taaruf
mirā ta.āruf
are na pūchho
purāne zaḳhmoñ ko mat kuredo
mirā ta.āruf jo tum samajhte ho vo nahīñ hai
Introduction
maiñ apnī galiyoñ kī dhuul meñ khel kar baḌhī huuñ
maiñ ḳhvāb kī umr meñ bhī hālāt se laḌī huuñ
maiñ apne aabā kī qabr par khilne vaalī vo ḳhushnumā kalī huuñ
jo apne hone ke jurm meñ
har sazā ko hañs hañs ke kāTtī hai
Who am I
Don't scratch old wounds
Who am I
Not what you think I am.
I have grown up playing in the dust of my alleyways
I learnt to fight for myself at an age when others
dream dreams
mirā ta.āruf to kuchh nahīñ hai
mirā ta.āruf to bas vahī hai
jo mujh se pahle aziim 'ġhālib' kā 'mīr' kā thā
vo 'mīr' jis ko ḳhudā-e-sher-o-suḳhan kā rutba atā huā thā
magar gadā kī tarah marā thā
aziim 'ġhālib' jo mai kī ḳhairāt māñgtā thā
I am that winsome bud which blooms on my
forefathers' graves
And must smilingly endure every punishment merely
because it exists
I have no name.
Call me by the name
Of the Great Ghalib* who came before me
By the name of Mir
Mir, who was hailed as the god of Poetics and verse
But who died in poverty
The Great Ghalib
Who had to beg for his wine.
mera taaruf
are na puchho
purane zaKHmon ko mat kuredo
mera taaruf jo tum samajhte ho wo nahin hai
Introduction
main apni galiyon ki dhul mein khel kar baDhi hun
main KHwab ki umr mein bhi haalat se laDi hun
main apne aaba ki qabr par khilne wali wo KHushnuma kali hun
jo apne hone ke jurm mein
har saza ko hans hans ke kaTti hai
Who am I
Don't scratch old wounds
Who am I
Not what you think I am.
I have grown up playing in the dust of my alleyways
I learnt to fight for myself at an age when others
dream dreams
mera taaruf to kuchh nahin hai
mera taaruf to bas wahi hai
jo mujh se pahle azim 'ghaalib' ka 'mir' ka tha
wo 'mir' jis ko KHuda-e-sher-o-suKHan ka rutba ata hua tha
magar gada ki tarah mara tha
azim 'ghaalib' jo mai ki KHairaat mangta tha
I am that winsome bud which blooms on my
forefathers' graves
And must smilingly endure every punishment merely
because it exists
I have no name.
Call me by the name
Of the Great Ghalib* who came before me
By the name of Mir
Mir, who was hailed as the god of Poetics and verse
But who died in poverty
The Great Ghalib
Who had to beg for his wine.
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rare Unpublished content
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