عجیب داستاں ہے یہ Ajeeb Dastan Hai Ye — This Is A Strange Story

Shailendra

1923– 1966

Geet

A woman is congratulating the man she loves. He has become somebody else's, and she is saying so out loud, in company, without a crack in her voice. She means the congratulations. She also knows what this hour of the evening is going to do to her for the rest of her life.

Shailendra wrote it for Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai in 1960, Shankar and Jaikishan set it, and Lata Mangeshkar sang it. Four couplets ahead, and not one of them raises its voice.

01 — ajeeb dastan hai ye kahan shuru kahan khatam

عجیب داستاں ہے یہ کہاں شروع کہاں ختم
یہ منزلیں ہیں کون سی نہ وہ سمجھ سکے نہ ہم

अजीब दास्तां है ये कहाँ शुरू कहाँ ख़तम
ये मंज़िलें हैं कौन सी न वो समझ सके न हम

ajeeb dastan hai ye kahan shuru kahan khatam
ye manzilen hain kaun si na wo samajh sake na ham

This is a strange story. Where does it start, where does it finish? And these places we have arrived at, what even are they? Neither he understood, and neither did I.

Dastan is a long tale of the old kind, told over many nights, so calling it that makes the thing sound finished and also much larger than either of them. And the last four words share the confusion out equally. Nobody in this song is at fault, which is what makes it hard to be angry at anybody in it.

داستاں dastan: a long story, told over many sittings
منزل manzil: a stage on a journey; also the destination

02 — ye roshni ke saath kyun dhuan utha charagh se

یہ روشنی کے ساتھ کیوں دھواں اٹھا چراغ سے
یہ خواب دیکھتی ہوں میں کہ جاگ پڑی ہوں خواب سے

ये रोशनी के साथ क्यों धुआँ उठा चिराग़ से
ये ख़्वाब देखती हूँ मैं कि जाग पड़ी हूँ ख़्वाब से

ye roshni ke saath kyun dhuan utha charagh se
ye khwab dekhti hoon main ke jaag padi hoon khwab se

Why did smoke come up off the lamp along with the light? Am I seeing this as a dream, or have I just woken out of one?

One flame, and it gives you two things at once whether you wanted the second or not. That is the whole song in an image, and it takes four seconds to sing. Then the second line refuses to settle which state she is in, and jaag padi hoon, I have fallen awake, is the phrase for waking with a jolt rather than gently.

دھواں dhuan: smoke
چراغ charagh: an oil lamp

03 — mubarakein tumhein ke tum kisi ke noor ho gaye

مبارکیں تمہیں کہ تم کسی کے نور ہو گئے
کسی کے اتنے پاس ہو کہ سب سے دور ہو گئے

मुबारकें तुम्हें कि तुम किसी के नूर हो गए
किसी के इतने पास हो कि सब से दूर हो गए

mubarakein tumhein ke tum kisi ke noor ho gaye
kisi ke itne paas ho ke sab se door ho gaye

Congratulations to you. You have become somebody's light. You have come so close to one person that you have gone far away from everybody.

The congratulation is real, which is what makes it unbearable, and noor is the word for light in its holy sense rather than its household one. Then the second line carries the whole blow, and she never appears in it once. She is inside sab, everybody, standing in the general crowd she has just been demoted into. Nobody says goodbye anywhere in this song. This is the goodbye.

مبارک mubarak: blessed; the ordinary word for congratulations
نور noor: light, in its sacred sense

04 — kisi ka pyar leke tum naya jahan basaoge

کسی کا پیار لے کے تم نیا جہان بساؤ گے
یہ شام جب بھی آئے گی تم ہم کو یاد آؤ گے

किसी का प्यार लेके तुम नया जहान बसाओगे
ये शाम जब भी आएगी तुम हम को याद आओगे

kisi ka pyar leke tum naya jahan basaoge
ye shaam jab bhi aayegi tum ham ko yaad aaoge

You will take somebody's love and go and settle a whole new world with it. And whenever this evening comes round again, I will think of you.

Basana is what you do when you settle land and found a village, a word about permanence and building, and she gives him the whole of that. What she keeps is a time of day. She is not asking to be remembered and she does not promise to forget. She simply reports what will happen to her every evening from now on, and the tense is flat enough to sound like a weather forecast.

بسانا basana: to settle, to found somewhere people will live
جہان jahan: a world

Reading it whole

This is a song about congratulating somebody, sincerely, for the thing that has ruined you. There is no accusation anywhere in it and no self-pity either. Mubarakein tumhein, congratulations to you, sits right in the middle of the poem and is said straight, by a person who has to stand in a room and get the words out while other people watch.

The line that does the damage comes immediately after it. You have got so close to somebody that you have gone far away from everybody. Nearness and distance in the same movement, in one line, and she never mentions herself at all. She is inside the word everybody, having just been folded into a crowd she used to be exempt from.

The image that comes before that is stranger than it looks. Why did smoke come off the lamp along with the light? One flame, one moment, two products, and only one of them was the point. Then a line that cannot decide which way round it is: am I dreaming this, or have I just woken up out of a dream? She does not resolve it. Anybody who has had a night like that knows it does not resolve.

And the last couplet does the only thing still available. You will take somebody's love and build a whole new world with it. And every time this evening comes round, I will think of you. She hands him the future in the first line and keeps a time of day in the second. That is the entire settlement, and she is the one proposing it.

Lata Mangeshkar sings it almost without expression, and that flatness is the difficult part. Any more warmth and a woman holding her composure in public becomes a woman failing to.

Recordings

Lata Mangeshkar

From the 1960 film Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai, composed by Shankar and Jaikishan.

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Text and rights

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

The supplied text repeated each line as it is sung on the soundtrack. The repeats are removed here so the couplets read as written.

From the 1960 film Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai, composed by Shankar and Jaikishan.

Shailendra died in 1966, 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 couplet 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.