Mohammad Sanaullah Dar, better known as Meeraji (25 May 1912 – 3 November 1949).

from: Miraji ke gīt (Miraji’s Songs) 

by Meeraji/ Mohammad Sanaullah Dar (1912-1949) 

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Translated into English by Maryam Iraj

To find the original essay in Urdu, please turn to pages 7-10 here.

Hamza ibn ‘Abd al-Muttalib: Elijah rescuing Prince Nur ad-Dahr from drowning in a river.
From: Wikimedia Commons

Swaying on the currents of my imagination, I drift away to a faraway land—where there is nothing but a haze spread in all directions. My eyes bear witness to these shadows but don’t identify the darkness, my ears listen to the echo but do not comprehend it, hands are lifted to touch but drop without feeling a sensation, a racy heart is on the edge, and demands to walk away, to quickly escape this dilemma and attain salvation…I move my feet but the ground does not  move behind me. In fact, my eyes transverse a hidden mountain and keep going. It keeps going and doesn’t stop. I find myself helpless but as a swaddled baby lying in the lap of a mother. To one who is only familiar with the warmth of the lap, affairs of the world are nothing but a faint mistiness. His beaming, young eyes are fixed at the elixir of life, and with a few cries the nectar shall start dripping, a hand caresses tenderly,  sweet sound resonates and the elixir of life forces the baby to move unconsciously. With time the child gets tired and a lullaby rubs away his exhaustion and calls sleep forth.

The currents of my thoughts bring me to the point where I believe that it is the woman who created Song, at times, in the manner of a beautiful slender lady, and sometimes in a simple straightforward manner, and the man sings a song which is for one and remains just for that one, and sometimes a song which enfolds everyone into its sweetness. Hence, life goes one. The journey never wears you out, fun and frolic continue in a show called life—a show in which a mother calls out, “My son!” …a sister calls out, “My brother…,” and a wife call]s out, “My caretaker, my lover…” And every time these two words have a song-like swing to them. And the listeners cry out, “O, creator of everything, let this breath of life go on as it has.” 

Photo by Jared Rice on Unsplash

The currents of my thoughts bring me to this point, but the soil under my feet keeps moving past the last mountain and onwards. I am no longer in control of myself. Bonds of multiple lifetimes start loosening, the air is demystified, the river running on the right croons and the jungle, expanded on a vast land, is resonating with the sounds of the birds. On one hand, there is a roaring waterfall and, on the other hand, there are blinding waves of the sea hitting one another. And above all, there is a sky stretched over to hold us all in its bosom, brings them into unity and harmony. This oozing power brings a furrow to her brow, and a thundering, raw storm enquires “who is saying what?” Even if they wanted to, no one would say a word. Witnesses simply stand and watch as their eyes twinkle at this magic scene, as a flash of lightening calls to the eyes saying “take a look here”. It demands to be looked at, but the eyes cannot. They close and a darkness follows. A kind of darkness that when amalgamated with light give births to an altogether new countenance and the ears listen—“rim jhim” a stream pours forth heavily!———“rhim jhim”!

But these are the falling tears, a call of the heart transpires into a cry. Yet the loneliness doesn’t end and swamping like a dark cloud, encloses the heart like a storm. There is a boundary devoid of walls; it starts suffocating, sites close to my heart start moving away, and all around it is pitch-dark. No one to hold hands with and the only hand whose touch could be felt is that of my own! The teasing goddess of life keeps observing with her veil drawn, and man, tired with exhausting solitude, starts losing his consciousness to his own self. 

Squirrels, a Peacock and Peahen, Demoiselle Cranes and Fishes c.1530). Painting from the Babur Nama. Image from: National Museum Archive, New Delhi.

The currents of my thoughts take a turn at this point to hide a secret. Ideas are enabled to decipher new mysteries. With further literary examination, it appears that the first and foremost form of poetry is the song. In the struggling phase of a man’s life; the elation which bursts forth following the win, man needs a companion to share all this. And, in such moments of solitude, his voice escorts him. It makes life interesting in a cave, erases the fear of hunting in a wild jungle, and like an unseen companion would cure man of his fatigue from a long and strenuous journey. These are the stories of the past centuries. However, it is true to even today that only the form and mannerism has changed. In fact, for the sake of the speakers, the intricacies of culture and civilization, of art and literature also give birth to  the listeners and readers too. And so, the songs that was once just for an individual now reaches a larger gathering/social collective. And whenever something goes through this process of translation, it uses reasoning to prove itself. For the crowd is impatient and only knows two words: “why?” and “how?”  And it is for this same reason that we are posing this question—how are songs made? Everyone thinks that songs are written to be sung, but this is not the age of peacocks dancing in the jungle. Now, we have built zoos for them, for all the birds and animals, irrespective of the fear of what will happen to them. Will their wild songs be withered away in this oppression? But, once again, we shall stress that songs are not champa flowers but a sensitive mimosa plant that withers at the touch.  If you want to keep enjoying the sweet nectar of the song, then leave it here, and enjoy it. Listen and sing beautiful songs. 

The currents of my thoughts arrive here and go silent. They don’t ask me how songs are made.