Friday, September 2, 2011
Calcutta Riots (August 1946)
The wickedness of politics splurged all around,
Fireballs rained, the whole city was wailing.
The city aware of the mysteries of stars movement,
Fell a wounded prey in the trap of time.
The one that could see the large wings of Gabriel,
Was a sure sign of dust, rubble and ruine,
Raised flags demanding a separate land,
Separate flower-beds and separate gardens;
Separate quarters for roses and thorns,
The air of the garden must be divided.
Who has seen roses separate from thorns?
Bough has always bowed with the weight of both.
If one is hurt by petals' edge.
Poor thorn is blamed for the scar
But the number of sheep grew in the crowed
The bitter creeper curled on the Neem.
After sowing thorns how can one reap flowers?
How can principles of nature be wiped?
There was fire of hatred and oil of politics,
Death danced on roads and rowdism played its game.
It was a brother's hand and throat too of a brother.
Cry for mercy had no effect on anyone.
Goods, houses and shops were consigned to fire,
Owners of goods and houses because wanderers.
Married women lost their marital bliss,
Like plants in forest fire.
Children orphaned, fathers lost the light of eyes,
Mother's womb reduced to dust, lost pieces of their heart.
Ruins replaced buildings,
Men turned into marks on earth in a moment.
There was so much turmoil in the city,
The havoc turned everyone out of his senses.
Listen! That was the holy month of Ramadan,
There was no rain, heat was soaking blood.
It was a severe testing time for the faithful,
Test of patience, submission, faith and life.
Missed fast, nightly prayers,
Some took early breakfast with blood,
Some became martyers after fasting over fasting
Some peeped from the dead body shroud to see the Id
There were heeps of limbs at places,
As if it was sure repeat of Karbala
It was man's story told by dagger's tongue
There was a canopy of smoke with leaping flames there under.
Rulers in their seats turned stones
The bloody story was written on the streets.
They woke up when things went out of hand
But then they took the devil's side.
People were killed by dagger then, killed by bullets now,
Those who could flee then are trapped now
The same bullet pierced through Wahidi's* chest,
It was victory of bullet and defeat of journalism
Those hiding in homes could not scape,
Troops stormed into houses to flush them out.
Migration began within the city,
It was beginning of the story, division was the end.
Title of the story was written by one's own blood
The rest was written by fate in black.
Culture bowed its head, tore its shirt,
Clean hearts became soiled.
As the time passed the evil bore fruits,
The seed of hatred grew to become a big tree
What a friendly air had the city!
It suddenly turned into poisonous one
The mirror of Hoghly was clean and glistening
Carried dead bodies with shattered hopes.
"Write the luck again in glowing red"
"Nothing is beyond the grasp of my Lord"
"Turn the current of doom anyway"
"Join broken hearts firmly"
But one who doesn't stand on his own, tumbles
When one is bent on falling what God can do?
Moreover, the evildoers of politics,
Free from all bonds, not bound by blood money.
Showed dreams of paradise to the poor,
So that they don't wash their wounds, don't weep over bad luck
At last, they wept over bad luck
Good luck of many went to sleep.
*Abdul Jabbar Waheedi, editor Daily Asre Jadid was shot dead by p atrolling army at the door step of his office.
Urdu version - I
Urdu version - II
Urdu version - III
Urdu version - IV
Fireballs rained, the whole city was wailing.
The city aware of the mysteries of stars movement,
Fell a wounded prey in the trap of time.
The one that could see the large wings of Gabriel,
Was a sure sign of dust, rubble and ruine,
Raised flags demanding a separate land,
Separate flower-beds and separate gardens;
Separate quarters for roses and thorns,
The air of the garden must be divided.
Who has seen roses separate from thorns?
Bough has always bowed with the weight of both.
If one is hurt by petals' edge.
Poor thorn is blamed for the scar
But the number of sheep grew in the crowed
The bitter creeper curled on the Neem.
After sowing thorns how can one reap flowers?
How can principles of nature be wiped?
There was fire of hatred and oil of politics,
Death danced on roads and rowdism played its game.
It was a brother's hand and throat too of a brother.
Cry for mercy had no effect on anyone.
Goods, houses and shops were consigned to fire,
Owners of goods and houses because wanderers.
Married women lost their marital bliss,
Like plants in forest fire.
Children orphaned, fathers lost the light of eyes,
Mother's womb reduced to dust, lost pieces of their heart.
Ruins replaced buildings,
Men turned into marks on earth in a moment.
There was so much turmoil in the city,
The havoc turned everyone out of his senses.
Listen! That was the holy month of Ramadan,
There was no rain, heat was soaking blood.
It was a severe testing time for the faithful,
Test of patience, submission, faith and life.
Missed fast, nightly prayers,
Some took early breakfast with blood,
Some became martyers after fasting over fasting
Some peeped from the dead body shroud to see the Id
There were heeps of limbs at places,
As if it was sure repeat of Karbala
It was man's story told by dagger's tongue
There was a canopy of smoke with leaping flames there under.
Rulers in their seats turned stones
The bloody story was written on the streets.
They woke up when things went out of hand
But then they took the devil's side.
People were killed by dagger then, killed by bullets now,
Those who could flee then are trapped now
The same bullet pierced through Wahidi's* chest,
It was victory of bullet and defeat of journalism
Those hiding in homes could not scape,
Troops stormed into houses to flush them out.
Migration began within the city,
It was beginning of the story, division was the end.
Title of the story was written by one's own blood
The rest was written by fate in black.
Culture bowed its head, tore its shirt,
Clean hearts became soiled.
As the time passed the evil bore fruits,
The seed of hatred grew to become a big tree
What a friendly air had the city!
It suddenly turned into poisonous one
The mirror of Hoghly was clean and glistening
Carried dead bodies with shattered hopes.
"Write the luck again in glowing red"
"Nothing is beyond the grasp of my Lord"
"Turn the current of doom anyway"
"Join broken hearts firmly"
But one who doesn't stand on his own, tumbles
When one is bent on falling what God can do?
Moreover, the evildoers of politics,
Free from all bonds, not bound by blood money.
Showed dreams of paradise to the poor,
So that they don't wash their wounds, don't weep over bad luck
At last, they wept over bad luck
Good luck of many went to sleep.
*Abdul Jabbar Waheedi, editor Daily Asre Jadid was shot dead by p atrolling army at the door step of his office.
Urdu version - I
Urdu version - II
Urdu version - III
Urdu version - IV
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)