میرا پیا گھر آیا Mera Piya Ghar Aaya — My Beloved Has Come Home

Come here, friends. All of you together — congratulate me. I have got my husband, my lovely beloved.

The poem opens by calling for an audience, the surest sign of what kind of song this is going to be. Var paya is the ordinary phrase for a woman getting a husband, and ral, together, means she wants them saying it as a group. Nothing here is coded. It is a woman in a courtyard with news.

سئیو saiyyo

friends — a woman addressing her women companions

ودھائی vadhai

congratulations, the greeting given at a wedding or a birth

ور var

a husband, a bridegroom

ماہی mahi

the beloved — literally the buffalo-herder, from the Ranjha story

Get that gong out of here. My beloved has come home. Oh, my dear — my beloved has come home.

The first thing she asks for, before anything else, is that the gong be removed, and the reason will not be explained for another four stanzas. The refrain arrives here and then closes every stanza to the end. It is addressed to a lalni, a term for a girl you are fond of, so she is still talking to her friends, not to him.

گھڑیال ghariyal

the brass gong struck by a watchman to mark the hours

پیا piya

the beloved, the husband

He has come home. God brought us together. Now the grace has been made complete. My beloved has come home. Oh, my dear — my beloved has come home.

The one stanza that says outright what the wedding is standing in for. God did the joining, and fazl is specifically unearned grace, a gift rather than a wage. Kamal means brought to its full state, so the claim is that nothing further is owed or outstanding. She has been given everything there was.

فضل fazl

divine grace, given rather than earned

کمال kamal

completion, a thing brought to its full state

Today a blessed day has dawned. My beloved has walked into my courtyard. My beloved has come home. Oh, my dear — my beloved has come home.

Chunks of this could be lifted straight out of a village wedding song, and that is exactly the effect. The vehda, the inner courtyard of a Punjabi house, is the women's ground. He has not come to the door or the sitting room. He has come all the way in.

چڑھنا chaRhna

to rise, said of a day dawning

ویڑھا veRha

the inner courtyard of a house

I will hand out sugar and make my thanks to the master. My beloved has walked in to me, girl. My beloved has come home. Oh, my dear — my beloved has come home.

Handing out sugar is what you actually do in Punjab when something good happens, and pir manavan is settling your account with the teacher who got you there. Both are practical. And kuRe, girl, hey, carries no ceremony at all, the kind of thing you only say to someone you have known a long time.

ونڈنا vandna

to distribute, to share out

پیر pir

a spiritual master

کڑے kuRe

girl — a familiar way of addressing a woman in Punjabi

Hour after hour he strikes the gong, and the night of union gets shorter, and shorter. He has no idea what is in my heart. He has no idea what is in my heart. Take that gong out of your hands and throw it away. My beloved has come home. Oh, my dear — my beloved has come home.

The heart of the kafi. The watchman is not an enemy. He is a man marking the hours correctly, and every correct stroke is taking her night off her. So the complaint is not that he is cruel but that he does not know, said twice over. And the last line is the only order she gives in the whole poem: get it out of your hands. Time cannot be stopped, so she goes after the instrument that counts it.

گھڑی ghaRi

an hour, a measure of time — and the root of the gong's name

رین rain

night

وصل vasl

union, being together

سٹنا suttna

to throw, to fling away

The unstruck sound is playing, and it is beautiful. The player is skilled; the melody runs on. I have forgotten the two-cycle prayer. Give me the cup of wine, tavern-keeper. My beloved has come home. Oh, my dear — my beloved has come home.

Set this beside the stanza before. She has just thrown out a struck sound, and now she hears the anhad, the one that sounds without being struck by anybody. It has no player to get tired and no beats to count, which is exactly what was wrong with the gong. Then the heresy, delivered as an aside: the prayer forgotten, the wine-seller called. Bulleh Shah is not saying the prayer was worthless. It was a way of asking, and the asking is over.

انہد anhad

unstruck — the sound that plays without anyone sounding it

مطرب mutrib

a musician, a singer

نماز دوگانہ namaz-e-dogana

the prayer of two cycles

کلال kalal

the wine-seller; the caste that distilled and sold liquor in Punjab

Bulleh Shah's bed is a lovely one. The one who ferries people across has ferried me. God brought us together — my turn has come at last. Now being parted has become impossible. My beloved has come home. Oh, my dear — my beloved has come home.

He puts his own name in without dropping the woman's voice, and that is the poem in miniature. Taran hara is the one who takes you across the water, and she does not claim to have swum. She was carried. Then the two closing claims, and the second is the one nothing else in this tradition says: separation is now off the table. Almost every other poem of its kind ends with the lover still at the window.

سیج sej

a bed, particularly the bridal one

تارن ہارا taran hara

the one who ferries you across, who saves

واری vari

one's turn

محال muhal

impossible, out of the question