Khidmat-e-fun

Make way for the Emperor

2009-05-12T03:27:00.005+05:30

William Dalrymple made him famous with the book - "The Last Mughal". The protagonist, last in the illustrative line of Mughals, a hen-pecked, bedraggled, old man. Crowned with a worthless beggar's bowl, ruled an empire that included most of the Red Fort and little else, Lived a life of expensive misery at the mercy of Company Sarkar. A victim of his time, birth and place the man found solace in poetry.

Abu Zafar Sirajuddin Muhammad Bahadur Shah Zafar's an excuse of a court was not marshalled by great statesmen, fierce army generals or noted administrators. But his court could boast of hosting some of the greatest names of Urdu Poetry including Ghalib, Zauq and Momin.

The emperor is not remembered for his statecraft, his legacy is his poetry. Frustrated by his misfortune and hopelessness, he wrote an epitaph for himself which probably is his most famous ghazal.

लगता नहीं है दिल मेरा उजडे दायर में
किसकी बनी है आलम-इ-नापैदर में

Lagta Nahin Hai Dil Mera Ujde Dayar Mein
Kiski Bani Hai Aalam-e-Napaidar Mein

This devastated place (the world) does not interest me. Nobody has profited in this ungainly world.

कहदो इन हसरतों से कहीं और जा बसें

इतनी जगह कहाँ है दिल-इ-दागदार में

Kehdo In Hasraton Se Kahin Aur Ja Basen
Itni Jagah Kahan Hai Dil-e-Daagdaar Mein
Ask these dreams and desires to find a new abode, my broken and burdened house can not afford them anymore.

उम्र-इ-दराज़ मांग के लाये थे चार दिन
दो आरजू में कट गए दो इन्तेज़ार में
Umr-e-Daraz Mang Ke Laye The Chaar Din
Do Aarzoo Mein Kat Gaye Do Intezaar Mein
From the long life I had requested four days (refers to the common phrase "life is made of four days" "char din ki zindagani") two were wasted in putting the words to my desires and the other two were wasted in awaiting the fulfillment of those desires.

इतना है बदनसीब "ज़फर" दफन के लिए
दो गज ज़मीन भी न मिली कू-इ-यार में
Itna Hai Badnaseeb "Zafar" Dafn Ke Liye
Do Gaz Zameen Bhi Na Mili Koo-e-Yaar Mein
(He belongs to the line of most illustratious emperors India has had. He had lost everything but the name. He doesn't decry that loss of kingdoms and wealth. He believes the epitome of his misfortune in this-) What a misfortune it is Zafar that you aren't granted even a small piece of land for your burial in the land of beloved!!!

The emperor died and was buried in Burma. Away from his country, his empire, his city. The last Mughal could not find even do-gaz-zameen in burial grounds of his erstwhile empire.

प्रांशुलभ्ये फले लोभाद बाहुर्रवि वामन:

2009-03-16T00:33:00.004+05:30

Pranshulabhye fale Lobhad bahurravi vaamanah - Like a dwarf longigly trying to grab a fruit so easily available to tall people.
No, this is not Urdu.
Yes, it is Sanskrit.
While I am talking about some of the tallest names in the field, I also intend to slip a few poems by yours truly. Now as I have already admitted, I am a novice as far as Urdu is considered. Nor have I studied shastr or science of Ghazal-writing. I know words like beher (meter), radeef-kaafiya, makta and misra but that about sums up my knowledge on structure of ghazals. But I am still going to post my own ghazals (if they can be called that.) So instead of boring you by debating why I should not write Ghazals, let me give you an example. (I have a feeling the last sentence does not sound right. What is it? Darn it! Let's get on with the business at hand.)
As a disclaimer I am going to repeat God's message about his creation from the fourth book in HitchHiker's Guide to Galaxy trilogy- "WE APOLOGISE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE!"
So here it goes-

वो देते है दर्द और करते दवा भी
वो मासूम है और है बदगुमाँ भी
vo dete hai dard aur karte dava bhi vo maasum hai aur hai badgumaan bhi
She is the one who causes pain and she also is the healer. She is dainty, she has a temper too.

है फरमान यह की न हो ज़िक्र उनका
और उस पर ये जिद हम कहे दास्ताँ भी
hai farmaan yeh ki na ho zikr unka aur us par ye zid hum kahe daastaan bhi
I have been ordered that her name should not be mentioned. But then there is (her) insistence that I should tell the tale too.

तेरी जुल्फ का ये खुल के बिखरना
काफिर ही बन जाए अल्लाह-मियाँ भी
teri zulf ka ye khul ke bikharana qaafir hi ban jaaye allah-miyaan bhi
This beauty of your tresses can make even the gods stumble from the path of righteousness.

ये सुर्ख आँखें ये सुना आलम
चुप भी है हम और करते बयाँ भी
ye surkh aankhen ye suna aalam chup bhi hai hum aur karte bayaan bhi
Through this blood-shot eyes and this subdued appearance. I am making the situation apparent even when I am silent.

हाँ मुझ से खफा है वो रूठी है मुझ से
मगर ज़िन्दगी है मेरी दिलरूबा भी
haan mujh se khafaa hai vo ruthi hai mujh se magar zindagi hai meri dilrooba bhi
Yes, she is angry with me, and yes, she is sore with me. Still she is my life. (or life still is a darling.)

अगर वो न हो तो कोई ग़म न होगा
मगर जब तलक है वो है आशना भी
agar vo na ho to koi gham na hoga magar jab talak hai vo hai ashna bhi
I will not grieve when some day she(life) won't be here. But as long as she is around, she is close to my heart.

ज़रा दिल लगा कर तुम उनको भी सुनना
तुम्ही से मुखातिब ये खामोशियाँ भी
zaraa dil laga kar tum unko bhi sunana tumhi se mukhatib ye khaamoshiyaan bhi
I beg you hear them (unspoken words) also with all your heart (your ears surely can't hear those) beacuse they are also addressed to you..
and only you.

To tell or not to tell

2008-12-17T20:28:00.012+05:30

Three ghazals posted. Two of them about oppressive apathetic leadership and one about personal losses. Now wait a minute, wasn't ghazal supposed to be about "love"? Traditionally major if not sole subject of Ghazal has been - Amor, love. Then why does first 3 posts of this blog shy away from this main stream theme of most ghazals? Like most things about me, this has not been by design. But loss and chaos has been in the air so much last 4-5 weeks were having their effect on whatever ghazals I was reading or listening to or remembering. Hence the themes.
Now to explore the topic further, we will discuss a ghazal that addresses this very subject - The Subject of a Ghazal.
Javed Akhtar at heart is a rebel. From introducing the concept of angry-young man in Indian cinema to writing umpteen no. of shayaris about a seething hungry anger within Javed has kept the rebel alive. This one is about his dilemma. Should I dare to tell the truth or should I lie? Should I fail the tradition? Shall we set a precedent?

किन लफ्जों में इतनी कड़वी इतनी कसिली बात लिखूँ
शेर की मैं तहजीब निभाऊ या अपने हालात लिखूँ
Kin lafzon me itni kadvi itni kasili baat likhu
sher ki main tahzeeb nibhau ya apne halaat likhu

How can I write about such bitter things? Should I follow the tradition of Poetry (write about only beautiful things) or should I write (the truth) about our (not so beautiful) situation.

ग़म नही लिखूँ क्या मैं ग़म को, जश्न लिखूँ क्या मातम को
जो देखे है मैंने जनाजे क्या उनको बारात लिखूँ
Gham nahi likhoon kya main gham ko, jashn likhoon kya maatam ko
Jo dekhe hai maine janaze kya unko barat likhu

Should I dress up sorrow as happiness, should I describe the mourning as a celebration? Funerals that I have seen, should I call them wedding parties?

कैसे लिखूँ मैं चाँद के किस्से, कैसे लिखूँ मैं फूल की बात
रेत उडाये गर्म हवा तो क्या उसको बरसात लिखूँ
Kaise likhu mai chand ke kisse, kaise likhu mai phool ki baat
Ret udaaye garm hava to kya usko barsaat likhu

How can I write about moon and flowers (in these times)? When hot winds throw up hot sand (at me) should I pretend it is rain? (In a more coarse manner, Manoj Bajpai expresses the same though in a movie - Wo hum pe mute aur hum baarish samajh ke naache, kya?)

किस किस की आंखों में देखे मैंने ज़हर बुझे खंजर
ख़ुद से भी जो मैंने छिपाए कैसे वो सदमात लिखूँ
Kis kis ki aankhon me dekhe maine zahar bujhe khanjar
Khud se bhi jo maine chhipaye kaise vo sadmaat likhu

(how can I describe) In how many eyes I have seen venomous daggers? How can I recount the horrors I have not acknoledged myself even?

तख्त की ख्वाहिश, लूट की लालच, कमजोरों पर ज़ुल्म का शौक
लेकिन उनका फरमाना है, मैं इनको जज़्बात लिखूँ
Takht ki khwahish, loot ki lalach, kamzoro par zulm ka shuak
Lekin unka farmana hai, main inko jazbaat likhu

The desire of throne, the greed of loot, the hobby of oppression (is the reason for all their actions) But they (the powers that be) command me to describe these as tender feelings.

कातिल भी मकतुल भी दोनों नाम खुदा का लेते थे
कोई खुदा है तो वो कहाँ है मेरी क्या औकात लिखूँ
Qatil bhi maqtul bhi dono naam khuda ka lete the
koi khuda hai to wo kahaan hai meri kya aukaat likhu

The victim and the murderer both were praying to the (same) God! If there is a God where was he? (why didn't He intervene?) What chance (at stopping this massacres) I have (if He refrains from interfering)?

अपनी अपनी तारीकी को लोग उजाला कहते है
तारीकी के नाम लिखूँ तो कौमे फिरके जात लिखूँ
Apni apni tariqi ko log ujhala kahate hai
Tariqi ke naam likhu to kaume firake zaat likhu

Communities, ethnicities or religions are but mere shadows (dividing humanity) but everyone thinks of their own shadows as the Light

जाने ये कैसा दौर है जिसमे ये जुरअत भी मुश्किल
दिन हो अगर तो उसको लिखूँ दिन, रात अगर हो रात लिखूँ
Jaane ye kaisa daur hai jisme ye jurat bhi mushkil
Din ho agar to usko likhoon din, raat agar ho raat likhoon

In such times even calling the day 'a day' and the night 'a night' is also full of dangers.

On your feet ladies and gentleman. Similar feelings are being expressed by the God himself. I mean Ghalib ofcourse. And this sher also exeplifies why He commands the respect he does in the world of Urdu ghazals!
लिखते रहे जूनून की हिकायात-ऐ-खूनचकां
हरचंद इस में हाथ हमारे कलम हुए
Likhate rahe junoon ki hikayat-e-khoon-chakaan
Harchand is me haath hamare qalam hue

First meaning is simple enough - I kept on writing the blood-drenched stories of obsessions. That led to our hands being cut down(kalam hue). The meaning lurking behind this one that haunts you later is - (The hands have been cut down and hence are dripping with blood. With this blood) I kept on writing (blood drenched becuase written with bloodied hands) stories of obsession, and during the process my hands were used as a writing instrument - a kalam.

Is there a buy-back scheme?

2008-12-13T00:15:00.011+05:30

The Bard would have said it - Simplicity is thy name. He belongs to a house where poetry is a family business passed on from one generation to another - one of the most notable names from the family was his own father - Jannisar. But he had a fall-out with his father and so he didn't join the family business while his father was alive and earned his living writing scripts (though it got him fame and way too much money, as a fan of his poetry, I will downplay this part of his career). Then on one occasion, the famous director B R Chopra was making a film but his regular lyricist was not avaialable. Someone suggested that this script writer of yore writes poetry too. Chopra gave him the situation and the music. The song was the hit number "Dekha ek khwab to ye Silsilay hue". And rest, as they say, was poetry.
Ladies and Gentleman, I give you - Javed Akhtar.

This Ghazal kicks off with a revisit to the past - the haunted childhood and the struggling past. But while recounting those incidents, the poet realizes that he has lost something enroute to his success which he abhors more than the disappointments of his younger years. This idea is fairly recurring in Javed's Ghazals. Before I start on today's Ghazal, I have to mention one such sher that has been hauntingly favorite over the years.

It is an epitome of the simplicity of thought. This will hit you right there in the heart, i.e. if you have one.
आज फिर दिल ने एक तमन्ना की,
आज फिर दिलको हमने समजाया
Aaj phir dil ne ek tamanna ki,
aaj phir dil ko hamne samjaya

Heart yearned again today
Again I explained (the situation) to it.

Now let's start with the Ghazal of the post.

हम तो बचपन में भी अकेले थे
सिर्फ़ दिल की गली में खेले थे
Hum to bachpan me bhi akele the
sirf dil ki gali me khele the

I was alone even as a child
(hence I) only used to play in the bylanes of (my own) heart

एक तरफ़ मोर्चे थे पलकों के
एक तरफ़ आंसूओ के रेले थे
Ek taraf morche the palkon ke
ek tarag aansoo o ke rele the

(Guess what game was being played in the bylanes of heart! - It was a tug of war.) One side, was these forces of eyelashes, while on the other side it was a flood of tears.

थी सजी हसरतें दुकानों पर
जिंदगी के अजीब मेले थे
Thi sji hsrten dukano pr
Zindagi ke ajeeb mele the

(What was the reason for this deluge?) Wishes were decorated on shops and stores. Unfair were the fairs of life.

खुदकुशी क्या ग़मों का हल बनती
मौत के अपने सौ जमेले थे
Khudkushi kya ghamoN ka hal banti
maut ke apne sau zmele the

(Now switch to a more mature frustration. I said more mature frustration, not more mature response.) What problems would be solved by (committing) suicide? Death came with its own set of troubles.

ज़हन-ओ-दिल आज भूखे मरते है
उन दिनों हमने फाके झेले थे
zahn-o-dil aaj bhukhe mrte hai
un dino hmne faake zele the

(Now when I am man of means, I compare my past with my present and I realize) That my heart and brain are starving, Earlier only I had to go hungry.

The beauty of this pathos - when success is not worth the compromises made to achieve the success - is also captured wonderfully again by Javed Akhtar in this sher.
आज उनसे ख़ुद को में वापस खरीदु
लोग जो मांगे वो अपने दाम दू में
Aaj unse khud ko me vaapas kharidu
Log jo maange vo apne daam du me

I am ready to pay whatever price, if only... if only I could buy myself back.

Alas, there ain't no buy-back scheme in the store of life Mr. Akhtar.

I refuse therefore I am

2008-12-10T02:20:00.012+05:30

The one thing that I learnt in B-school is how to legitimize your plagiarism. It is a bit complex process. Let me explain it step-by-step.

Copy
Paste
Mention references

I mean, let's face it, I intend to showcase gems from some of the best names in Urdu literature (at least I think so), so obviously these shaayaris (or ash-aar as they call it in Urdu) are not mine. But this once, even some of the translation I have copy-pasted. Albeit, I will mention the reference in the foot-note.

This is another Pakistani Shaayar. Much the same in spirit but his pen is sharper, his verse angrier, his poetry bordering on zealotry. Habib Jalib, my friends, breathes fire, and how.

The poem is known as Dastoor = The System.

दीप जिस का महेल्लात ही मे जले,
चंद लोगों की खुशिओं को ले कर चले,
वो जो साए मैं हर मसलेहत के पले;
ऐसे दस्तूर को,
सुबह-ऐ-बेनूर को,
मैं नहीं मानता,
मैं नहीं जानता.

DIp jis ka mehellaat hi main jale,
Chand logon ki khushion ko le kar chale,
Wo jo saaye main har maslehat ke pale;
Aise dastoor ko,
Subh-e-benoor ko,
Main nahIn maanta,
Main nahIn jaanta.

The light which shines only in palaces
Which is concerned only with vested interests
Which flourishes in the shadows of conspiracies,
Such a system (is)
like a dawn without light
(which) I refuse to acknowledge
I refuse to accept.

मे भी खा’इफ नहीं तख्ता-ऐ-दार से,
मे भी मंसूर हूँ, कह दो अघ्यार से,
क्यूँ डराते हो जिन्दान की दीवार से,
ज़ुल्म की बात को,
जहल की रात को,
मैं नहीं मानता,

मैं नहीं जानता.

Main bhee kha’if nahIn takhta-e-daar se,
Main bhee Mansoor hoon, keh do aghyaar se,
Kyun daraate ho zindaan ki divaar se,
Zulm ki baat ko,
Jahl ki raat ko,
Main naheen maanta,
Main naheen jaanta.

I am not afraid of the noose of executioner,
Declare to the world that I am a martyr
Why you attempt to frighten me with these prison walls?
This overhanging doom,
this night of ignorance,
I refuse to acknowledge,
I refuse to accept

फूल शाखों पे खिलने लगे तुम कहो,
जाम रिन्दों को मिलने लगे तुम कहो,
चाक सीनों के सिलने लगे तुम कहो,
इस खुले झूट को,
जेहन की लूट को,
मैं नहीं मानता,

मैं नहीं जानता.

Phool shaakhon pe khilne lage tum kaho,
Jaam rindon ko milne lage tum kaho,
Chak seenon ke silne lage tum kaho,
Is khule jhooth ko,
Zehan ki loot ko,
Main naheen maanta,
Main naheen jaanta.

“Flowers are budding on branches”, that’s what you say,
“Every cup overflows”, that’s what you say,
“Wounds of hearts are healing”, that’s what you say,
These bare-face lies,
this robbery of thought,
I refuse to acknowledge,
I refuse to accept

तुम ने लूटा है सदीओं हमारा सुकून,
अब न हम पर चलेगा तुम्हारा फसूं,
चारागर मैं तुम्हें किस तरह से कहूं?
तुम नहीं चारागर,
कोई माने मगर,
मैं नहीं मानता,

मैं नहीं जानता।

Tum ne loota hai sadion hamaara sakoon,
Ab na hum per chale ga tumhaara fasoon,
Chaaraa gar main tumhain kiss tara se kahoon?
Tum naheen charaagar,
Koi maane magar,
Main naheen maanta,
Main naheen jaanta.

For centuries you have all stolen our peace of mind
But your power over us is coming to an end
Why should I think you are a healer?
You are not a healer

Maybe others accept this (lie)

(but) I refuse to accept,
I refuse to acknowledge.

As promised - Reference - http://sanasaleem.com/2008/10/16/habib-jalibs-dastoor-main-nahin-manta/

Now close home, Javed Akhtar also has a poem on similar lines. Though that poem is in general about people trading acceptance of harsh realities against some comforting illusions. But that is a discussion for another day.

Across the border, closer to the heart

2008-12-10T02:06:00.015+05:30

Pakistan. The way Jaaved Akhtar calls it - mere dushman, mere bhai, mere hum-saaye - My foe, my brother, my neighbour. There might be a freeze on peace process with Pakistan and hatred might be at the boiling point, I will not be able to talk about Shaayari without a few Pakistani names dropping in. And when I say that the pain that people feel on both sides of the border have a lot of similarity, I am not trying to say "the right thing". Just to demonstrate my point, to draw attention to the anguish of people who live across the border and to see that our plight is not so dissimilar, ladies and gentleman, I give you - Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

The nation of Pakistan has seen more than it's fair share of corrupt, abominable and dictatorial leaders. The mass-media has not been really free and powerful, and has not become the voice of its people. In such scenarios, word-smiths have taken the baton and given a vent to the feelings of the avaam, the populace. Among these shaayars, the tallest name is that of Faiz Ahmed Faiz. He challenges the status quo, he fights for his people, he dreams for his people and he takes on suffering for his people. Time and again he has been the guest of the government. And that has never stopped him for doing what he believes in. In his own words - "Mataa-e-loh-o-kalam chhin gayi hai to kya, ke khun-e-dil me dubo li hai ungaliyaan maine" - what if they have robbed me off my pen, paper and ink, I have dipped my fingers in the blood of my heart (and with that, I will go on writing what I need to write.)

This particular poem was born out of this incident - once a shackled Faiz was being taken from one prison to another through a public place. And he bleeds his pain in to a wonderful poetry -

चश्म-ऐ-नम जान-ऐ-शोरीदा काफ़ी नही, तहोमत-ऐ-इश्क-ऐ-पोशीदा काफ़ी नही, आज बाज़ार में पा-बजौला चलो

Chashme-nam jaan-e-shorIdA kaafi nahi
tauhmat-e-ishq-e-poshIdA kaafi nahi
aaj bAzAr me paa-ba-jhaulA chalo

Tear-filled eyes or screaming heart is not enough, claim of clandestine love is not enough, walk with your legs tied in shackles today. (get yourself arrested by opposing the status-quo)

दस्त-अफशां चलो, मस्त-ओ-रक्सां चलो, ख़ाक-बर-सर चलो, खूं-ब-दामाँ चलो, राह तकता है सब शहर-ऐ-जानां चलो

dasht afshaaN chalo mast-o-raksa chalo
khaak-bar-sar chalo, khUN-b-daamaaN chalo
raah taktA hain sab shaher-e-jaanaa chalo

(While your feet are shackled) swing your arms and walk as if you are 'drunk on dancing', walk with dirt in your hair (because you will be pushed and shoved) and blood on your clothes (because they will beat you bad, real bad), (but we shall still walk becuase) the beloved city (or the city of beloved) awaits us.

हाकिम-ऐ-शहर भी, मजमा-ऐ-आम भी, तीर-ऐ-इल्ज़ाम भी, संग-ऐ-दुश्नाम भी; सुब्ह-ऐ-नाशाद भी, रोज़-ऐ-नाकाम भी

haakim-e-shahar bhI majm-e-aam bhI
tIr-e-ilzaam bhI sang-e-dushnaam bhI
subh-e-naashaad bhI roz-e-naakaam bhI

(Let's make a list, who are waiting for us?) the powers-that-be and the common populace, arrow of blame and stones of infamy, the dawn - that has lost the hope and the day - that has failed. (Appreciate the beauty of this careful comparison - blame comes like an arrow, when you are not suspecting and infamy can result in stoning.)

इनका दम-साज़ अपने सिवा कौन है? शहर-ऐ-जानां में अब बासिफा कौन है? दस्त-ऐ-कातिल के सायाँ रहा कौन है?

inkaa dam-saaz apne siwaa kaun hai.n?
shahar-e-jaanaa mein ab baa-safaa kaun hain?
dasht-e-kaatil ke saayaa rahaa kaun hain

(Ok. But so why are we going, again?) Who else? Who else empathizes with their pain? Who else is sacrosanct in this city of beloved? Who else is worthy of falling at the hands of tormentor?

रख्त -ऐ-दिल बाँध लो, दिल फिगारों चलो; अब हमीं कत्ल हो आयें यारों चलो.

rakht-e-dil baandh lo dil figaaron chalo
phir hamI katl ho aaye yaaron chalo

(So... let's get ready..) collect pieces of your heart and pull yourselves together (we have a long journey ahead of us) Friends, let's go and become martyrs.

This being a very famous poem of Faiz is available on Youtube, and one has even rendition by Faiz. Here is the link.

PS - I thank Adnan Dharra from LUMS for sharing a wonderful video of Faiz's biography. He visited IIMB on student exchange program along with 3 other friends in 2007-08. It was fun watching T20 WC Indo-Pak Finals seating across these 4 Pakistanis.

2008-12-10T00:38:00.000+05:30

इर्शाद...

Bible says that “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God” (Matthew 4:4). Not really sure about the credibility of this statement. But as far as I am concerned, I live by the word of some of the great shayars and poets.

Poetry, as someone has said, is a sculpture made out of a teardrop. Poetry (esp. Ghazal) means a lot of things to me.

Poetry to me is a passion, a love, an obsession.
It is my escape from life and my connection to life.
It is my impression of the world and it is my expression in the world.
It is the cheerful company of my most joyous moments and it is secret-keeper of my deepest pains.
Poetry is something that makes me go ecstatic and it can make me feel cathartic.

I plan to put on this blog some of t the pieces that are close to my heart. Let the fun begin.

फ़िक्र "मोमिन" की, सदा "दाग" की, "ग़ालिब" का बयान,
"मीर" का रंग-ए-सुखन हो तो ग़ज़ल होती है
सिर्फ़ अल्फाज़ ही मानी नहीं करते पैदा,
जज्बा-ए-खिदमत-ए-फन हो तो ग़ज़ल होती है

Fikr "Momin" ki, sada "Daag" ki, "Ghalib" ka bayaan,
"Mir" ka rang-e-sukhan ho to ghazal hoti hai
Sirf alfaaz hi maani nahi karte paida,
jazba-e-khidmat-e-fun ho to ghazal hoti hai.

So let's see if I, me and you have the Jazba to go through this blogging exercise. I will put forth whatever pieces of poetry I find wonderful and try to translate to the best of my knowledge. But with my overtly limited grasp of Urdu quite possibly I will falter every now and then. Feel free to correct me wherever required.

Will complete this blog by the sher of that famous weaver of words, Asadulla Khan "Ghalib". This sher is supposed to be the first one that Ghalib presented in Bahadur Shah Zafar's court.
नक्श फरयादी है किसकी शौकी-ए-तहरीर का
कागजी है पैरहन हर पैकर-ए-तस्वीर का

Naqsh faryaadi hai kiski shauqi-e-tahrir ka
Kagazi hai pairhan har paiker-e-taswir ka.

Shape (Naqsh) is complaining about whose style of drawing(shauqi e tahrir)
Every particle in the scene is wearing clothes of paper.
(In Persia of old, complaints were brought to the King wearing clothes made out of paper. Here that is taken as a reference.)

Tradition is that once the Shayar presents the first line of sher, someone from the mehfil repeats it. When Ghalib presented this sher, no one dared to repeat it. So Ghalib prompted the court by saying "Koi misra to uthao!" Someone responded with "Miya, misra to bahut bhari hai, kaise uthaye?"