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A free flowing translation of the original Marathi article by Madhav Moholkar.
Published in his book “Geetyatri”. Originally published in the Diwali issue of the journal ‘A Ba Ka Da Ee’.
Courtesy ALUP

Talat Mahmood has sung memorably “aye gham-e-dil kya karoo”. Click to listen.

It was only after I stepped into Mumbai city that I truly understood the poem ‘Awara’ by Majaz. I used to stay in Hotel Majestic which was located opposite Regal Cinema. And often during those early days in Mumbai I used to step out for long walks in the evenings. And at every step, I remembered Majaz. Especially, when I strolled from Nariman Point and went along the lights on Marine Drive to Chowpatty.

Majaz would have aimlessly walked around these streets - turning wherever the heart pleased … in an unfamiliar city of lights and lonely lanes, his only companion - a heart overwhelmed with unbearable grief …

Shahar Ki Raat Aut Main Naashaad-o-Naakaara Phiroo
Jagmagaati-Jaagati Sadko Pe Awaara Phiroo
Gair Ki Basti Hain Kab Tak Dar-Ba-Dar Maara Phiroo
Aye Gham-E-Dil Kya Karoo, Aye Vahshat-E-Dil Kya Karoo …?

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Sir Syed’s Legacy Celebrated in Northern California
By Ras H. Siddiqui

Sir Syed Day 2005 Celebrations

A group photo of Aligarh Muslim University Alumni Association office bearers and poets who presented their kalam

The Aligarh Muslim University Alumni Association (AMUAA) of Northern California held its annual Sir Syed Day Banquet and International Mushaira (Urdu Poetry Recital) on Saturday, December 3, 2005 at the Chandni Restaurant in Newark to help the local community remember the 19th century light of education and hope that one amazing individual left behind for South Asia’s Muslims. That this light remains lit for many (including Non-Muslims) to take advantage of today through Aligarh Muslim University in Northern India s itestimony to both its strength and continued importance, as many in the post 9/11 Islamic world look for models to emulate and grapple with how to fully participate in the Information Age. Added to that, for those who continue to love the literary treasure chest which is the Urdu language, this annual gathering gives Indians and Pakistanis of the area another opportunity to listen to the poetry by local and international craftsmen (and women) of Urdu who continue to enthrall us with their verses.

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Asrarul Haq Majaz
Photo Courtesy Urdustan.net

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.

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