گلوں میں رنگ بھرے Gulon Mein Rang Bhare — Let The Flowers Fill With Colour

Faiz Ahmed Faiz

1911– 1984

Ghazal

Faiz wrote this in jail, and the fact is not being saved for later, because the second couplet says qafas, the cage, and once you have read that word every line around it changes.

What he asks for is spring. Wind in the flowers, a morning starting at the corner of somebody's mouth, the garden getting back to business. Seven couplets ahead, every one of them full of movement, written by a man who could not go anywhere at all.

01 — gulon men rang bhare baad-e-nau-bahar chale Matla · the opening

گلوں میں رنگ بھرے بادِ نو بہار چلے
چلے بھی آؤ کہ گلشن کا کاروبار چلے

गुलों में रंग भरे बाद-ए-नौ-बहार चले
चले भी आओ कि गुलशन का कारोबार चले

gulon men rang bhare baad-e-nau-bahar chale
chale bhi aao ki gulshan ka karobar chale

Let the wind of the new spring come and fill the flowers with colour. And do come yourself — so the garden can get back to business.

Karobar is a word from trade: a going concern, the daily running of a business. The garden in Faiz usually stands for the country, so the request is for the whole enterprise to start up again, and it arrives disguised as a remark about the season.

بادِ نو بہار baad-e-nau-bahar: the wind of the new spring
کاروبار karobar: business, trade, the running of things

02 — qafas udaas hai yaro saba se kuchh to kaho

قفس اداس ہے یارو صبا سے کچھ تو کہو
کہیں تو بہرِ خدا آج ذکرِ یار چلے

क़फ़स उदास है यारो सबा से कुछ तो कहो
कहीं तो बहर-ए-ख़ुदा आज ज़िक्र-ए-यार चले

qafas udaas hai yaro saba se kuchh to kaho
kahin to bahr-e-khuda aaj zikr-e-yar chale

The cage is low today, friends. Say something to the morning breeze. For God's sake, let there be some mention of the beloved somewhere.

The cage is not a metaphor here. Faiz wrote this in prison. And the request is tiny: not release, not a visit. Only that the subject come up somewhere, today, at all. Saba is the morning breeze, the one thing in the poem that can pass through bars.

قفس qafas: a cage
صبا saba: the morning breeze — traditionally the messenger between lovers
بہرِ خدا bahr-e-khuda: for God's sake

03 — kabhi to subh tire kunj-e-lab se ho aaghaz

کبھی تو صبح ترے کنجِ لب سے ہو آغاز
کبھی تو شب سرِ کاکل سے مشک بار چلے

कभी तो सुब्ह तिरे कुंज-ए-लब से हो आग़ाज़
कभी तो शब सर-ए-काकुल से मुश्क-बार चले

kabhi to subh tire kunj-e-lab se ho aaghaz
kabhi to shab sar-e-kakul se mushk-bar chale

Let a morning begin, just once, at the corner of your mouth. Let a night set out, just once, from the top of your curls, carrying the scent of musk.

He is asking for the day and the night to be rescheduled around one person. The corner of the lip is where a smile starts. Dark curls are the standard image for night in Urdu, and musk is both black and fragrant, so the whole thing holds together. Kabhi to, just once, some day, is the phrase of a man with a lot of time and no expectations.

کنجِ لب kunj-e-lab: the corner of the lips
کاکل kakul: a curling lock of hair
مشک بار mushk-bar: musk-laden, carrying scent

04 — bada hai dard ka rishta ye dil gharib sahi

بڑا ہے درد کا رشتہ یہ دل غریب سہی
تمہارے نام پہ آئیں گے غم گسار چلے

बड़ा है दर्द का रिश्ता ये दिल ग़रीब सही
तुम्हारे नाम पे आएँगे ग़म-गुसार चले

bada hai dard ka rishta ye dil gharib sahi
tumhare naam pe aaenge gham-gusar chale

Pain makes a large family. This heart may be a poor one — but say your name and the sharers of grief will come walking.

The most generous couplet in the ghazal. Suffering, he says, is a relation like blood: it obliges strangers to each other. Gharib means poor and also stranger, so the heart is both. And none of that matters, because the name alone is enough to bring people, and they arrive on foot, which is how the poor arrive.

رشتہ rishta: a relationship, a tie of kinship
غریب gharib: poor; also a stranger, someone far from home
غم گسار gham-gusar: one who shares your grief, a consoler

05 — jo ham pe guzri so guzri magar shab-e-hijran

جو ہم پہ گزری سو گزری مگر شبِ ہجراں
ہمارے اشک تری عاقبت سنوار چلے

जो हम पे गुज़री सो गुज़री मगर शब-ए-हिज्राँ
हमारे अश्क तिरी आक़िबत सँवार चले

jo ham pe guzri so guzri magar shab-e-hijran
hamare ashk tiri aaqibat sanvar chale

What we went through, we went through. But listen, night of separation — our tears have gone and made your afterlife respectable.

He turns and speaks directly to the night that has been torturing him, and what he tells it is that it will be fine on judgement day, thanks to him. Aaqibat is strictly a religious word: your standing in the hereafter. He is crediting the night with the merit earned by his own suffering, and there is no sarcasm in it, which is what makes it land.

شبِ ہجراں shab-e-hijran: the night of separation
اشک ashk: tears
عاقبت aaqibat: the hereafter; how you will stand on the last day

06 — huzur-e-yar hui daftar-e-junun ki talab

حضورِ یار ہوئی دفترِ جنوں کی طلب
گرہ میں لے کے گریباں کا تار تار چلے

हुज़ूर-ए-यार हुई दफ़्तर-ए-जुनूँ की तलब
गिरह में ले के गरेबाँ का तार तार चले

huzur-e-yar hui daftar-e-junun ki talab
girah men le ke gareban ka taar taar chale

In the beloved's presence, the file on my madness was called for. So I went, with every thread of my torn collar knotted up in a corner of my clothes.

This is staged as a hearing. Daftar means an official register and talab is a summons, so the record of his madness has been formally requisitioned. He brings the evidence, and the evidence is the collar he tore in his madness, thread by thread, carried the way a poor man carries what matters to him: knotted into the hem. Faiz was, at the time, a man being asked for documents by an actual court.

دفتر daftar: a register, an official file
جنوں junun: madness — in love poetry, the honourable kind
طلب talab: a demand, a summons to produce something
گریباں gareban: the collar — torn open as the standard sign of madness

07 — maqam faiz koi raah men jacha hi nahin Maqta · signed by the poet

مقام فیضؔ کوئی راہ میں جچا ہی نہیں
جو کوئے یار سے نکلے تو سوئے دار چلے

मक़ाम 'फ़ैज़' कोई राह में जचा ही नहीं
जो कू-ए-यार से निकले तो सू-ए-दार चले

maqam faiz koi raah men jacha hi nahin
jo ku-e-yar se nikle to su-e-daar chale

Not one stopping-place on the road ever looked good enough, Faiz. So when we left the beloved's street, we walked straight on to the gallows.

Jachna means to look right, to pass inspection. So the gallows is not chosen out of despair. Everything else simply failed to measure up. And the two ends of the road are almost the same phrase in Urdu, ku-e-yar and su-e-daar, one sound apart. The argument of the couplet is inside that near-rhyme: between love and execution there was never anywhere worth stopping.

مقام maqam: a station, a place to halt
جچنا jachna: to look right, to pass muster
کوئے یار ku-e-yar: the beloved's lane
سوئے دار su-e-daar: towards the gallows

Reading it whole

The whole ghazal is about wanting things to start moving again, written by somebody who cannot move. That is where the ache comes from. Every image in it travels: a breeze goes, a morning breaks, people come walking, tears run, a man walks to the gallows. And the person asking for all of it is sitting still in a cell.

The second couplet is the only one that says where he is. The cage is low today, friends. Somebody have a word with the morning breeze. Let there at least be some mention of the beloved. After a lifetime of asking for large things, this is the request that remains: that her name come up somewhere, in somebody's mouth, today. Bahr-e-khuda, for God's sake, is what you say once you have stopped being reasonable.

Then comes one of the strangest things Faiz ever wrote. Speaking to the night of separation itself, he says: what happened to us happened, but our tears have gone and made your afterlife respectable. Aaqibat is a strictly religious word, your standing on the day of judgement. He is telling the night that it will be saved on the strength of the suffering it caused him, and there is not a drop of anger in the telling.

With that in the room, the opening couplet is no longer an ordinary spring poem. It asks for the garden's karobar to resume, which is a commercial word: trade, the running of a concern. In Faiz's poetry the garden is usually the country. So the first thing this poem asks for is that the whole enterprise start working again, phrased as a remark about the weather, by a man the state had locked up.

And then it refuses an ordinary ending. Not one stopping-place along the road ever looked good enough, so whoever leaves the beloved's street walks straight on to the gallows. Ku-e-yar and su-e-daar are barely a sound apart in Urdu, and the beloved's street and the gallows turn out to be the same street. Mehdi Hassan's is the recording most people meet it in, and the reason a lot of listeners know Faiz at all.

How it rhymes

Every second line closes on the same word — چلے , chale. That repetition is the radif. The rhyme falling just before it is the qafiya: The -aar sound just before the refrain: nau-bahar, karobar, zikr-e-yar, mushk-bar, gham-gusar, sanvar, taar taar, su-e-daar. Hearing the two land together at the close of every sher is most of what makes this form sound the way it does.

Recordings

Mehdi Hassan

The best-known reading, and the reason a lot of listeners know Faiz at all.
Ali Sethi

Coke Studio, 2019. Plainer, and it lets the words carry more of the weight.

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 ghazal belongs to the poems Faiz wrote during his imprisonment in the nineteen-fifties, collected in Dast-e-Saba.

Faiz Ahmed Faiz died in 1984, 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.