آج جانے کی ضد نہ کرو Aaj Jaane Ki Zid Na Karo — Don't Insist On Leaving Tonight

Fayyaz Hashmi

1920– 2011

Nazm

Somebody is getting up to go, and somebody else cannot let them. That is the whole situation. There is no quarrel behind it and no history, and the song never says who these two are to each other or when they will next meet. All you get is that it is very late, and that one of them cannot bear the ending.

Fayyaz Hashmi spent his whole working life writing for films, words made to be heard once in a dark hall rather than read off a page. Most people could hum his lines and could not name the man. Five stanzas ahead. Each one finds a new reason for the same request, and the reasons get more desperate as the night goes on.

01 — aaj jaane ki zid na karo

آج جانے کی ضد نہ کرو
یوں ہی پہلو میں بیٹھے رہو
ہائے مر جائیں گے ہم تو لٹ جائیں گے
ایسی باتیں کیا نہ کرو

आज जाने की ज़िद न करो
यूँ ही पहलू में बैठे रहो
हाए मर जाएँगे हम तो लुट जाएँगे
ऐसी बातें किया न करो

aaj jaane ki zid na karo
yuun hi pahlu men baithe raho
haae mar jaenge ham to lut jaenge
aisi baaten kiya na karo

Don't insist on going tonight. Just stay sitting here beside me. I will die, I will be ruined — please don't say things like that.

Zid is not a decision, it is a sulk. Calling the departure zid files it as a mood somebody is being difficult about rather than something they have thought through. And yuun hi means just as you are, for no particular reason, so the request is for nothing to happen, only for nothing to change. Then the third line jumps straight to dying and being ruined. The occasion is a person standing up to leave, and the reaction is sized for a catastrophe. That gap is where the comedy is, and it never closes.

ضد zid: a stubborn insistence; a sulk rather than a decision
پہلو pahlu: the side of the body; the space beside someone

02 — tum hi socho zara kyuun na roken tumhen

تم ہی سوچو ذرا کیوں نہ روکیں تمہیں
جان جاتی ہے جب اٹھ کے جاتے ہو تم
تم کو اپنی قسم جانِ جاں
بات اتنی مری مان لو

तुम ही सोचो ज़रा क्यूँ न रोकें तुम्हें
जान जाती है जब उठ के जाते हो तुम
तुम को अपनी क़सम जान-ए-जाँ
बात इतनी मिरी मान लो

tum hi socho zara kyuun na roken tumhen
jaan jaati hai jab uth ke jaate ho tum
tum ko apni qasam jaan-e-jaan
baat itni miri maan lo

You think about it — why wouldn't I stop you? Something in me dies each time you stand up and go. I swear it on you, my life: grant me this one small thing.

The argument gets handed straight over: you tell me why I shouldn't. Then comes an oath. Swearing on your own life is ordinary enough in Urdu, and this oath is sworn on the other person instead, which admits the thing the song will not say out loud. Then the ask shrinks, to make it easier to grant. Baat itni, only this much.

قسم qasam: an oath; swearing a thing on someone you love
جان جاں jaan-e-jaan: life of my life

03 — vaqt ki qaid men zindagi hai magar

وقت کی قید میں زندگی ہے مگر
چند گھڑیاں یہی ہیں جو آزاد ہیں
ان کو کھو کر ابھی جانِ جاں
عمر بھر نہ ترستے رہو

वक़्त की क़ैद में ज़िंदगी है मगर
चंद घड़ियाँ यही हैं जो आज़ाद हैं
उन को खो कर अभी जान-ए-जाँ
'उम्र भर ना तरसते रहो

vaqt ki qaid men zindagi hai magar
chand ghadiyan yahi hain jo aazad hain
un ko kho kar abhi jaan-e-jaan
umr bhar na taraste raho

Life is a prisoner of time — but these few hours are the only free ones there are. Lose them now, my life, and you will spend the rest of your years wanting them back.

The argument changes shape. The pleading stops and a general claim takes over: everything runs on a clock, and this evening is the one exception. Then it turns back outward. You will regret this, not me. It is as close as the song gets to a threat, and it arrives dressed as concern.

قید qaid: captivity, being held prisoner
گھڑیاں ghadiyan: hours; short measures of time
ترسنا tarasna: to long for something out of reach

04 — kitna masum-o-rangin hai ye samaan

کتنا معصوم و رنگیں ہے یہ سماں
حسن اور عشق کی آج معراج ہے
کل کی کس کو خبر جانِ جاں
روک لو آج کی رات کو

कितना मा'सूम-ओ-रंगीन है ये समाँ
हुस्न और 'इश्क़ की आज मे'राज है
कल की किस को ख़बर जान-ए-जाँ
रोक लो आज की रात को

kitna masum-o-rangin hai ye samaan
husn aur ishq ki aaj meraj hai
kal ki kis ko khabar jaan-e-jaan
rok lo aaj ki raat ko

How innocent this moment is, and how full of colour. Tonight beauty and love have reached their highest point. Who knows anything about tomorrow, my life — hold tonight where it is.

Meraj is the Prophet's ascent, the highest a thing can go. Using it for one evening between two people is an enormous claim, and it is made in passing. Then the last line asks for the one thing nobody can give: stop the night. Four stanzas have gone by asking one person not to leave. Asking that same person to stop time tells you the first request has already failed.

سماں samaan: the scene, the atmosphere of a moment
معراج meraj: the ascent; the highest point something can reach

05 — gesuon ki shikan hai abhi shabnami

گیسوؤں کی شکن ہے ابھی شبنمی
اور پلکوں کے سائے بھی مدہوش ہیں
حسنِ معصوم کو جانِ جاں
بے خودی میں رسوا نہ کرو

गेसुओं की शिकन है अभी शबनमी
और पलकों के साए भी मदहोश हैं
हुस्न-ए-मा'सूम को जान-ए-जाँ
बे-ख़ुदी में रुस्वा न करो

gesuon ki shikan hai abhi shabnami
aur palkon ke saae bhi madhosh hain
husn-e-masum ko jaan-e-jaan
be-khudi men rusva na karo

The curl in your hair is still damp with dew, and the shadows your lashes throw are still drowsy. Don't disgrace that innocent beauty, my life, by not being yourself.

The arguing gives out and the looking takes over. The damp curl, the heavy lashes. Both details say the evening is not finished yet, that the night is still sitting on the skin. Then the last line does something odd. Be-khudi means being outside yourself, and it is used here to suggest that whoever is walking out is not the real one. It is the gentlest possible way of saying you don't mean this.

گیسو gesu: a long lock of hair
شبنمی shabnami: dewy, damp with night dew
بے خودی be-khudi: being beside yourself; not in possession of your own senses
رسوا rusva: disgraced, shown up in public

Reading it whole

This is what asking sounds like when you already know the answer. Nothing in the song is a negotiation. There is no leverage anywhere in it, no threat, no bargain, nothing offered in exchange. Just a person finding one more reason, and then another, to keep somebody in a chair a few minutes longer.

The reasons climb as the night goes on, which is the saddest thing about them. It starts as plain pleading. Then look what this does to me. Then a claim about time itself: these few hours are the only ones nobody owns, and once they are spent they are gone for good. By the fourth stanza it is no longer company being asked for. It is a request that the night be stopped, and you can hear in it that the earlier asking is already spent. He is not bargaining anymore. He is trying to stop the clock.

Then the arguing stops and the looking starts. A curl of hair still damp, the shadow thrown by lowered lashes. And a request not to disgrace all that in be-khudi, in not-being-yourself. After five stanzas of wanting her to stay, he is suddenly protecting her from the blame for leaving. Whatever is driving this departure, it is not really you.

Every stanza ends with something the other person should not do. Do not insist. Do not talk like that. Do not spend the rest of your life wanting these hours back. Do not let the night go. Do not disgrace it. There is no power here to make anybody stay, so the only grammar left is the negative. And across five stanzas of asking, the word that never once appears is stay.

Farida Khanum's recording is the one nearly everybody means, and the way that first line gets held there has become part of the poem. Habib Wali Mohammad got to it first, singing it for the Pakistani film Badal Aur Bijli.

Recordings

Farida Khanum

The reading everyone means. The first line is held so long that the holding has become part of the song.
Habib Wali Mohammad

The earlier one, sung for the Pakistani film Badal Aur Bijli. Lighter, and quicker to move on.

Text and rights

Devanagari text supplied and checked by a reader who knows the language. The Urdu script and the transliteration follow that reading.

Concert announcements often call this a ghazal, but it is not one — the stanzas run four lines each and there is no couplet-by-couplet rhyme scheme underneath. It is a sung nazm.

Fayyaz Hashmi died in 2011, so this poem is still in copyright. It is quoted here as the subject of Harf's own criticism: the translation, the reading of each stanza and the essay around them are original work written for this page. If you hold the rights and would like something changed, tell us on Instagram.