1040_04

S. R. Faruqi:

This verse originates in a [Persian] verse of Maulana-e Rum's. In the 'Masnavi' (sixth daftar) the Maulana says,

'This ground, since it is a cradle for small children,
Is a narrow place for grownups.'

Rumi's verse refers to a Sufistic lack of enthusiasm-- that people of courage/spirit are like wise adults, for whom the raising of children becomes a very minor thing. In Mir's verse there's the theme of sadness of heart, but in it too is a lack of enthusiasm. That is, he is sad at heart because the house of the universe seems small.

It's worth noting how the idea was conveyed that 'in this cage there's absolutely no air'. An ordinary poet (for example, Josh or Firaq) would have written down some trifling word in order to fill out the meter, but Mir's lack of enthusiasm has searched out the fresh and meaningful word be-faẓā , which is both for its affinity with havā , and in its own right.

[Farid Ahmad Barkati in his dictionary has defined be-faẓā incorrectly, but other dictionaries can help.] The meaning of faẓā is both 'extent, breadth' and also 'happiness, flourishingness, hustle and bustle'. Thus the word be-faẓā , in its correct meaning, has in this verse a miraculous effect. In the second divan itself, Mir has altered this theme and in truth pulled out a superb verse [{922,6}]:

ruk jāʾe dam gar āh nah nah karye jahāñ ke bīch
is tang-nāʾe meñ kareñ kyā jo havā nah ho

[the breath would falter if one would not sigh, in the world
in this narrow strait what can one do, if there's no air?]

(For one more beautiful use of tang-nāʾe , see

{401,3}.)

Qa'im has brought out a new aspect of the theme of the narrowness of the world:

kyūñ nah jī ghabrāʾe zer-e āsmāñ
ghar to hai mat̤būʿ par bas muḳhtaṣar

[why would the inner-self not feel anxious beneath the sky
the house is agreeable but-- well, compressed]

In the [dictionary] farhang-e āṣifiyah one meaning for jī has been given as 'breath', and as a 'warrant' a verse of Nasikh's has been given:

dil bar meñ hai jism meñ nah jī hai
kuchh merī ḳhabar tumheñ ajī hai

[there is neither a heart in the breast, nor a jī in the body
so there-- as if you have any information about me!]

From this verse the meaning of jī as 'breath is not proved, nor does this meaning appear in any dictionary. But if on the basis of the āṣifiyah this meaning would be accepted as correct, then an additional aspect is added to Mir's verse: that because of a lack of air, the breath has stopped.

In this way we see that although Mir has translated Bedil's verse, he has not lost his originality.

A discussion about translation: Mir has translated this verse from Bedil. In this connection, and to see how Ghalib has used this theme, see the introduction to SSA volume 1, pp. 37-38. In our culture, translation is a way of deriving benefit, and has been considered a tribute of praise from one poet to another. And if the translation should be superior to the original, then what more could anyone want? Anand Ram Mukhlis says [in Persian],

'All my fingernails have become perfumed like rose-leaves--
Whose sash is this that I am opening?'

Yaqin has a verse:

kyā badan hogā kih jis ke kholte jāme ke band
barg-e gul kī t̤arḥ har nāḳhun muʿat̤t̤ar ho gayā

[what body will it be, such that while opening the ties of the robe
every fingernail has become perfumed like a rose]

It's a separate matter that Yaqin's translation is not very good (and in this respect Yaqin can be considered an objectionable case), but to translate the verse was no bad thing in itself, because Mir has not only translated many verses (the present verse is before us), but also himself reworked Yaqin's translation of Anand Ram Mukhlis's verse some years later, in the sixth divan, like this [{1094,8}]:

us gul-e tar kī qabā ke kahīñ khole the band
rangoñ gul-barg ke nāḳhun hai muʿat̤t̤ar apnā

[I had somehow opened the ties of the robe of that moist rose
my fingernail is perfumed in the style/color of a rose-leaf]

Undoubtedly Mir's verse has gone even beyond Anand Ram Mukhlis's, and it is some orders of magnitude better than Yaqin's. But it is nevertheless a translation of Mukhlis's. In truth Mir had some kind of unreasonable sort of quarrel with poor Yaqin; thus in nikāt ul-shuʿarā he has raked up some trivial story against him, and has also inappropriately accused him of stealing Mukhlis's verse.

Otherwise, even more than translations from earlier poets, translations from contemporaries have the aspect of tributes of praise, and in classical times the 'literary community' entirely expected that if not most of them, then a considerable number would be acquainted with the verse that had been translated. Mir has translated one more verse by Anand Ram Mukhlis:

{731,4}.

Mukhlis's verse is superb, but Mir took his verse beyond Mukhlis's.

Indeed, in the verse below that Mir has translated from Arzu, Khan-e Arzu comes off very well:

{101,9}.

In any case, the point of this discussion is to reveal the truth about Mir's objection against Yaqin, and to prove that to translate is a good thing; otherwise, Mir would not have so casually done it.

Many days after writing this much, in Navab Siddiq Hasan Khan's tazkirah shamʿa-e anjuman my eye fell on this [Persian] verse by Mirza Jalal Asir:

'Under the sky, my temperament is sorrowful because of the turmoil of heart-narrowness--
Please just lift up the curtain of this low tent a bit more.'

I thus learned that here Bedil is a 'captive' [asīr] of Jalal Asir. [[That is, he based his verse on Jalal's.]]

[See also {451,3}.]

{1040,4}

Notes:

S. R. Faruqi:

FWP: