
In the house of revelry, when I find the cupbearer,
I become a mad ecstasy, unfolding in dreams.
If the world grows dark, bringing fire, lightning, and curse,
I am a Puhktoon mountain of courage, intrepid and unyielding;
And in times of mourning, I sit by the wise
Laughing at them,
And laughing at myself
I’m maddened with cares, and tired of searching
Is that not what I’m here for? I don’t understand –
But on, on, and onwards I go, ever onwards,
Toward a destiny I will one day reach;
And whatever comes on the way, night or day,

I revel in light
But do not fear the dark.

[Islaw Khan]

Nurse


To serve the sick and wretched
Is not service but worship;
Like a mother, mercy and love
Belong to Eve’s true nature.
This struggle against death
Is full of courage and daring –
This mercy in the blaze of pain
And a white beacon in darkness.
All living men are sons of women,
So is their beauty and excellence;
If the world looks down on them
When has it acknowledged merit?
A reproach to blind asses
Who turn every gem into dust.
The daughter of grace and mother of life
Is wherefore God created Eve.
It’s us poets who have made
Her a cupbearer or a beloved;
The west’s perverse culture
Has made her a seductive demon –
Neither a mother nor a sister;
Neither of religion nor of the world.

The real attributes of Eve
Are service, mercy and love –
This struggle against death
Is not service but worship.

[Islaw Khan]

The Prison Dream


I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world.
I lie and rest my head on the beloved’s lap;
I see myself rising like a falcon to the air;
Alighting on the roof of Mehmoud I become eyes of Ayaz.
I rise from the quiet heart like a tender love song,
Bartering for houris the age of courtesans.

I dream I am sitting on the cool bank of Jindai –
My beloved amongst maidens stands out as a candle;
Her red lips smile and tell me to weep on,
‘Drink your lifeblood, for it is a joyous wine.’
I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world

I dream of an evening at a garden full of flowers –
Red eyes of the cupbearer with wine in ruddy hands;
Fingers on a sitar in elation like Khayyam’s,
Gently turning over it the sweet fable of love.
I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world

I dream that the white moon is rising with a smile;
My sweetheart is shy and slowly reaches me –
Wine comes to the lips, demise to the mouth,
And measure for measure she gives me red élan.
I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world.

I dream that I set out shrouded in a zephyr;
Go to my darling’s side as a vision of love;
Hang before her eyes like a desert dream,
And lose in one jangle the riches of my life.
I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world

I dream that I set off like a butterfly;
Fly round a narcissus and skim past a jasmine;
Circle the necklace round the beloved’s delicate neck
And hail her, invisible, with silent greetings.
I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world

I dream that I rise like the cry of Mansoor –
A handful of dust, I become an ocean of light.
But then I hear the Azan and wake up with a flurry.
Sleep takes away the dreams and the world comes to life
Saying, ‘lay down Ghani Khan, do your time in jail.’


Hyderabad Jail – 1948

[Islaw Khan]

Hell


It is the measure of man’s eye –
The black and the white;
The fancy of man’s tongue –
Both milkweed and honey.
The tapping of my fingertips,
A soft arm and smooth cheek –
These songs of my spirit,
Flowery and sweet.
My god has made this
Colorful wine from water;
For some a sea of wine
Is a droplet of zamzam;
For some a sea of zamzam
Is a glum evening of sorrow;
To some a small white candle
Stands bright as the moon;
Some hear the message of Gabriel
From the red lips of the beloved.
One crown turns crimson with blood;
Some throne blackened by night;
One found it on the cross;
The other on a red silken pillow;
Some discover, like Moses,
In a lifeless idol the face of the beloved –
One turns it into dread and tears,
The other into beauty and spirit.
Some from a flower, from a child’s face,
Create the lips of love;
Some find it by the narcissus,
Some among thorny bushes.
Happy the man who went
Laughing to the lap of his love –
Some tear from the bridal dress
A coffin for the beloved.
Lord! Lord! My lord!
I’m maddened by reflections –
How can I curse and tyrannize
The spring and crimson flowers.
How can I lend the Mullah an ear
And forget the lark and bulbul;
How upon your grace and light
Can I cast the veil of ugliness!
Turn the white morning of laughter
To a dark eve and tomb?
Turn man’s despair to
The red joy of afterlife?
From the fakir’s intrepidity
Create a king’s drunkenness?
From the fire and might of hell
Delineate your grace?
How can I believe you made
This world and the skies for this –
When Khayyam is driven by force
To the pilgrimage of ka’aba?
This heart so full of spirits was
Made just to harbor doubts?
Were beauty and love spun out
As a tale of retribution?
You made out of your grace
Beauty and doting;
The shade of your under-plumes
Is soft and colorful at each sundown.
You laughed that the rose’s color
Was borne away on a butterfly’s wing;
In your hand, Khayyam’s goblet
Took away abandon and love.
How do I bother Ghani with
The end and the judgment day?
Imbue spite in a bulbul’s heart
For springtime and flowers?
How can I lay the shawl of a vassal
On the fair face of Laila?
Fulfill the longing of a Negro
With the presence of a fairy?
How can I turn over to the hand
Of the beloved the dagger of betrayal?
How can I sink in a dark well
The secret of enamored eyes?
How can I submerge a beautiful world
In a single drop of night;
How can I turn the glow
Of candlelight to ashes!

Lord! Lord! My lord!
I’m maddened by reflections
How can I curse and tyrannize
The spring and crimson flowers!Khanpur Jail

[Islaw Khan]

A Spring Night



It was an enchanting night in spring,
Alive with sparkling and shimmering stars;
The pretty moon stood still in wonder
While a madman pleaded to his love.

‘Give me the knowing from on high,
My eyes a rapture from your self,
From your own self, my love, your self!’
The madman pleaded to his love.

Radiance flowed with a sudden crash,
A bit in trance and a little proud,
Finding speech as the being turned mute.
The madman pleaded to his love

The madman pried open his heart,
Could barely let inside a spark;
The rest was full of the world and self.
The madman pleaded to his love

The river receded and light flowed back,
As to the beloved love’s rapture returned,
Leaving the madman and his pledge behind.
It was an enchanting night in spring.Simla, Hindustan
7 December 1944