چودھویں کا چاند ہو یا آفتاب ہو Chaudhvin Ka Chand Ho Ya Aaftab Ho — Are You The Full Moon, Or The Sun

Shakeel Badayuni

1916– 1970

Geet

A man is looking at somebody and cannot decide what he is looking at. Is it the full moon, or is it the sun? He gives up trying to settle it and falls back on the one thing he is certain of: whatever you are, I swear to God, there is no answer to you.

Shakeel Badayuni wrote it for the 1960 film that ended up taking its name from the song. Ravi set it, Mohammad Rafi sang it, and on screen it is Guru Dutt looking at Waheeda Rehman. Four passages ahead, and every one of them is a man failing to find the right comparison.

01 — chaudhvin ka chand ho ya aaftab ho

چودھویں کا چاند ہو یا آفتاب ہو
جو بھی ہو تم خدا کی قسم لاجواب ہو

चौदहवीं का चाँद हो या आफ़ताब हो
जो भी हो तुम ख़ुदा की क़सम लाजवाब हो

chaudhvin ka chand ho ya aaftab ho
jo bhi ho tum khuda ki qasam lajawab ho

Are you the moon of the fourteenth night, or are you the sun? Whichever it is, I swear to God, there is nothing to say to you.

He opens by getting it wrong twice and then giving up, which is a much better compliment than getting it right. Jo bhi ho, whatever you are, concedes that he does not know, and the oath that wraps around it, khuda ki qasam, I swear to God, makes the surrender sound chosen rather than defeated.

چودھویں کا چاند chaudhvin ka chand: the moon of the fourteenth night; the full moon
آفتاب aaftab: the sun
لاجواب lajawab: matchless; taken apart, without an answer

02 — zulfen hain jaise kaandhe pe baadal jhuke hue

زلفیں ہیں جیسے کاندھے پہ بادل جھکے ہوئے
آنکھیں ہیں جیسے مے کے پیالے بھرے ہوئے
مستی ہے جس میں پیار کی تم وہ شراب ہو

ज़ुल्फ़ें हैं जैसे काँधे पे बादल झुके हुए
आँखें हैं जैसे मय के पयाले भरे हुए
मस्ती है जिस में प्यार की तुम वो शराब हो

zulfen hain jaise kaandhe pe baadal jhuke hue
aankhen hain jaise mai ke payale bhare hue
masti hai jis mein pyar ki tum wo sharab ho

Your hair is like clouds bent low over a shoulder. Your eyes are like wine cups filled to the brim. And you are the wine that has love's own intoxication in it.

Clouds bent over a shoulder, not resting on it, which gives the hair weight and gives the cloud a reason to be there. Then two wine images in a row, one for the eyes and one for the whole person, and the second overrides the first. She was holding the cups a line ago. Now she is what is in them.

پیالہ payala: a cup or bowl
مستی masti: intoxication; being carried past caring

03 — chehra hai jaise jheel mein khilta hua kanwal

چہرہ ہے جیسے جھیل میں کھلتا ہوا کنول
یا زندگی کے ساز پہ چھیڑی ہوئی غزل
جانِ بہار تم کسی شاعر کا خواب ہو

चेहरा है जैसे झील में खिलता हुआ कँवल
या ज़िंदगी के साज़ पे छेड़ी हुई ग़ज़ल
जान-ए-बहार तुम किसी शायर का ख़्वाब हो

chehra hai jaise jheel mein khilta hua kanwal
ya zindagi ke saaz pe chhedi hui ghazal
jaan-e-bahar tum kisi shair ka khwab ho

Your face is like a lotus opening in a lake. Or a ghazal struck up on the instrument of life. Life of the spring, you are some poet's dream.

The or at the start of the second line is the honest part. He offers a picture, is not satisfied, and immediately offers a sound instead. A ghazal being played only exists while somebody is playing it, which makes it the least reliable thing he has compared her to and the one he keeps. Chhedna, to strike up, is literally to tease or provoke, so even the music is being flirted with.

کنول kanwal: a lotus
ساز saaz: a musical instrument
جانِ بہار jaan-e-bahar: life of the spring; the thing that makes the season what it is

04 — honton pe khelti hain tabassum ki bijliyan

ہونٹوں پہ کھیلتی ہیں تبسم کی بجلیاں
سجدے تمہاری راہ میں کرتی ہیں کہکشاں
دنیائے حسن و عشق کا تم ہی شباب ہو

होंटों पे खेलती हैं तबस्सुम की बिजलियाँ
सज्दे तुम्हारी राह में करती हैं कहकशाँ
दुनिया-ए-हुस्न-ओ-इश्क़ का तुम ही शबाब हो

honton pe khelti hain tabassum ki bijliyan
sajde tumhari raah mein karti hain kahkashan
duniya-e-husn-o-ishq ka tum hi shabab ho

Lightning made of smiles is playing across your lips. Galaxies go down in prostration along the road you walk. You are the whole prime of the world of beauty and love.

Kahkashan is the Milky Way, and putting it forehead-down on the ground is the largest thing this language can do with a compliment. What keeps it from being absurd is the line before it, where the smile is only playing, small and local and on a mouth. He earns the galaxies by starting at the size of a lip.

تبسم tabassum: a smile
کہکشاں kahkashan: the Milky Way; the galaxies
شباب shabab: youth at its height; the prime of something

Reading it whole

Lajawab is the word the first passage lands on, and it carries two meanings. It is the ordinary term for peerless, matchless, nothing to hold up against it. Taken apart, it means without an answer. So the compliment is also a confession. He has been asked a question by the sight of her and has nothing to say back.

Everything after that is a man reaching for one comparison and then dropping it for another. Hair like clouds leaning down on a shoulder. Eyes like wine cups filled to the brim. A face like a lotus opening in a lake. Each of them is beautiful and each gets abandoned after a single line, because none of them is quite it. That restlessness is the song. Nobody with a settled opinion needs six similes.

The best of them is the one you cannot see. Or a ghazal struck up on the instrument of life. Not a picture at all but a sound, and one that only exists while somebody is playing it. In a song otherwise built entirely out of visible things, he reaches once for something that has no shape, and it is the only comparison he does not immediately replace.

By the last passage the scale has gone completely. Lightning of smiles playing across the lips, and galaxies going down in prostration along the road she walks. It is about the largest compliment the language has in stock, and it turns up in a film song without sounding ridiculous, something few of his contemporaries could manage.

Rafi sings it very quietly for a song making claims this size. The film around it is largely forgotten now. The song is not.

Recordings

Mohammad Rafi

From the 1960 film Chaudhvin Ka Chand, composed by Ravi.

Text and rights

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

From the 1960 film Chaudhvin Ka Chand, composed by Ravi. The refrain returns between passages in the recording.

Shakeel Badayuni died in 1970, 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 passage 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.