LAAJAWAAB GHAZAL AUR KAVITA

                 

AKHBAAR NA KARO...

Yun chhoti chhoti baato'n ko akhbaar na karo,
Ek toh guftagu kam hai,aur takraar na karo.

Bewafa aashiqo'n ki qataar badi lambi hai,
Hamari berukhi ke liye hame unme shumaar na karo.

Tumhari yaad kya kam thi,jo khat bheja hai,
Ab hame vasl ke liye aur beqaraar na karo.
(Vasl=Mulaqat)

Tumhe mehsoos karne ko jee chahta hai har pal,
Ab yun bhi hame apna talabgaar na karo.
(Talabgaar=Icchhuk)

Logon se hamare mohabbat ke kisse sunkar Maa humse kehti hai,
Ke yunhi ishq farmaate raho,koi kaar-o-baar na karo.
(Kaar-o-baar=Vyapaar)

                             -RANA PRATAP SINGH


                         PAGLI LADKI

Mawas ki kaali raato'n me,dil ka darwaaza khulta hai,
Jab dard ki kaali raato'n me gam aansu ke sangh ghulta hai,
Jab pichhwade ke kamre me hum nipat akele hote hai,
Jab ghadiyaa'n tik-tik chalti hai,sab sote hai hum rote hai,
Jab baar baar dohrane se saari yaadein chuk jaati hai,
Jab unch-neech samjhaane me maathe ki nas dukh jaati hai,
Tab ek pagli ladki ke bin jeena gaddari lagta hai,
Aur us pagli ladki ke bin marna bhi bhaari lagta hai.

Jab pothe khaali hote hai,jab harf sawaali hote hai,
Jab ghazalein raas nahin aati,afsaane gaali hote hai,
Jab baasi feeki dhoop samete'n din jaldi dhal jaata hai,
Jab suraj ka lashkar chhat se galiyo'n me der se jaata hai,
Jab jaldi ghar jaane ki ichha mann hi mann ghut jaati hai,
Jab college se ghar laane waali pehli bus chhut jaati hai,
Jab be-mann se khana khane par Maa gussa ho jaati hai,
Jab laakh mana karne par bhi paaro padhne aa jaati hai,
Jab apna har mann chaaha kaam koi lachaari lagta hai,
Tab ek pagli ladki ke bin jeena gaddari lagta hai,
Aur us pagli ladki ke bin marna bhi bhaari lagta hai.

Jab kamre me sannate ki aawaaz sunai deti hai,
Jab darpan me aankho'n ke neeche jhaai dikhayi dete hai,
Jab badki bhabhi kehti hai kuch sehat ka bhi dhyaan karo,
Kya likhte ho dinbhar,kuch sapnon ka bhi samman karo,
Jab baba waali baithak me kuch rishte waale aate hai,
Jab baba hame bulate hai,hum jaate hai,ghabraate hai,
Jab saari pehne ek ladki ka photo laaya jaata hai,
Jab bhabhi hame manati hai,photo dikhlaya jata hai,
Jab saare ghar ka samjhana humko fankaari lagta hai,
Tab ek pagli ladki ke bin jeena gaddari lagta hai,
Aur uss pagli ladki ke bin marna bhi bhari lagta hai.

Didi kehti hai uss pagli ladki ki kuch aukaat nahin,
Uske dil me bhaiya tere jaise pyaare jazbaat nahin,
Woh pagli ladki meri khaatir nau din bhooki rehti hai,
Chup chup saare vrat karti hai,par mujhse kuch na kehti hai,
Jo pagli ladki kehti hai,main pyaar tumhi se karti hun,
Lekin main hun majboor bahot,amma-baba se darti hun,
Uss pagli ladki par apna kuch bhi adhikaar nahin baba,
Yeh khata-kahani kisse hai,kuch bhi toh saar nahin baba,
Bas uss pagli ladki ke sang jeena fulwaari lagta hai,
Aur uss pagli ladki ke bin marna bhi bhari lagta hai.

                            -DR. KUMAR VISHWAS


KITNI PI KAISE KATI RAAT...

Kitni pi kaise kati raat mujhe hosh nahin,
Raat ke saath gayi baat mujhe hosh nahin.

Mujhko yeh bhi nahi maloom ke jaana hai kahaan,
Thaam le koi mera haath mujhe hosh nahin.

Aansuon aur sharaabon me guzar hai ab toh,
Maine kab dekhi thi barsaat mujhe hosh nahin.

Jaane kya toota hai,paimana ki dil hai mera,
Bikhre-bikhre hai khayalaat mujhe hosh nahin.

                                -RAHAT INDORI


                DEEWAARE NA DEKH

Aaj sadko'n par likhe hai saikdo'n naare na dekh,
Ghar andhera dekh tu,aakash ke taare na dekh.

Ek dariya hai yahan par door tak faila hua,
Aaj apne baazuo'n ko dekh patwaare na dekh.

Ab yaqinan thos hai dharti haqiqat ki tarah,
Yeh haqiqat dekh,lekin khauf ke maare na dekh.

Ve sahare bhi nahin ab,jang ladni hai tujhe,
Kat chuke jo haath,un haatho'n me talvaare'n na dekh.

Dil ko behla le,ijazat hai,magar itna na udd,
Roz sapne dekh,lekin iss qadar pyaare na dekh.

Yeh dhundhalka hai nazar ka,tu mahaz maayoos hai,
Rogano'n ko dekh,deewaaro'n me deewaarein na dekh.

Raakh,kitni raakh hai,chaaro'n taraf bikhri huyi,
Raakh me chingaariya'n hi dekh,angare'n na dekh.

                            -DUSHYANT KUMAR


TUM BHI KHAFA HO LOG BHI BEREHEM HAI DOSTON

Tum bhi khafa ho log bhi berehem hai dosto'n,
Ab ho chala yaqi'n ke bure hum hai dosto'n.

Kis ko hamare haal se nisbat hai kya kare,
Aankhe'n toh dushmano'n ki bhi pur-nam hai dosto'n.
(Nisbat=Sambandh)

Apne siwa hamare na hone ka gam kise,
Apni talaash me toh hum hi hum hai dosto'n.

Kuch aaj shaam hi se hai dil bhi bujha bujha,
Kuch sheher ke chiraag bhi maddham hai dosto'n.

Iss sheher-e-aarzoo se bhi bahar nikal chalo,
Ab dil ki raunaqe'n koi dam hai dosto'n.

Sab kuch sahi 'Faraz' par itna zarur hai,
Duniya me aise log bahot kam hai dosto'n.

                                  -AHMED FARAZ

    

ANURAG

 Todays Post is Dedicated to my friend ANURAG..who died due to blood cancer.This is for him

    Born: 18/11/1996 -  Died: 9/5/2015


Woh chala gaya mooh modkar,
Dil todkar akela chhodkar.
Sang jiske kayi lamhe beete,
Dher saari baatein ki,
Aaj wahi shaks saath nahi
Bas uski yaadein thi.
Aaj woh nahi bas uski yaad hai,
Woh kuch kehta nahi bas goonjti uski aawaaz hai.
Yeh zindagi bhi kitni ajeeb hai,
Aaj pata chala ki hum uske bina kitne gareeb hai.
Woh uska hasna uska khilkhilana,
Dheere se palat ke halke se muskurana.
Yaad hai uska hamari zindagi me aana,
Lekin badnaseebi se use jaldi pad gaya jana.
Zindagi zindagi nahi yaaron dhoka hai,
Jaanewale ko kisne roka hai.
Sambhal jao e doston abhi mauka hai,
Kyuki kal kisne dekha hai.

                     -RANA PRATAP SINGH.


RANJ KI JAB GUFTAGU HONE LAGI

Ranj ki jab guftagu hone lagi,
Aap se tum,tum se tu hone lagi.

Chahiye paigamber dono taraf,
Lutf kya jab du-ba-du hone lagi.
(du-ba-du=face to face)

Meri ruswaai ki naubat aa gayi,
Unki shohrat ku-ba-ku hone lagi.
(ku0ba0ku=gali-gali)

Naazir badh gayi hai is qadar,
Aarzoo ki aarzoo hone lagi,

Ab toh mil kar dekhiye kya rang ho,
Phir hamari justaju hone lagi.

DAAG itraaye hue phirte hai aap,
Shayad unki aabroo hone lagi.

                  -DAAG DEHLVI.


CHUPKE CHUPKE RAAT DIN

Chupke chupke raat din aansoo bahana yaad hai,
Humko ab tak aashiqui ka woh zamaana yaad hai.

Baa-hazaaraa'n iztiraab-o-sad-hazaaraa'n ishtiyaaq,
Tujhse woh pehle pehel dil ka lagana yaad hai.

Tujhse milte hi woh bebaak ho jana mera,
Aur tera daato'n me woh ungli dabana yaad hai.

Khinch lena woh mera parde ka kona dafatan,
Aur duppate se tera woh munh chhupana yaad hai.

Tujhko jab tanha kabhi pana toh az-raahe-lihaaz,
Haal-e-dil baaton hi baaton me jatana yaad hai.

Jab siwa mere tumhara koi diwana na tha,
Sach kaho kya tumko bhi woh kaarkhana yaad hai.

Gair ki nazro'n se bachkar sabki marzi ke khilaaf,
Woh tera chori chhipe raaton ko aana yaad hai.

Aa gaya gar vasl ki shab bhi kahin zikr-e-firaaq,
Woh tera ro ro ke mujhko bhi rulana yaad hai.

Dopeher ki dhoop me mere bulane ke liye,
Woh tera kothe pe nange pao'n aana yaad hai.

Chori chori hum se tum aakar mile the jis jagah,
Muddate guzri par ab tak woh thikana yaad hai.

Berukhi ke saath sunna dard-e-dil ki daastaa'n,
Aur tera haatho'n me woh kangan ghumana yaad hai.

Waqt-e-rukhsat alvida ka lafz kehne ke liye,
Woh tere sukhe labo'n ka thar-tharana yaad hai.

                             -HASRAT MOHANI.


        TUMHARE KHAT ME......

Tumhare khat me naya ek salaam kiska tha,
Na tha raqeeb toh aakhir woh naam kiska tha.

Woh qatl karke har kisi se poochte hai,
Yeh kaam kisne kiya hai yeh kaam kiska tha.

Wafa karenge,nibhayenge,baat maanenge,
Tumhe bhi yaad hai kuch ke yeh kalaam kiska tha.

Raha na dil me woh bedard aur dard raha,
Muqim ko hua hai aur maqaam kiska tha.

Na pooch-paach thi kisi ki na aao-bhagat,
Tumhari bazm me kal ehtamaam kiska tha.

Hamare khat ke toh purze kiye,padha bhi nahi,
Suna jo tumne baa-dil woh payaam kiska tha.

Inhi'n sifaat se hota hai aadmi mashhoor,
Jo lutf aap hi karte toh naam kiska tha.

Guzar gaya woh zamaana kahe toh kisse kahe,
Khayaal mere dil ko subh-o-shaam kiska tha.

Har ek se kehte hai kya DAAG bewafa nikla,
Yeh poochhe unse koi woh ghulam kiska tha.

                            -DAAG DEHLVI.


        MERI ZINDAGI KISI AUR KI...

Meri zindagi kisi aur ki,mere naam ka koi aur hai,
Mera aks hai sar-e-aaina,paase aaina koi aur hai.

Meri dhadkano'n me hai chaap si,yeh judaai bhi hai milaap si,
Mujhe kya pata,mere dil bata,mere saath kya koi aur hai.

Na gaye dino ko khabar meri,na shareek-e-haal nazar teri,
Tere des me,mere bhes me,koi aur tha koi hai.

Woh meri taraf nigraa'n rahe,mera dhyaan jaane kahaan rahe,
Meri aankh me kayi surate'n,mujhe chahta koi aur hai.

                                -MUZAFFAR WARSI.


YAHI HAALAAT IBTADAA SE RAHE

Yahi haalaat ibtadaa se rahe,
Log humse khafa-khafa se rahe.

Bewafa tum kabhi na the lekin,
Yeh bhi sach hai ki bewafa se rahe.

In chiraago'n me tel hi kam tha,
Kyo'n gila phir hume hawa se rahe.

Bahas,shatranj,sher mausiqi,
Tum nahi rahe toh yeh dilaase rahe.

Uske bando ko dekhkar kahiye,
Humko ummid kya khuda se rahe.

Zindagi ki sharaab maangte ho,
Humko dekho ki pee ke pyaase rahe.

                     -JAVED AKHTAR.

Remembering Ghalib on his Death Anniversary....

                                                    Born: December 27, 1797, Agra
                                                     Died: February 15, 1869, Delhi

Biography of Ghalib:

Mirza Asadullah Beg Khan -- known to posterity as Ghalib, a `nom de plume' he adopted in the tradition of all classical Urdu poets, was born in the city of Agra, of parents with Turkish aristocratic ancestry, probably on December 27th, 1797. As to the precise date, Imtiyaz Ali Arshi has conjectured, on the basis of Ghalib's horoscope, that the poet might have been born a month later, in January 1798.

Both his father and uncle died while he was still young, and he spent a good part of his early boyhood with his mother's family. This, of course, began a psychology of ambivalences for him. On the one hand, he grew up relatively free of any oppressive dominance by adult, male-dominant figures. This, it seems to me, accounts for at least some of the independent spirit he showed from very early childhood. On the other hand, this placed him in the humiliating situation of being socially and economically dependent on maternal grandparents, giving him, one can surmise, a sense that whatever worldly goods he received were a matter of charity and not legitimately his. His pre-occupation in later life with finding secure, legitimate, and comfortable means of livelihood can be perhaps at least partially understood in terms of this early uncertainity.

The question of Ghalib's early education has often confused Urdu scholars. Although any record of his formal education that might exist is extremely scanty, it is also true that Ghalib's circle of friends in Delhi included some of the most eminent minds of his time. There is, finally, irrevocably, the evidence of his writings, in verse as well as in prose, which are distinguished not only by creative excellence but also by the great knowledge of philosophy, ethics, theology, classical literature, grammar, and history that they reflect. I think it is reasonable to believe that Mulla Abdussamad Harmuzd -- the man who was supposedly Ghalib's tutor, whom Ghalib mentions at times with great affection and respect, but whose very existence he denies -- was, in fact, a real person and an actual tutor of Ghalib when Ghalib was a young boy in Agra. Harmuzd was a Zoroastrian from Iran, converted to Islam, and a devoted scholar of literature, language, and religions. He lived in anonymity in Agra while tutoring Ghalib, among others.

In or around 1810, two events of great importance occured in Ghalib's life: he was married to a well-to-do, educated family of nobles, and he left for Delhi. One must remember that Ghalib was only thirteen at the time. It is impossible to say when Ghalib started writing poetry. Perhaps it was as early as his seventh or eight years. On the other hand, there is evidence that most of what we know as his complete works were substantially completed by 1816, when he was 19 years old, and six years after he first came to Delhi. We are obviously dealing with a man whose maturation was both early and rapid. We can safely conjecture that the migration from Agra, which had once been a capital but was now one of the many important but declining cities, to Delhi, its grandeur kept intact by the existence of the moghul court, was an important event in the life of this thirteen year old, newly married poet who desparately needed material security, who was beginning to take his career in letters seriously, and who was soon to be recognized as a genius, if not by the court, at least some of his most important comtemporaries. As for the marriage, in the predominantly male-oriented society of Muslim India no one could expect Ghalib to take that event terribly seriously, and he didn't. The period did, however mark the beginnings of concern with material advancement that was to obsess him for the rest of his life.

In Delhi Ghalib lived a life of comfort, though he did not find immediate or great success. He wrote first in a style at once detached, obscure, and pedantic, but soon thereafter he adopted the fastidious, personal, complexly moral idiom which we now know as his mature style. It is astonishing that he should have gone from sheer precocity to the extremes of verbal ingenuity and obscurity, to a style which, next to Meer's, is the most important and comprehensive styles of the ghazal in the Urdu language before he was even twenty.

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The course of his life from 1821 onward is easier to trace. His interest began to shift decisively away from Urdu poetry to Persian during the 1820's, and he soon abandoned writing in Urdu almost altogether, except whenever a new edition of his works was forthcoming and he was inclined to make changes, deletions, or additions to his already existing opus. This remained the pattern of his work until 1847, the year in which he gained direct access to the Moghul court. I think it is safe to say that throughout these years Ghalib was mainly occupied with the composition of the Persian verse, with the preparation of occasional editions of his Urdu works which remained essentially the same in content, and with various intricate and exhausting proceedings undertaken with a view to improving his financial situation, these last consisting mainly of petitions to patrons and government, including the British. Although very different in style and procedure, Ghalib's obsession with material means, and the accompanying sense of personal insecurity which seems to threaten the very basis of selfhood, reminds one of Bauldeaire. There is, through the years, the same self-absorption, the same overpowering sense of terror which comes from the necessities of one's own creativity and intelligence, the same illusion -- never really believed viscerally -- that if one could be released from need one could perhaps become a better artist. There is same flood of complaints, and finally the same triumph of a self which is at once morbid, elegant, highly creative, and almost doomed to realize the terms not only of its desperation but also its distinction.

Ghalib was never really a part of the court except in its very last years, and even then with ambivalence on both sides. There was no love lost between Ghalib himself and Zauq, the king's tutor in the writing of poetry; and if their mutual dislike was not often openly expressed, it was a matter of prudence only. There is reason to believe that Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Moghul king, and himself a poet of considerable merit, did not much care for Ghalib's style of poetry or life. There is also reason to believe that Ghalib not only regarded his own necessary subservient conduct in relation to the king as humiliating but he also considered the Moghul court as a redundant institution. Nor was he well-known for admiring the king's verses. However, after Zauq's death Ghalib did gain an appiontment as the king's advisor on matters of versification. He was also appointed, by royal order, to write the official history of the Moghul dynasty, a project which was to be titled "Partavistan" and to fill two volumes. The one volume "Mehr-e-NeemRoz", which Ghalib completed is an indifferent work, and the second volume was never completed, supposedly because of the great disturbances caused by the Revolt of 1857 and the consequent termination of the Moghul rule. Possibly Ghalib's own lack of interest in the later Moghul kings had something to do with it.

The only favourable result of his connection with the court between 1847 and 1857 was that he resumed writing in Urdu with a frequency not experienced since the early 1820's. Many of these new poems are not panegyrics, or occasional verses to celebrate this or that. He did, however, write many ghazals which are of the same excellence and temper as his early great work. Infact, it is astonishing that a man who had more or less given up writing in Urdu thirty years before should, in a totally different time and circumstance, produce work that is, on the whole, neither worse nor better than his earlier work. One wonders just how many great poems were permanently lost to Urdu when Ghalib chose to turn to Persian instead.

In its material dimensions, Ghalib's life never really took root and remained always curiously unfinished. In a society where almost everybody seems to have a house of his own, Ghalib never had one and always rented one or accepted the use of one from a patron. He never had books of his own, usually reading borrowed ones. He had no children; the ones he had, died in infancy, and he later adopted the two children of Arif, his wife's nephew who died young in 1852. Ghalib's one wish, perhaps as strong as the wish to be a great poet, that he should have a regular, secure income, never materialized. His brother Yusuf, went mad in 1826, and died, still mad, in that year of all misfortunes, 1857. His relations with his wife were, at best, tentative, obscure and indifferent. Given the social structure of mid-nineteenth-century Muslim India, it is, of course, inconceivable that *any* marriage could have even begun to satisfy the moral and intellectual intensities that Ghalib required from his relationships; given that social order, however, he could not conceive that his marriage could serve that function. And one has to confront the fact that the child never died who, deprived of the security of having a father in a male-oriented society, had had looked for material but also moral certainities -- not certitudes, but certainities, something that he can stake his life on. So, when reading his poetry it must be remembered that it is the poetry of more than usually vulnerable existence.

It is difficult to say precisely what Ghalib's attitude was toward the British conquest of India. The evidence is not only contradictory but also incomplete. First of all, one has to realize that nationalism as we know it today was simply non-existent in nineteenth-century India. Second -- one has to remember -- no matter how offensive it is to some -- that even prior to the British, India had a long history of invaders who created empires which were eventually considered legitimate. The Moghuls themselves were such invaders. Given these two facts, it would be unreasonable to expect Ghalib to have a clear ideological response to the British invasion. There is also evidence, quite clearly deducible from his letters, that Ghalib was aware, on the one hand, of the redundancy, the intrigues, the sheer poverty of sophistication and intellectual potential, and the lack of humane responses from the Moghul court, and, on the other, of the powers of rationalism and scientific progress of the West.

Ghalib had many attitudes toward the British, most of them complicated and quite contradictory. His diary of 1857, the "Dast-Ambooh" is a pro-British document, criticizing the British here and there for excessively harsh rule but expressing, on the whole, horror at the tactics of the resistance forces. His letters, however, are some of the most graphic and vivid accounts of British violence that we possess. We also know that "Dast-Ambooh" was always meant to be a document that Ghalib would make public, not only to the Indian Press but specifically to the British authorities. And he even wanted to send a copy of it to Queen Victoria. His letters, are to the contrary, written to people he trusted very much, people who were his friends and would not divulge their contents to the British authorities. As Imtiyaz Ali Arshi has shown (at least to my satisfaction), whenever Ghalib feared the intimate, anti-British contents of his letters might not remain private, he requested their destruction, as he did in the case of the Nawab of Rampur. I think it is reasonable to conjecture that the diary, the "Dast-Ambooh", is a document put together by a frightened man who was looking for avenues of safety and forging versions of his own experience in order to please his oppressors, whereas the letters, those private documents of one-to-one intimacy, are more real in the expression of what Ghalib was in fact feeling at the time. And what he was feeling, according to the letters, was horror at the wholesale violence practised by the British.

Yet, matters are not so simple as that either. We cannot explain things away in terms of altogether honest letters and an altogether dishonest diary. Human and intellectual responses are more complex. The fact that Ghalib, like many other Indians at the time, admired British, and therefore Western, rationalism as expressed in constitutional law, city planning and more. His trip to Calcutta (1828-29) had done much to convince him of the immediate values of Western pragmatism. This immensely curious and human man from the narrow streets of a decaying Delhi, had suddenly been flung into the broad, well-planned avenues of 1828 Calcutta -- from the aging Moghul capital to the new, prosperous and clean capital of the rising British power, and, given the precociousness of his mind, he had not only walked on clean streets, but had also asked the fundamental questions about the sort of mind that planned that sort of city. In short, he was impressed by much that was British.

                                             Mazar-E-Ghalib -Nizamuddin Basti Delhi

In Calcutta he saw cleanliness, good city planning, prosperity. He was fascinated by the quality of the Western mind which was rational and could conceive of constitutional government, republicanism, skepticism. The Western mind was attractive particularly to one who, although fully imbued with his feudal and Muslim background, was also attracted by wider intelligence like the one that Western scientific thought offered: good rationalism promised to be good government. The sense that this very rationalism, the very mind that had planned the first modern city in India, was also in the service of a brutal and brutalizing mercantile ethic which was to produce not a humane society but an empire, began to come to Ghalib only when the onslaught of 1857 caught up with the Delhi of his own friends. Whatever admiration he had ever felt for the British was seriously brought into question by the events of that year, more particularly by the merciless-ness of the British in their dealings with those who participated in or sympathized with the Revolt. This is no place to go into the details of the massacre; I will refer here only to the recent researches of Dr. Ashraf (Ashraf, K.M., "Ghalib & The Revolt of 1857", in Rebellion 1857, ed., P.C. Joshi, 1957), in India, which prove that at least 27,000 persons were hanged during the summer of that one year, and Ghalib witnessed it all. It was obviously impossible for him to reconcile this conduct with whatever humanity and progressive ideals he had ever expected the Briish to have possessed. His letters tell of his terrible dissatisfaction.

Ghalib's ambivalence toward the British possibly represents a characteristic dilemma of the Indian -- indeed, the Asian -- people. Whereas they are fascinated by the liberalism of the Western mind and virtually seduced by the possibility that Western science and technology might be the answer to poverty and other problems of their material existence, they feel a very deep repugnance for forms and intensities of violence which are also peculiarly Western. Ghalib was probably not as fully aware of his dilemma as the intellectuals of today might be; to assign such awareness to a mid-nineteenth-century mind would be to violate it by denying the very terms -- which means limitations --, as well -- of its existence. His bewilderment at the extent of the destruction caused by the very people of whose humanity he had been convinced can, however, be understood in terms of this basic ambivalence.

The years between 1857 and 1869 were neither happy nor very eventful ones for Ghalib. During the revolt itself, Ghalib remained pretty much confined to his house, undoubtedly frightened by the wholesale massacres in the city. Many of his friends were hanged, deprived of their fortunes, exiled from the city, or detained in jails. By October 1858, he had completed his diary of the Revolt, the "Dast-Ambooh", published it, and presented copies of it to the British authorities, mainly with the purpose of proving that he had not supported the insurrections. Although his life and immediate possesions were spared, little value was attached to his writings; he was flatly told that he was still suspected of having had loyalties toward the Moghul king. During the ensuing years, his main source of income continued to be the stipend he got from the Nawab of Rampur. "Ud-i-Hindi", the first collection of his letters, was published in October 1868. Ghalib died a few months later, on February 15th, 1869

.source-http://www.uramamurthy.com/ghalib.html

LAFZ-E-MOHABBAT

            ...TERE DIL SE EK DIN...

Dekhna...Tere dil se ek din raasta niklega

Jo mujh tak zaroor aayega,

Bewafai ka yeh jo daag hai

Woh tab hi mit payega.

Jab woh yaadon bhara saawan aayega,

Woh har bheega lamha tumhari aankhon

Ke aage chha jayega.

Jab mausam ho sard ka aur

Alam ho dard ka,

Mere seene se lipat jaane ka

Tumhara jee chahega.

Tanhayi me din bitana

Tumhari tasveer dekhkar do boond ashk bahana,

Yeh sab kaam hamara hai

Yeh tumse na ho payega.

                -RANA PRATAP SINGH

               YEH ISHQ NAHI AASAA'N

Ek lafz-e-mohabbat ka adnaa sa fasaana hai,

Simte toh dil-e-aashiq phaile to zamaana hai.

Yeh kiska tasavvur hai yeh kiska fasaana hai,

Jo ashk hai aankho'n me tasbiih ka daana hai.

Hum ishq ke maaro ka itna hi fasaana hai,

Rone ko nahi koi hasne ko zamaana hai.

Woh aur wafa-dushman manega na maana hai,

Sab dil ki shararat hai aankho'n ka bahana hai.

Kya husn ne samjha hai kya ishq ne jaana hai,

Hum khaak-nashino'n ki thokar me zamaana hai.

Woh husn-o-jamaal unka yeh ishq-o-shabaab apna,

Jeene ki tamanna hai marne ka zamaana hai.

Yaa woh the khafa hum se yaa hum the khafa unse,

Kal unka zamaana tha aaj apna zamaana hai.

Ashko'n ke tabassum me aaho'n ke tarannum me,

Maasoom mohabbat ka maasoom fasaana hai.

Aankho'n me nami si hai chup chup se woh baithe hai,

Naazuk si nigaaho'n me naazuk sa fasaana hai.

Hai ishq-e-junoo'n pesha haan ishq-e-junoo'n pesha,

Aaj ek sitamgar ko has has ke rulaana hai.

Yeh ishq nahi aasaa'n itna toh samajh lijiye,

Ek aag ka dariya hai aur doob ke jaana hai.

Aansoo toh bahot se hai aankho'n me JIGAR lekin,

Bindh jaaye so moti hai reh jaaye toh daana hai.

                               -JIGAR MORADABADI

WOH JO HUM ME TUM ME QARAAR THA

Woh jo hum me tum me qaraar tha

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho,

Wahi yaani waada nibaah ka

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Woh jo lutf mujhpe the peshtar,

Woh karam ke tha mere haal par,

Mujhe sab hai yaad zara zara,

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Woh naye gile woh shikaayate'n

Woh maze maze ki hikaayate'n,

Woh har ek baat pe roothna

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Kahin baithe sab hai jo ru-ba-ru

Toh ishaarato'n hi me guftagu,

Woh bayaan shauq ka barmalaa

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Hue ittefaaq se gar baham

Woh wafa jataane ko dam-ba-dam,

Gila-e-malaamat-e-aqrabaa

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Koi aisi baat agar hui

Jo tumhare jee ko buri lagi,

Toh bayaan se pehle hi bhoolna

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Kabhi hum me tum me bhi chaah thi

Kabhi hum se tum se bhi raah thi,

Kabhi hum bhi tum bhi the aashnaa

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Suno zikr hai kayi saal ka

Ke kiya ek aap ne waada tha,

So nibhaane ka toh zikr kya

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Woh bigadna vasl ki raat ka

Woh na maanna kisi baat ka,

Woh nahin nahin ki har aan-adaa

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

Jise aap ginte the aashnaa

Jise aap kehte the baa-wafa,

Main wahi hun MOMIN-e-mubtalaa

Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho.

              -MOMIN KHAN MOMIN

                MAIN AUR MERI AAWARGI

Phirte hai kab se dar-ba-dar,ab is nagar ab us nagar,

Ek doosre ke humsafar,main aur meri aawargi.

Na aashna har reh-guzar na meherbaa'n hai ek nazar,

Jaaye toh ab jaaye kidhar main aur meri aawargi.

Hum bhi kabhi aabaad the aise kahaan barbaad the,

Befikr the aazaad the masroor the dilshaad the,

Woh chaal aisi chal gaya hum bujh gaye dil jal gaya,

Nikle jala ke apna ghar main aur meri aawargi.

Woh maah-e-wash woh maah-e-rooh woh maah-e-kaamil hu-ba-hu,

Thi jiski baatein ku-ba-ku usse ajab thi guftagu,

Phir yun hua woh kho gayi aur mujh ko zid si ho gayi,

Layenge usko dhoondkar main aur meri aawargi.

Yeh dil hi tha jo seh gaya woh baat aisi keh gaya,

Kehne ko phir kya reh gaya ashko'n ka dariya beh gaya,

Jab keh kar woh dilbar gaya tere liye main mar gaya,

Rote hai usko raat bhar main aur meri aawargi.

Ab gam uthaaye kis liye yeh dil jalaaye kis liye,

Aansoo bahaaye'n kis liye yun jaa'n gawaaye'n kis liye,

Pesha na ho jiska sitam dhoondenge ab aisa sanam,

Honge kahin toh kaargar main aur meri aawargi.

Aasaar hai sab khot ke imkaan hai sab chot ke,

Ghar band hai sab kot ke ab khatm hai sab totke,

Qismat ka sab yeh khel hai andher hi andher hai,

Aise hue be-asar main aur meri aawargi.

Jab ham-dam-o-hamraaz tha tab aur hi andaaz tha,

Ab soz hai tab saaz tha ab sharm hai tab naaz tha,

Ab mujhse ho toh ho bhi kya hai saath woh toh woh bhi kya,

Ek behunar ek besabar main aur meri aawargi.

                                    -JAVED AKHTAR

Nida Fazli - The Legendary Poet Rest In Peace...

                                                                      Nida Fazli
                                  Born: October 12, 1938, Delhi,  Died: February 8, 2016, Mumbai

1) Tera Sach Hai Tere Dard Mein,
Jhoot Likha Hai Sab Kitabon Mein,

Ek Se Mil Ke Sab Se Mil Lijiye,
Aaj Har Sakhs Hai Nakabo Mein,

Tera Milna Tere Nahin Milna,
Ek Raasta Kayi Sarabo Mein,

Unki Nakamiyo Ko Bhi Giniye,
Jinki Sohrat Hai Kamyabo Mein,

Roshni Thi Sawal Ki Had Tak,
Har Najar Kho Gayi Jawabon Mein…

2) Jinki Palken Bhig Rahi Hain Unko Bhi Gham Hoga,

Lekin Jis Par Aab Na Thahre Woh Moti Kam Hoga,

Bheeg Chuki Hai Raat Toh Sooraj Ke Ugne Tak Jaago,
Jis Takiye Par Sar Rakhoge Woh Takiya Nam Hoga,

Badal Chaand Ghatayein Sooraj Yeh Baatein Kya Jaane,
Unse Puchho Kis Basti Mein Kaisa Mosam Hoga,

Mere Chulhon Mein Toh Itni Aag Nahin Thi,
Jis Se Sara Shahar Jala Hai Koi Parcham Hoga…

3) Mumkin Hai Safar Ho Aasan Ab Sath Bhi Chalkar Dekhein,
Kuchh Tum Bhi Badalkar Dekho Kuchh Hum Bhi Badalkar Dekhen,

Aankhon Mein Koi Chehra Ho Har Pag Pe Ek Pahra Ho,
Jangle Se Chalein Basti Mein Duniya Ko Sambhalkar Dekho,

Do Char Kadam Har Rasta Pahle Ki Tarah Lagta Hai,
Shayad Koi Manjar Badle Kuchh Dur Oh Chalkar Dekhen,

Ab Vakt Bacha Hai Kitna Jo Aur Ladein Duniya Se,
Duniya Ki Nasihat Par Bhi Thoda Sa Amal Karein…

AN'KAHI BAATEIN

                  .....BHOOL GAYE

Roye hum itna ke muskurana bhool gaye,
Paas aaye itna ke door jana bhool gaye.

Kabhi woh apne husn par bada itraaya karti thi,
Unki umr jab khafa huyi unse toh unke deewaane unhe bhool gaye.

Woh humse kehte hai ki hum kyu unse door gaye,
Ab unhe kon samjhaye ki woh milne ke bahaane hi bhool gaye.

Woh chaahaton ka silsila toh unhe yaad bhi nahi,
Kheir chhodo...woh maanjra hum bhi bhool gaye.

Ek zamaana woh bhi tha ke jab unhe hum yaad bhi na the,
Aur aaj yeh zamaana hai ke hum unhe bhool gaye.

                           -RANA PRATAP SINGH


HAMESHA DER KAR DETA HUN MAIN

Zaruri baat kehni ho,
Koi wada nibhaana ho,
Use aawaaz deni ho,
Use waapas bulaana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hun main.

Madad karni ho uski,
Yaar ki dharas bandhaana ho,
Bohot derina raston par
Kisi se milne jana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hu main.

Badalte mausamon ki sair me
Dil ko lagana ho,
Kisi ko yaad rakhna ho,
Kisi ko bhool jana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hun main.

Kisi ko maut se pehle
Kisi gam se bachana ho,
Haqiqat aur thi kuch
Usko jaa ke yeh batana ho,
Hamesha der kar deta hun main.

                   -MUNIR NIYAZI


              THEHRI THEHRI SI

Thehri thehri si tabiyat me rawaani aayi,
Aaj phir yaad mohabbat ki kahaani aayi.

Aaj phir neend ko aankho'n se bicchadte dekha,
Aaj phir yaad koi chot puraani aayi.

Muddato'n baad unpe chala hamara jaadu,
Muddato'n baad humain baat banaani aayi.

Muddato'n baad pashemaa'n hua dariya hum par,
Muddato'n baad humain pyaas chhupaani aayi.

Muddato'n baad khuli wus'at-e-sehra hum par,
Muddato'n baad humain khaak udaani aayi.

Muddato'n baad mayassar hua MAA ka aanchal,
Muddato'n baad humain neend suhaani aayi.

Itni aasaani se nahi milti fan ki daulat,
Dhal gayi umr toh ghazalo'n pe jawaani aayi.

                             -IQBAL ASHAR


                       AURAT

Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhe.

Qalb-e-mahoul me larzaa'n sharar-e-jang hai aaj,
Hausle waqt ke aur ziist ke yakrang hai aaj,
Aabgino'n me tapaa'n walwale-e-sang hai aaj,
Husn aur ishq ham aawaaz-o-hamahang hai aaj;
Jisme jalta hun usi aag me jalna hai tujhe,
Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhe.

Zindagi jehad me hai sabr ke kaabu me nahi,
Nabz-e-hasti ka lahu kaanpte aansu me nahi,
Udne khulne me hai nakhat kham-e-gesu me nahi,
Jannat ek aur hai jo mard ke pehlu me nahi;
Uski aazaad ravish par bhi machalna hai tujhe,
Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhe.

Goshe goshe me sulagti hai chitaa tere liye,
Farz ka bhes badalti hai qaza tere liye,
Qeher hai teri har narm adaa tere liye,
Zeher hi zeher hai duniya ki hawa tere liye;
Rut badal daal agar phoolna phalna hai tujhe,
Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhe.

Qadr ab tak teri taareekh ne jaani hi nahin,
Tujhme shole bhi hai bas ashkfishaani hi nahin,
Tu haqiqat bhi hai dilchasp kahaani hi nahin,
Teri hasti bhi hai ek cheez jawaani hi nahin;
Apni taareekh ka unwaan badalna hai tujhe,
Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhe.

Todkar rasm ke but bare qadamat se nikal,
Zof-e-ishrat se nikal,vehem-e-nazakat se nikal,
Nafs ke khinche huye halq-e-azmal se nikal,
Yeh bhi ek qaid hi hai,qaid-e-mohabbat se nikal;
Raah ka khaar hi kya gul bhi kuchalna hai tujhe,
Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhe.

Tod yeh azm-shikan dagdag-e-pand bhi tod,
Teri khatir hai jo zaneer woh saugandh bhi tod,
Tauq yeh bhi zamrood ka gulband bhi tod,
Tod paimana-e-mardaa'n-e-khirmand bhi tod;
Banke toofaan chhalakna hai ubakna hai tujhe,
Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhe.

Tuu falaatuno'n arastuu hai tu zohra parveen,
Tere qabze me hai gardan,teri thokar me zameen,
Haan,uthaa,jald uthaa paaye-muqqadar se jabeen,
Main bhi rukne ka nahi waqt bhi rukne ka nahin;
Ladkhadayegi kahaan tak ki sambhalna hai tujhe,
Uth meri jaan merfe saath hi chalna hai tujhe.

                                  -KAIFI AZMI