اک بغل میں Ik Bagal Mein — On One Side

On one side there will be the moon, on the other the bread. On one side there will be sleep, on the other the lullabies. We will spread the blanket of bread over the moon and go to sleep, and we will tell the sleep: the lullaby will come tomorrow.

The passage is the plan, and the plan is a child's arithmetic. The four items of the night, moon, bread, sleep, lullaby, are sorted into two bags, bagal, sides, and the sorting is the poverty's whole science. The blanket of bread over the moon is the song's first miracle, and the deferral of the lullaby, lori kal, is its second: the sleep is promised the song, and the promise is kept in the morning, which is what the poor man's night runs on.

بغل bagal

the side of the body; alongside

لوری lori

a lullaby

On one side there will be the rattling shells. On one side there will be the sobs that make one cry. We will fill all the shells with the stars and come back, and we will soothe the sobs with tickles, like this.

The passage is the song's strangest algebra. The shells, seepiyaan, are the rattling sound of the poor man's goods, and the sobs, siskiaan, are the night's other sound, and the song's answer to both is the same: fill the shells with stars, and tickle the sobs. Gudgudi, the tickle, is the passage's key word, the most childish weapon in the lullaby, and the sobbing is promised the one comfort that costs nothing.

سیپی seepi

a seashell

سسکی siski

a sob

On the dark stairs, someone will come to cry. The visitor who comes will never leave again. But remember: whatever unfavourable thing you will bring, if you bring it, then the story will change into something else.

The passage is the lullaby's fear, and the fear has a shape: the visitor on the dark stairs who comes to cry and stays. The second half of the passage is the song's answer, and the answer is the song's whole method, anhooni, the unfavourable, is told that if it comes, the story will turn. The threat of the visitor is met with the promise of the narrative, and the narrative is the only protection the lullaby knows.

انہونی anhooni

a thing that should not happen; an ill turn of fate

What do I care about the favourable and the unfavourable, my life? At most it will be this: that we die right here. We will tell death it is a dream, and stand here, fists raised. And we will show the fate a finger and go, laughing.

The passage is the lullaby's last word, and the last word is the defiance. The pair honi and anhooni, the favourable and the unfavourable, is dismissed with a shrug, and the worst case is named plainly: we die right here. The answer to the worst case is the song's whole position, maut ko sapna bata kar, telling death it is a dream, and the raised fist, mutthi, is the lullaby's one gesture of war. The last line is the passage's gift, khilkhila kar jaayenge, we will go laughing, and the laughter is the only inheritance the song leaves.

ہونی honi

what is fated to happen