A little cloud stood lonely
Amid the evening sky;
Doubting and fearful waiting there,—
No other cloudlet nigh.
Poor faint and weakling timid lamb
Far wandered from the fold,
The shepherd never missed at all,—
Forgotten in the cold.
My cloudlet wavered on the blue,
The heaven-meadow scanned
For hope of any cloudy friend
With misty, beckoning hand;
A moment longer waited,
Abandoned by the day;
Then, like a little spirit cloud,
He faded quite away.
This post is inspired by the sky outside, which immediately reminded me of Manto’s Mottled Dawn. Saadat Hasan Manto, born in Samrala, Ludhiana, is considered one of the most iconic Urdu writers of the twentieth century. He lived in Bombay until 1948 and worked as a successful screenplay writer for the film industry, but even he finally relented and left India for Pakistan. Khalid Hasan writes, “Manto left Bombay, a city that he loved and a city that he yearned for until his dying day, soon after Partition. He felt deeply disturbed by the intolerance and distrust that he found sprouting like poison weed everywhere, even in the world of cinema. He could not accept the fact that suddenly some people saw him not as Saadat Hasan but as a Muslim.” Mottled Dawn: Fifty Sketches and Stories of Partition (Intro. Daniyal Mueenuddin and trans. Khalid Hasan, Penguin Modern classics), brings together stories of dark humour and horror, powerfully capturing the tragedy of Partition. The book begins with the opening lines of Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s Subh-e Azadi – Mottled Dawn.
Below is the full poem by Faiz, courtesy of Penguin.
Subh‐e Azadi Yeh daagh daagh ujaalaa, yeh shab gazidaa seher Woh intezaar tha jiska, yeh woh seher to nahin Yeh woh seher to nahin, jis ki aarzoo lekar Chale the yaar ki mil jaayegi kahin na kahin Falak ke dasht mein taaron ki aakhri manzil Kahin to hogaa shab-e-sust mauj ka saahil Kahin to jaa ke rukegaa safinaa-e-gham-e-dil Jawaan lahu ki pur-asraar shahraahon se Chale jo yaar to daaman pe kitne haath pade Dayaar-e-husn ki besabr kwaabgaahon se Pukaarti rahi baahein, badan bulaate rahe Bahut aziz thi lekin rukh-e-seher ki lagan Bahut qareen tha haseenaa-e-noor ka daaman Subuk subuk thi tamanna, dabi dabi thi thakan Suna hai, ho bhi chukaa hai firaaq-e-zulmat-o-noor Suna hai, ho bhi chukaa hai wisaal-e-manzil-o-gaam Badal chukaa hai bahut ehl-e-dard ka dastoor Nishaat-e-wasl halaal, o azaab-e-hijr haraam Jigar ki aag, nazar ki umang, dil ki jalan Kisi pe chaaraa-e-hijraan ka kuch asar hi nahin Kahaan se aayi nigaar-e-sabaa, kidhar ko gayi Abhi charaag-e-sar-e-raah ko kuch khabar hi nahin Abhi garaani-e-shab mein kami nahin aayi Najaat-e-deedaa-o-dil ki ghadi nahin aayi Chale chalo ki woh manzil abhi nahin aayi —Faiz Ahmed Faiz The Dawn of Freedom, August 1947 This light, smeared and spotted, this night‐bitten dawn This isn’t surely the dawn we waited for so eagerly This isn’t surely the dawn with whose desire cradled in our hearts We had set out, friends all, hoping We should somewhere find the final destination Of the stars in the forests of heaven The slow‐rolling night must have a shore somewhere The boat of the afflicted heart’s grieving will drop anchor somewhere When, from the mysterious paths of youth’s hot blood The young fellows moved out Numerous were the hands that rose to clutch the hems of their garments, Open arms called, bodies entreated From the impatient bedchambers of beauty— But the yearning for the dawn’s face was too dear The hem of the radiant beauty’s garment was very close The load of desire wasn’t too heavy Exhaustion lay somewhere on the margin It’s said the darkness has been cleft from light already It’s said the journeying feet have found union with the destination The protocols of those who held the pain in their hearts have changed now Joy of union—yes; agony of separation—forbidden! The burning of the liver, the eyes’ eagerness, the heart’s grief Remain unaffected by this cure for disunion’s pain; From where did the beloved, the morning breeze come? Where did it go? The street‐lamp at the edge of the road has no notion yet The weight of the night hasn’t lifted yet The moment for the emancipation of the eyes and the heart hasn’t come yet Let’s go on, we haven’t reached the destination yet —Translated by Baran Farooqui
Shaker, Why don’t you sing? by Maya Angelou (Random House, 1983), p16-17
Caged Bird
The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Cherry Blossom
Pink Cherry blossom falling,
I often wonder why,
a beauty slowly taken
like branches now forsaken
I am the tree
that learned to cry.
Farewell my love,
to fallen love,
the wind became
your words,
the emptiness
between us,
the silent petals
upon the earth.
By Michael Faudet
Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.
Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave, eats a bread it does not harvest, and drinks a wine that flows not from its own wine-press.
Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero, and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.
Pity the nation that despises a passion in its dream, yet submits in its awakening.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice save when it walks in a funeral, boasts not except among its ruins, and will rebel not save when its neck is laid between the sword and the block.
Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggler, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking.
Pity the nation that welcomes it new ruler with trumpetings, and farewells with him with hootings, only to welcome another with trumpetings again.
Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years and whose strong men are yet in the cradle.
Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation.
Since you have gone,
the birds have stopped pecking at my window
to wake me up,
mornings have lost their warmth –
day finds me trapped in the darkness of my small room,
nights have lost their darkness –
a faint light flickers in my room throughout the night,
keeping me awake.
Since you have gone,
the home-made sweets in pure ghee
have lost their sweetness and lay half-bitten,
attracting red ants,
flowers have forgotten to bloom –
my garden withered,
the trees have shed their leaves –
autumn knocks at the door.
Since you have gone,
the wind has stopped blowing –
singing in my ears –
everything is still like my thoughts
But now, I hear a bird,
singing its melodies alone
in a silent, quiet corner of my garden.
The crops are ripe and the farmers
blow their trumpet –
singing and dancing, in joy.
Do I hear your footsteps at the corner of my street,
turning towards my unfrequented door?
Oh do come, my visitor,
I have waited long for you.
Courtesy: Five poems of longing for the sizzling month of May. https://scroll.in/article/836073/five-poems-of-longing-for-the-sizzling-month-of-may
The Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
By W. B. Yeats
Transience by Sarojini Naidu and a glimpse of the moon to compliment her words.
Nay, do not grieve tho’ life be full of sadness,
Dawn will not veil her splendour for your grief,
Nor spring deny their bright, appointed beauty
To lotus blossom and ashoka leaf.
Nay, do not pine, tho’ life be dark with trouble,
Time will not pause or tarry on his way;
To-day that seems so long, so strange, so bitter,
Will soon be some forgotten yesterday.
Nay, do not weep; new hopes, new dreams, new faces,
The unspent joy of all the unborn years,
Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow,
And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.
BAGICHA 