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We are grateful to Tahira Naqvi for making available this translation.

Original Source:
“Asralul Haq Majaz”. My Friend, My Enemy: Essays, Reminiscences, Portraits. Ismat Chughtai. Translated by Tahira Naqvi. Kali for Women, 2001.

It was a warm, stifling evening. Most of the girls had gone home for the holidays. A few unfortunate ones, who were either too far away from home or who hadn’t been able to find travelling companions, had been left behind and could be observed roaming like petrified swallows in the empty hostel. As soon as it was evening the girls pulled out the large durrie in the common room and spread it on the tennis court. After pillows and blankets had been added a common sleeping area was created and we all began chatting. So what if we couldn’t go home? Just talking about home was enough to make us feel good. But, as talk progressed and reminiscing about life at home gained momentum, the atmosphere became sad and gloomy again. Within minutes everyone was feeling heavyhearted, the strings of recollection were loosened, and in no time we were all lost in thought.
“This summer I’ll go and visit Mamun Abba,” Akhtar said, openly voicing her scheme.
“And we always go to the hills anyway,” Razia informed everyone.
“Kalyan is a very nice place.” Aliya always liked to fly high.
But Mehmuda? The Mehmuda with the black eyes, black hair and black complexion? What will happen to her? She who had no home, no relatives. The hostel was her home, the same expansive hostel, as desolate as a mausoleum, where she always spent her holidays. The feeling of suffocation increased. A void began to grow within our hearts. In this void rose a voice . . . “O my heart’s ache, what shall I do?”
Startled, we looked around and saw that it was the Mehmuda with the fragrant chocolate complexion, who, sitting at a distance from all of us on a corner of the durrie, was humming in her tearful voice.
“O my heart’s sorrow what shall I do?”

This silvery shade, this net of stars on the sky
Like the sufi’s imagination, like the lover’s thought,
Ah! But who will understand, who will know how the heart feels

O my heart’s ache what shall I do, O my heart’s sorrow what shall I do?”

Some of the girls who had been dozing, awoke, their dreams scattered. Surging with emotion, Mehmuda’s voice took on a more melancholic note.

“That yellow moon slipped out from behind a palace,
Like a mullah’s turban, like a money-lender’s register,
Like a poor man’s manhood, like a widow’s youth

O my heart’s ache what shall I do, O my heart’s sorrow what shall I do?”

That was when the stars began to shoot across the sky, tears, forced by a twinge of pain, scattered like a string of pearls and became entangled in the folds of the dupattas, and sighs began to stir the heart. But when the flames rose high, the goblets overflowed, and the wounds in the heart exuded a special fragrance, the drama pushed past the boundaries of poetry and slipped into the area of maudlin lamentation. The scene created could put many muharrams to shame. An extremely mediocre and childish lament it was too. May God forgive us!

Then one of the girls broke into a laugh, and soon another one, and before long all of them were helpless with laughter.
There was a scramble to snatch from Mehmuda the book she had been hiding from us.
“Here Safia, take back your book.” She threw the book at Safia. The book was in danger of becoming tattered.
The name of the poet was hastily sought out in the light of the lantern.
“Hai, akh!” Anwar with the fine nose said in dusgust. “Asrarul Haq!”
“My goodness! What a portly, unattractive name.”
“But what about Majaz [his takhalus]? That’s not so bad.”
“It’s so so.”
“No, no, I think it’s quite sweet.”
So this was the book, titled Ahang [collection of Majaz’s poetry], which had caught us at a very propitious moment and made fools of us all. I felt quite embarrassed. Then, the wicks in the lanterns raised, ‘the pain of the heart’ was thoroughly examined. God save us!

A slim text, price one rupee. Soon thereafter, using the money received at Eid, Baqr Eid, and with money made at the exhibition, the students bought six or maybe seven copies each. Given away as gifts, loans, or to satisfy a need– Ahang was everywhere in the hostel. You would often see three or four students sitting with their heads together in some corner of the garden either ‘crossing the desert with “The Travellers of the Dark Night” [andheri raat ke musafir], or trying to repair the ‘strings of the shattered lute.’ There are two sitting together with “Offering of the Heart” [nazr-e dil] and another four with “The Wanderer” [khana badosh] and some are speeding on with “The Night and the Train” [raat aur rail] while another one, immersed in “Someone’s Remembrance” [kisi ki yaad mein] is lying face down, looking lost and melancholy. On one side “Revolution” is taking place, while in that corner “The Traitor” is receiving abuse. In other words, Ahang overpowered the hearts and minds in such a way that it seemed as if an epidemic had broken out at the hostel. After a while one was sick of hearing about it so much.

“Tsk, why don’t you give your life for him then.”
“Stop studying and living, just go and sit at his door.”
“Tell Safia to arrange your marriage with him.”
“Wah! Why don’t you marry him instead!”
Sarcasm flowed, affronts abounded, a lot of sulking followed.
“This is all carnal lust, as soon as you hear a boy’s name, you are ready to fall in love,” the teacher muttered, pushing up the glasses on her nose. “Mental obscenity.”

There, all the fun came to a halt. The crime was proven. The criminals became fearful. Lips ceased to move, but hearts were tremulous. No one really knew the wretched poet, had no connection with him. But the links forged with poetry were sustained and could not be shattered by the taunts and the abuse that were being showered on the girls by their teachers.
And when a melancholy desolation imbued the atmosphere in the hostel, “the pain of the heart” surged again. Mehmuda’s tremulous voice in a silent nook of the garden. With their heads resting on each other’s shoulders, the girls would become tearful. It seemed as if these verses had pierced their hearts. The same familiar aches, the same old uncertainties. Everything was there.
This was the time when Akhtar Shirani’s [well-known poet] friend Salma had slipped into middle age. Hafiz [Jalandhari] was bent on pontificating in his poetry. Jigar [Muradabadi] spoke of death, but in an outmoded style. And as for Josh [Malihabadi], instead of proving entertaining, his poetry made one fearful. In fact, it was his fiercely overpowering words and ideas and the nadirshahi [autocratic] type of commands he issued that made one feel extremely apprehensive. But Majaz, on the other hand, was like a relative; it seemed as if we belonged to the same tribe, to the same family perhaps.

But who knows where the evil eye came from and the string of ill fortune was loosened. We heard that Majaz had a job in the radio and he now assembled the Aligarh girls to take them to the radio station so they can broadcast lectures.

And then we heard that he had been dismissed from his job at the radio station.
And then we heard he didn’t do anything.
And then we heard that he did nothing at all.
And then we heard that he didn’t even do anything.
A good-for-nothing person!

When Majaz left the radio a strange type of bird of prey fell upon him and took him away. There is a class in Hindustan that only performs the important functions of eating and drinking. In everyday lingo it’s referred to as the khata pita tabqa [well-fed class]. A great many earnest types belong to this class whose new generation, having tired of spending leisure time with prostitutes, the old pastime of their forefathers, has now begun to derive pleasure from literature. Instead of Munni Jaan [generically, a prostitute], it is writers and poets who are now patronized in the assemblies held by this class. God knows what Majaz ate among these people and what he drank, but he quickly became sluggish and dozed off. Who can tell how Majaz got ensnared and what that large dreadful cage was in which he got his wings caught; all we know is that even though he was alive he began to be regarded as one of the dead.

Majaz is like a delicate plant. If he gets the clean fresh air of an open garden he will thrive, but if he gets himself tangled in cactus and wild grass he will be reduced to a dried up stump.

And then we heard that there were some worms crawling inside Majaz’s head. A little later those worms developed and became crocodiles, and by God’s grace Majaz stepped into the first stage of melancholia.
And then we heard that by God’s grace, he was done for. Inna Lillah wa inna Allehi ra- je Un [the ayat recited on hearing of someone’s death] Unh! There, that’s it then. His troubles are over. When there’s no oil in the lamp, it is extinguished, and when a poet or a writer loses his voice he dies. So, for the time being, Majaz also died!

“The aching heart” was in tears. The “heart’s sorrow” was shamed. “Dreams of childhood” became shadows, were dimmed and then were erased altogether. A few copies of Ahang were found here and there, then they became soiled and frayed and finally they were lost. Who is going to look for them. Unh!

Who knows what the extent of Majaz’s suffering was. But how much can be hidden from a piercing gaze? Majaz’s secret was not concealed from any one. Peer into the mirror of any young man and you will see Majaz there. Every sorrow you glimpse there will reveal the secret of Majaz’s sorrow. Still, whatever Majaz personally observed he expressed in the assemblies of singers and musicians:
And when there he saw heavenly loveliness in the lap of luxurious sofas and the true purpose of the poet’s life dawned on him and he thought, ‘Well at least I have so much support that, “My song is a source of pleasure for the beloved/ My weeping is the reason for the joy of her heart.”
And to crave more than this is futile. There was praise and there was criticism, but not as much as had been hoped for. In the beloved’s assembly the poet received praise to his heart’s content, but that helpless man who was surreptitiously following him like a shadow was left with nothing. The poet desired “Wah!” and he got it, the man desired “Ahh!” and he didn’t get it.

And when the man suffered defeat the poet crumbled and wept as well.
Majaz’s appearance is as full of conundrums as his life. It’s just as difficult to create images with words as it is to draw circles in the air. There’s such a profusion of odd expressions on his face that his features are no longer what they were. The eyes are there, but it’s difficult to say what’s hidden in their depths. A faint reflection of helplessness but also a yearning to be creative, some courage still to demolish a thing or two, some worries and fears that cling to every young man these days as if they are his birthright.

And there’s a nose that is no longer straight. Majaz is a strange sort of coward. His timid mouth testifies to its owner’s sentimental and sensitive temperament. His hands and feet are in proportion to his features, but he has a full head of hair on one side of which a khadar cap used to sit precariously, in constant danger of falling off. And perhaps the poor thing did fall off somewhere and was swept along the “defiant current” flowing from the Himalayas, its place taken by a furry tea-cosie style cap. But that too was also blown away by red or yellow dust storms and today, as I’m writing these lines, there is nothing atop Majaz’s head.

On the one hand he can use his pen to cause winds of blood to blow and make a red storm rage, but he will burst into tears at the sight of cruelty to a mouse. Not too long ago, when the cutting up of the country was being celebrated with great pomp and show and a real, live holi of was played, his emotional self crouched fearfully in a corner. When his eyes, that had longed to see the world joined in a single bond, witnessed instead human skulls being cracked on the streets with rocks as if they were coconuts, he was shaken to the core of his being. He fainted and remained unconscious for hours and for days afterward he couldn’t place a morsel of food in his mouth.
Actually, I don’t know Majaz that well at all. I mean I have looked for and found Majaz in his poetry. That is because I first made my acquaintance with him through his poetry and when I met the poet in person I imagined him to be the individual that his verses had spelled out for me. In his personality I saw the other Majazes of my time. The truth is that Majaz was not alone as he spoke out against all the suffering of his time, the fears, the hurdles, the limitations, and he spoke out in a very loud voice. But for some reason he has fallen flat on his face.

Truth and lies are the narrator’s responsibility, but it is said that when he was doing very well he fell in love in a big way. God help us! He fell for a beloved of dubious background who, because of her nature, fell in love easily, but failed Majaz when her love was tested. And well, in truth, love is blind, but qazis are not blind. Anyway, we don’t know what really happened, but the dwindling flame on his face declares that whatever happened wasn’t all that wonderful.

Look, who says don’t fall in love. After all, the connection between youth and love is one of eternal proximity. But the young men of today don’t really know how to love. In the early days, people fell in love and continued to love forever. But lovers today are a strange mix indeed; one cannot guess if they are truly sick with love or are suffering from a thousand ailments under whose shadow they have camouflaged their love. And Majaz has the good fortune to be one of those young men of Hindustan who, fortunately or unfortunately, belong to the middle class and who, despite being involved in life’s problems, constraints, and obstacles are engaged in a courageous battle against them. Thorns appear constantly in their way and they fearlessly lay their bosoms upon their sharp ends. Just think. How can these individuals know how to love properly?

Who knows if it was indeed love or a jihad [holy war] against worldly vicissitudes that had been transformed into a flame in Majaz’s heart. There are restrictions on the way you walk, the way you talk, how and what you eat – in short, it’s a restriction on living! And when you are being pulled in different directions like this how can you love or write poetry about love? The days when poets loved freely and wrote poetry as well are no more. Now there’s a police baton hanging around love’s neck, while hands are busy making a living, the feet are being dragged along in the chains of bondage. Not one but a thousand specters cling to your being. And a sensitive nature will not tolerate any criticism. Under these circumstances is it surprising that poetry becomes a jumble instead of a daastan [narrative] of love and beauty? This is why love and politics appear to be so deeply intertwined in Majaz’s poetry. You see, if there are so many “restrictions” in life, how can you live? In this case “Take not just my song, take from me my instrument as well.”

But if that could happen what would one be crying about? Who wants to really give up the instrument? And then the same old hackneyed lament, “To go back, to retreat, that is not my custom.”

And then this defenselessness and these deprivations were transformed into doggedness. The four-day employment at the radio station came to an end, a slap in the face.

“What can I say, how eagerly I came to your assembly
Leaving behind the thousand assemblies of Aligarh!”
And now, “Ah, I leave your maikada [house of drinking] without taking a drink from there.”

But even as he leaves he doesn’t refrain from expressing his audacity, “Once again I will return to your enchanting assembly,” not simply, however; with great pomp and show. “From head to toe I will be a blood-soaked melody when I return” he says.

So, one doesn’t quite know whether Majaz experienced a straightforward love affair or if this was the same dream that a young man of today is accustomed to dreaming in his sleeping and waking hours. A dream that is never realized. He wishes to bring home a real and beautiful flesh and blood bride. Or is it that he has transformed the desire to reshape the world according to his wishes into the image of a bride. His love has become cemented to the world and its order in such a way that the two can no longer be separated. He knows that no home can be illuminated by the glowing countenance of a moon-faced bride until the mantle of ghastly widowhood is removed from the face of the nation. He sings the song about the beloved’s radiant cheeks and chants the dirge about the dark clouds that are suspended on her illuminated countenance all in one breath. And this is why the heavy padlocks hanging all around him stifle his breath. He gnashes his teeth as he pounds the padlocks with a hammer.

There is one element found in Majaz that is not as fully developed in the works of other poets. His concept of the female and the beloved is extremely unusual and very different from the traditional construct generally found in poetry. In classical poetry the beloved is a beauty nonpareil who exhibits a certain style and is accustomed to employing specific devices every now and then. But all these characteristics seemed strange; one couldn’t quite understand if the person mentioned was the beloved or some tyrannical and cruel emperor who had been written into the texture of the romantic ghazal. And then I think that these poets were surely very progressive, but perhaps they weren’t able to open their mouths because of their fear of the emperor and they used the beloved to give vent to their real feelings. Anyway, their work abounds with exquisite diction and wonderful similes, but there is no real human beauty to be seen anywhere.

Majaz is the poet whose beloved belongs to the real world. “She lives in the same world which I inhabit,” he says. The same woman whom you see walking around every day. Not only did he avoid labelling her a woman, he also called her astute. Along with her beauty

“Her astutement surprises me, he says.” And instead of making one drink the heart’s blood and compelling one to partake of a piece of the liver, she talks rather sensibly and . . . “Whenever she glimpsed expressions of anxiety on my face/ She comforted me, she eased my worries.” But what does he mean when he says“No one other than me can find her imprint, /Reflected in my verses is her wisdom?”

May God help us! This is not an illusion created by Majaz’s poetic imagination, is it? And is his entire struggle an attempt on his part to realize a dream by personifying it in the person of this flesh and blood woman whom I know so well? Without whom his own being remains incomplete and bewildered? For a meeting with whom he and his nation suffer while bound in the chains of bondage? Whom he calls out to, screaming,“Come, let us together create revolution anew/ And overwhelm the world for all to see.”

But it’s difficult to accept that he’s saying all this to an illusion created by his imagination. The “young woman” is not an illusory figure, she’s a woman who is not just a candle illuminating the haram [secluded quarters] and the home, but is also a companion. Who is not a weight carried on the shoulders during life’s race, but shares the weight by carrying half of it on her shoulders as she walks alongside her partner. Whose purpose in life is not to “live in reticence and die behind the veil.”

It is popularly held that when a woman leaves the home to work, her femininity and her beauty are destroyed. She becomes businesslike and uninteresting, she loses all her feminine charm and grace. In Majaz’z view, whether you keep something beautiful outside or inside, it will remain beautiful. The thing is that Majaz has seen women who are educated, who take part in worldly affairs and haven’t been deprived of their femininity. They do not regard love and romance to be taboo, and despite loud protests from petty-minded people, the woman in Majaz’s imagination has stepped into the world, is making good progress, and Majaz’s plea that “The rebellious youths have drawn their swords, but/ How much better if they had picked up the scalpel” has not fallen on deaf ears. Women now realize that “The anchal on your forehead is beautiful,” but “How much better if you had turned the anchal into a banner.”

But I’m surprised that when Majaz cried out “Come let us together create revolution anew” there was no one who took up his challenge, no one paid any attention to his invitations. Oh, who listens to these useless messages? People say that women are in the majority in Hindustan. That might be true, but only in the marriage market where, because of the expense, not everybody can shop. The merchandise sits there, rotting, while on the other side those with empty pockets stare blankly at it or, they can buy a ticket in the black market and soar through the seven skies in uran khatolas [flying cots]. It is true that “no one is not fated to find a soul mate.”

I have not observed Majaz closely and have seen him only three or four times, but each time it was at a different stage in his life. The first time was in 1939 when Majaz was at the peak of his career, when members of the younger generation made Ahang popular and lovingly clasped the book to their bosoms. When lotteries were held in Majaz’s name in girls’ colleges and, his book hidden under their pillows, girls soaked his verses with their tears, when unmarried girls made firm resolves to name their unborn sons after him. Why, no one knew. One day Safia and I, scraping our knees as we walked through a field of brambles, arrived at Mehmud Sahib’s residence and saw Majaz here. Every now and then two sparks would fly from the confines of the gate-like collar of a coat – we knew the man in the coat was Majaz. Unusually quiet, non-communicative. And I thought, ‘Well, poets are such a peculiar breed. How slowly he moves, he who created the intensely dynamic velocity of the train speeding through the dark of the night.’ But now I think that if Majaz had not been a successful poet certainly his own pace would have been akin to that of the train. The principle is that either it is the body that runs or it’s the brain. Just recently I read that poem again and I could clearly see the train thundering far away in the mountains in all its booming grandeur. But suddenly that ferrous illusion melted and metamorphosed into an blurred shadow, leading one to the realization that this was not a train at all, but Majaz’s passionate soul and his romantic imagination that had just swiftly and glamorously thundered past.

Suddenly “But I continue to advance toward my destination” echoed in my head and I guessed what his dogged stratagem was. By making others run and by loosening the reigns of his own imagination he stills the agitation caused by his own need for action. He thinks for those who have to act. And he himself? He is motionless, absolutely silent, as stationary as water.

We hardly talked when I met him at Mehmud Sahib’s house. We discussed a point for a few seconds.

I said, “You’re very conservative.”
“Why?” he asked.
“You reveal in “The Nurse’s Ministration” [nars ki charah gari],” I said, “that when you stole that pleasurable thing from Nora’s lips you thought that she would act coy and bashful like the old fashioned beloved, but when she burst into a laugh you thought of her as shameless, because the lamp of modesty that you have lit up with your conservatism, was threatened with extinction.”
He said, “Perhaps that’s true, but endorsing bashfulness does not necessarily indicate conservatism.”

I said, “There’s no harm in being bashful or modest, but if she doesn’t naturally feel shy and she puts on an act just for your benefit, well in that case . . .”

“My God protect us!” he interjected. “Certainly that was not my intent.”

Everyone began laughing at this and the question was left unresolved. Afterward Majaz and Mehmud Sahib came out with lanterns to accompany Safia and I to our gate. At the gate Majaz said jokingly, “Look, you should invite us over some day.”

“It will be our pleasure if you come, but tie a tawa [flat surfaced pan] to your head before you come because the chowkidar’s [gatekeeper’s] stick has a ferule mounting.”

“How long will you people submit to this kind of surveillance?” he asked.
“As long as you wish.”
“We?” It was Mehmud Sahib’s turn to get upset.
“I apologize. I mean people of your tribe who regard themselves guardians of our behavior.”
“So fight with them instead,” Majaz said.
“Not yet,” I said. “Inshallah when we have some time we will.” And with that Safia and I dove into the gate.

Four or five years passed. We would occasionally get flying rumors about Majaz and then, suddenly, I ran into him at the radio station one day. This was the time when Majaz’s star had set and he had started slipping toward the ranks of the ancients. He was able to stay on his feet because he had some savings set aside, thank God. If it hadn’t been for Ahang he would have been finished a long time ago.

There was a mushaira at the radio station that we were also attending. All the poets were assembled but the honorable gentleman was nowhere to be found. Following a discreet inquiry the organizers of the mushaira revealed that he was indulging in his “habit.” My goodness!

Luckily before the mushaira started people brought the honorable gentleman in and propped him in a chair. Now observe his appearance. A dirty chust [tight] pajama, the type a menial might wear, over it a shabby overcoat, a jacket muffler wrapped around his neck, and perched on his head a tea-cosie. Wah!

When he had the microphone God knows what he started to babble about. A fiery sword bubbled in his heart like lava. The pupils of his eyes had no respite - one was directed at the earth the other toward the sky, one to the left sometimes, the other to the right. With power-driven swiftness he repeatedly used one hand to adjust a lock of matted hair from his forehead that kept falling back stubbornly. Now began the harmonious recitation. God knows what he was saying and why. His recitation was interspersed with lectures accompanied by a fierce gnashing of his teeth. In the heat of his oratory he moved far away from the microphone and when he was requested to return to his place he was offended and refused to continue.

“What’s the matter with his mouth?” I asked Shahid. “Does he have a tooth ache?”
“No, he’s always had this problem, it’s something in his jaw,” Shahid replied.
“No, not at all, he wasn’t like this before,” I said, offended by Shahid’s answer. I couldn’t believe that Majaz’s jaw had always been like this. Certainly Shahid was teasing.

And that day I did get very upset. On our way out we ran into Majaz Sahib. So much chatter there was — my God! What long sentences, unending, one clambering on top of another. Also, I am somewhat wary of anyone who is drunk because who knows when he might decide to take a swing at you; at least that’s what I’ve heard about these people. And as for him, well it would seem that a bag of barley had been opened up and there was grain spilling out in fistfuls. We couldn’t get a word in. We couldn’t interject with “It’s very difficult to get a tonga in Dehli city at night and it’s already past eleven, please let us go now.”

Thank God he suddenly decided to be merciful. “I’ll come over in the morning,” he said.

To begin with, the mushaira was rather disappointing, and to make matters worse, one had to contend with the blunders Majaz had made. That night we talked about Majaz late into the night and then, after saying fateha [blessing for the dead] for his soul, we fell asleep.

The next morning, around six or so, he appeard! And he was much more garrulous than the night before. He had a great deal to say and words emerged from his mouth as if someone had filled his mouth with dry barley flakes; whenever he spoke it was as if he were attempting to practice blowing with his mouth. His jaw had tensed up even more.

You will find Majaz extremely clumsy as far as conversation is concerned. Sometimes, he will respond to everything you say in the negative and you can make him sit with you for a whole hour without getting anything more than an inch-long sentence out of him. On another occasion, you won’t be able to talk to anyone except Majaz, nor will you be able to hear what anyone else has to say. The moment he’ll see you he will put a lock on your lips and take hold of your ears, and whether you understand what he is saying or not, he will then embark on providing seemingly appropriate answers to his own questions.

Usually he’s like this when he’s taken a plunge in the ocean of mysticism. My second meeting, unfortunately, occurred when he was in this state. A flood of conversation deluged us. As he was speaking he choked and apologizing, said, “My throat is a bit dry,” and proceeded to take out a bottle from his pocket.

“It’s not something objectionable,” he said, “it’s just rose extract. It will clear my throat.” He took two gulps, replaced the cog and put the bottle back into his pocket.
“Yes, what was I saying . . .”
And with that the train sped with full force and I realized that it wasn’t really a train it was Majaz’s tongue that had gone into motion, “With the speed of a horse that has burst from its reins/ Leaping over ravines, racing past rocks.”

Whenever I read this she’r [couplet] I felt as if someone was forcing feelings to race at the speed of lightening, that emotions had begun to fly with the swiftness of a train, and the mind was taking giant leaps. I wanted to shut Majaz up so that this lava would be prevented from pouring out of his mouth as nonsense. But a cog can only be fitted into the mouth of a bottle when the bottle is intact. Not only that, if it is broken and is shattered, it might lacerate the hand.

So no one succeeded in shutting him up. And the pearls were squandered. I say pearls because Majaz’s language is uncluttered and chaste. In ordinary conversation, sentences that are well balanced and characterized by double entendre fall effortlessly from his mouth. His words really shine, however, when he is in Josh’s company. It seems as if the two are engaged in a kite-flying competition; short but double-edged, their sentences have the ability to cut, but they never become tangled with each other.

I was wrong to say that Majaz is accustomed to diving into the sea of mysticism. I actually meant that he drinks, and drinks to the extent of making himself look very silly. While he is drinking, all he is concerned about is getting down as much alcohol as he can in the shortest possible time and is anxious to consume more than anyone else present. As a result, he ends up in a bad way. At the time it doesn’t seem like much, but later this permanent shower of fire directed on the liver and the intestines reduces any chances of sustaining good health. Perhaps this is the life threatening disease that has ravaged the body and dulled the brain. He’s all skin and bones now.

So this second meeting eradicated whatever interest I had left in him. We could repudiate stories we heard from the others, but when we witnessed his behavior first hand we earned the right to earnestly say the fatiha for him.

After a long wait tea arrived and his babble diminished somewhat. A few questions were directed at him from our side at that time. “How come you are here so early in the morning?” for example. His reply was that he had got into a tonga the night before after we left and had been roaming in the city since then. The tongawallah had been told to stop wherever he wished and along the way other people had been awakened and graced with a meeting as well.

Then, finding himself in a good mood, he started reciting a nazm [poem], but with so many interruptions that I felt I was losing my mind. When the sun came up he lost some of his energy and became less chatty. A little later we went out, but he stopped on the way and struck up such a lengthy conversation with a bookseller that we finally abandoned him there and returned home.

There was no news of him after this, nor did we actively seek out any information about him. Then, a few months ago, we heard that some devotees had brought him to Bombay. This wasn’t so bad since he might be able to force himself to do something of worth here. And now when I ran into him the third time I couldn’t recognize him. It seemed as if he had lived through a thousand storms and hurricanes that had erased his ability to experience feelings and emotions. It was as if this individual didn’t hear anything, that he didn’t think, nor did he entertain any plans to think or hear in the future. One would imagine that some terrible disease had numbed him and a close scrutiny of his face led one to suspect that this man didn’t really know if he was dead or alive; his eyes revealed an immeasurable detachment that said he recognized no one.

I saw him many times after this, each time in a different setting. He was just as apathetic. He would eat when people were eating, he would walk if people were walking, sit down if that’s what the others were doing, and when people were leaving he would quietly slip out behind them. His presence and his absence were all the same. His body was there, but one couldn’t figure out where the rest of him was. If he were made to stand among poets, he would recite his poetry in a dry, cracked tone, the voice so unstable it seemed to have travelled a great distance, teetering and tottering as it got here. And one was afraid to applaud for fear he might be blown off the stage by the force of the applause.

Unfortunately Majaz has found some odd companions who carry him around as if he were made of glass. But ah, what artfulness! The moment this glass sahib gets a chance he immediately strikes his head against a rock.
People advised him to make money, suggesting that would solve all his problems. He wrote a few songs for the films and earned some money.

Just recently Majaz has become convinced that he is surrounded by people who are divine protectors and who won’t allow him to escape so easily. At first he became extremely agitated and then he threatened these people by proclaiming that if they didn’t leave him alone he would depart from the world. Now, when he’s somewhat reluctant to re-appear, they’re dragging him out of the cave of oblivion with blatant force. It seems they will perhaps succeed in getting him out of there.

This is why whenever you run into Majaz he looks at you as if he’s saying, “Yes, yes, I do remember we’ve met before.” And the strangerthat Majaz had become is slowly slipping away, those Aligarh and Lucknow associations that had been almost forgotten, are slowly being revived. A mild tremor has shaken his being. Now we have to see when he comes back to life again.

Actually, by completing just a small book Majaz has endowed poetry with so much that it is not difficult at all to include him among Hindustan’s topnotch poets. But that does not mean that for the rest of his life he should do nothing but rest on his laurels. He can’t even if he wants to. If he tries to sleep in these harrowing, unsettled times, his eyes may very well be shut, but he won’t be asleep. The world is spinning at such ferocious speed — how long can one maintain this fast of silence?

God knows what I have put in this essay. Perhaps there is a thing or two here that Majaz will find objectionable. But I’ve heard that if Majaz is faced with something objectionable, he represses his rage, he doesn’t react verbally at all. Anyway, I don’t care. If he doesn’t like something I’ve written, that’s all right. As a matter of fact, I do want him to get upset, so upset that he becomes enraged, his pen erupting in a shower of words. And I know that whatever drops from his pen will be even better than Ahang because there’s a world of difference between the Majaz of today and the Majaz of ten years ago. The old Majaz was a passionate, rebellious youth and now he is a tired, spent man. He was a turbulent, gushing waterfall, now he is a river that has been dammed.

And now we’ll see what happens when this dam bursts.

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