یہ شام مستانی Yeh Shaam Mastani — This Intoxicated Evening

Anand Bakshi

1930– 2002

Geet

An evening is doing things to a man that the man is describing to the woman responsible. The evening is intoxicated, mastani, it is making him lose his senses, and somewhere it is pulling him, against the evening's own current, toward her. The song is the report of that pull, and the woman's silence is the other half of the conversation.

Anand Bakshi wrote it for Kati Patang in 1970, and Kishore Kumar's voice with R. D. Burman's tune made it one of the great songs of that year. Four passages ahead. Every one of them describes a different way the beloved refuses him, and the evening keeps intoxicating him anyway.

01 — ye shaam mastani, madhosh kiye jaaye

یہ شام مستانی، مدہوش کیے جائے
مجھے دور کوئی کھینچے، تیری اور لیے جائے

ये शाम मस्तानी, मदहोश किए जाए
मुझे दूर कोई खींचे, तेरी ओर लिए जाए

ye shaam mastani, madhosh kiye jaaye
mujhe door koi kheenche, teri or liye jaaye

This intoxicated evening keeps making me senseless. Something far away draws me, carrying me toward you.

The refrain gives the evening a character and a job. Mastana is the drunkard, and the evening is drunk on its own light. Madhosh, out of one's senses, is the state it keeps producing, and the passive verb, kiye jaaye, keeps producing it, makes the evening an agent. The second line names the destination without naming the person: teri or, toward you, and the pulling is done by door koi, someone far, which keeps the beloved at the exact distance the whole song needs.

مستانی mastani: intoxicated, carefree
مدہوش madhosh: senseless with intoxication
اور or: direction, the side a thing lies on

02 — door rahti hai tu, mere paas aati nahin

دور رہتی ہے تو، میرے پاس آتی نہیں
ہونٹوں پہ تیرے، کبھی پیاس آتی نہیں
ایسا لگے جیسے کہ تو، ہنس کے زہر کوئی پیے جائے

दूर रहती है तू, मेरे पास आती नहीं
होठों पे तेरे, कभी प्यास आती नहीं
ऐसा लगे जैसे कि तू, हँस के ज़हर कोई पिए जाए

door rahti hai tu, mere paas aati nahin
honthon pe tere, kabhi pyaas aati nahin
aisa lage jaise ki tu, hans ke zahar koi piye jaaye

You stay far away, you do not come near. Your lips never know thirst. It seems as if you, smiling, go on drinking some poison.

The passage reports the beloved's two refusals and then finds the image that explains them. She stays far; her lips never thirst. The image of the poison drunk smiling is the song's answer: the beloved is not refusing love out of coldness, she is swallowing something painful and smiling through it. The line turns the beloved from the object of the song into its fellow sufferer, and the singer's report of her becomes suddenly tender.

زہر zahar: poison

03 — baat jab main karoon, mujhe rok deti hai kyun

بات جب میں کروں، مجھے روک دیتی ہے کیوں
تیری میٹھی نظر، مجھے ٹوک دیتی ہے کیوں
تیری حیا، تیری شرم، تیری قسم، میرے ہونٹ سِئے جائے

बात जब मैं करूँ, मुझे रोक देती है क्यों
तेरी मीठी नज़र, मुझे टोक देती है क्यों
तेरी हया, तेरी शरम, तेरी क़सम, मेरे होंठ सिए जाए

baat jab main karoon, mujhe rok deti hai kyun
teri meethi nazar, mujhe tok deti hai kyun
teri haya, teri sharam, teri qasam, mere hoth siye jaaye

When I speak, why does she stop me? Your sweet glance, why does it chide me? I swear by your modesty, your shyness: my lips go on being sewn shut.

The passage is the complaint of the silenced, and the silencing is done by the beloved's sweetness. Tokna, to chide, is what a teacher does, and the glance has been promoted to teacher. The last line is the passage's prize: haya and sharam, modesty and shyness, are sworn by, and the lips are sewn, siye jaaye, the passive verb again, as if the sewing were done by the beloved's modesty itself. The singer is not angry about it. He is swearing by the thing that silences him.

حیا haya: modesty, a sense of what is proper
ٹوکنا tok deti: pulls me up, checks me

04 — ek ruthi hui, taqdeer jaisi koi

ایک روٹھی ہوئی، تقدیر جیسی کوئی
خاموش ایسے ہے تو، تصویر جیسی کوئی
تیری نظر بن کے زباں، لیکن تیرے پیغام دیے جائے

एक रूठी हुई, तक़दीर जैसी कोई
ख़ामोश ऐसे है तू, तस्वीर जैसी कोई
तेरी नज़र बन के ज़ुबान, लेकिन तेरे पैग़ाम दिए जाए

ek ruthi hui, taqdeer jaisi koi
khaamosh aise hai tu, tasveer jaisi koi
teri nazar ban ke zubaan, lekin tere paighaam diye jaaye

Like a sulking fate, someone. You are silent like this, like a picture. Your glance becomes a tongue, and yet your messages keep being delivered.

The passage gives the beloved her final form: she is compared to a sulking destiny and to a painted portrait, both of them fixed, both of them beyond argument. Then the song's one turn. Her glance becomes a language, zubaan, and the messages, paighaam, keep being delivered through it. The silent picture is talking all the time, and the singer has learned to hear it. The song ends on that learning, which is its quietest and truest claim.

تقدیر taqdeer: fate, what is written for a person
پیغام paighaam: a message

Reading it whole

The song is a love song in which the beloved does nothing at all. She is distant, she does not come, her lips never thirst for him, she silences him with a look, she is as still as a picture. And the singer keeps singing to her, which is the song's whole argument: the evening is intoxicating him toward someone who is not participating. The intoxication is the love itself, and the beloved is the excuse the intoxication uses.

The first passage gives the song its machinery. Yeh shaam mastani, this evening is drunk, and the drink is working on the singer: madhosh kiye jaaye, it keeps making him senseless. The pull, door koi kheenche, something far away draws him, names the beloved without naming her, and the direction of the pull, teri or, toward you, is the only geography the song has.

The middle passages are a catalogue of refusals, and each refusal is reported with a kind of tenderness. She lives far away and does not come close. Her lips never know thirst, and the singer finds that beautiful enough to hurt him. When he tries to speak, her sweet glance stops him. The refusals are all small, and the song never once complains about them. It reports them the way you report the weather.

The last passage changes the register. The beloved is like a sulking fate, like a picture: motionless, silent. And the closing lines turn the silence into speech: her glance, taking the place of a tongue, delivers her messages. The song's final position is that her silence is her language, and that he has learned to read it. Kishore Kumar's recording made the song the standard of its season, and it remains the sound of an evening that intoxicates on its own.

Recordings

Kishore Kumar

From Kati Patang (1970), composed by R. D. Burman.

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 song is from the film Kati Patang (1970), music R. D. Burman, lyrics Anand Bakshi. The refrain returns between passages in the recording more often than it is printed here.

Anand Bakshi died in 2002, 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.