S. R. Faruqi:

The first word of this verse has usually been read as jhagṛā -- although ḥādiṡe kā jhagṛā is meaningless, and it's also without meaning that a ḥadiṡe kā jhagṛā would take up and fly off with a heavy-stoned mountain. It's clear that the correct reading is not jhagṛā , but rather jhakkaṛ (meaning windstorm, swift wind). Now the metaphor becomes an extremely eloquent image, very affecting; and the expression becomes meaningful.

It's obvious that the disaster is in essence the disaster of passion. A 'heavy-stoned mountain' is a metaphor for a person who is the very figure of dignity and firmness, who would cause one to think that nothing could move him. But when he confronts the disaster of passion, then his condition becomes as if some powerful tempest has carried him away-- a tempest in which things don't remain safely in their places. In the same way, when confronting the disaster of passion, even a person of the most resolute will becomes shaken.

And not merely shaken, but in fact his feet are uprooted and the tempest carries him away. That is, he no longer remains under his own control; he becomes dominated by the tempest of passion. This tempest carries him wherever it wishes. That is, not only does he do only what passion demands, but passion also compels him to wander in mountains and deserts. If that person is by nature a heavy mountain, that may be so-- but in the hands of the tempest of passion he begins to seem of less weight than even a blade of grass.

The question may arise, what is the justification for making a tempest into a metaphor for a disaster? One reason has already been mentioned: that just as the disaster of passion uproots people's feet, in the same way a tempest uproots trees. Then, one sign of passion is grief, about which Mir has said in the third divan [{1198,1}]:

josh-e ġham uṭhne se ik āñdhī chalī ātī hai myāñ
ḳhāk sī muñh par mire us vaqt uṛ jātī hai myāñ

[from the rise of the ebullition of grief, a windstorm comes, sir
something like dust flies onto my face at that time, sir]

The similes of 'ocean', 'river', and 'typhoon' are used for passion. And when 'disaster' is a metaphor for passion, then the metaphors that were suitable for passion become suitable for 'disaster'. In simile and metaphor there's the characteristic that for two objects of description [that is, 'tenors'] of simile or metaphor, there can be one descriptor [that is, 'vehicle'] Thus if 'tempest' is a metaphor for passion, then other metaphors for passion-- for example, 'ocean', or 'windstorm', etc.-- can also be used for 'tempest'.

Mir has also said in the fourth divan [{1335,6}]:

yāñ ḥādiṡe kī bāʾo se har ik shajar ḥajar
kaisā hī pāʾedār thā āḳhir ukhaṛ gayā

[here, from the wind of the disaster, every single tree, stone
no matter how sturdy it was, finally it was uprooted]

Here, ḥadiṡe and shajar ḥajar are used in their dictionary meanings, and ḥadiṡah is also a metaphor for passion. In this regard, pāʾedār shajar ḥajar is also a metaphor for people of dignity and steadfast temperament.

Thus ḥadiṡe ke jhakkaṛ too, on the analogy of ḥadiṡe kī bāʾo , ought to be able to be used for the windstorm of passion.

With regard to uṛāʾe liye jānā , the wordplay of par-e kāh too [as 'wing' of grass] is interesting. An additional pleasure is that koh-e girāñ-sang is also used for the quality of passion (see [the dictionary] bahār-e ʿajam ). As though passion itself is a heavy-stoned mountain, and it also flies off with a heavy-stoned mountain. It's an uncommon verse.

FWP:

SETS
MOTIFS
NAMES
TERMS

That little word par hooks into everything, and pulls the whole verse together. As a 'blade of grass' [par-e kāh], it gives us the perfect opposite of the 'heavy-stoned mountain'. And because par means 'wing', it makes for excellent wordplay with the idea of 'flying off with' [uṛā liye jātā hai]. Connecting the two senses is the meaning of 'feather': a feather is the crucial part of a wing, and many kinds of dried grass and straw do have a feathery appearance. In English too, a feather is the proverbial image of flimsiness ('light as a feather').

Note for grammar fans: In the second line, uṛāʾe liye jātā hai is, literally, '[in a state of] having caused to fly, [in a state of] having taken up, goes'. The order of the two adverbial perfect participles is counter-intuitive ('having caused to fly' comes before 'having taken up') because liye jānā has a kind of idiomatic unity, meaning something like 'to take along, to carry'. In view of such uncapturable subtleties, even a clunkily literal translation like mine had to settle for 'takes up and flies off with'.