Rasool Mir

Tha-rah tha-rah chham ma-rah sha-yad
shar meh ji-gu-rook drav-nai
Khosh yi-von nunda-bon, ve-si-yae
Myon dil-bar aav nai

I am all ashake,
I may die/my heart’s wish has seen no fulfillment
that lovely, pleasing, my heart throb/he hasn’t come, ah Dear!

For the rest, there is his poetic legacy, and, ah again oral traditions. Oral traditions say, Rasul Mir was tall, handsome fair complexioned person, and sported moustaches that tapered far into the face. He was graceful, fashionable fellow, with a youthful heart that throbbed with love, love, and lots of love.

Yi chho Rasul Mir Shahabad Doo-rey
Tami chho trov-mut lo-la du-kaan
Yi-vu aash-qow che-vu tor-re tor-rey
Mai chho moor-rey la-la-vun naar.

This is Rasul Mir, at Shahabad, Doru. He has opened a love-kiosk. 

Come ye lovers, drink free cup.

Love’s fire burns me deep

Love, is the waft and whoop, the craft and creed of Rasul Mir (He lived love, sang love, and lives for his loveful passion).  Love, the first strings of human heart that present the whole universe as an undulating poem. Love is the creed, beloved is the god and lyrics rush forth in bubbling streams to worship the deity. Singing, sighing and singing again they cascade over the expanses of life, in undating it in its fervor.

Ze-h posha tu-l-i maeni aashq-a mas-jid
husn imam ta-th
Tsa-ae bae-ng-i shu-baan mokh-ta-e da-ae
Ch-e-i yous-faen-i chae-lee

My Loves’ mosque, is an edifice of just two petals, Love is the preist there, Ye pearly one art the caller there, Ye, who hath the Yousef’s grace. Mir’s beloved is grace personi fied Zeh posha tu-l (two petals, mere) the being of his, object of love, is characteristic of Rasul Mir’s’ dainty love.

Love, flowers, passion and fragrance, the eternal inciters of life and beauty, are a recurring motiff in his poetry.

Posha mal chham posh-a tu-l dda-ae lo-lo
Rinda posh-a-mal gin-da-ney dra-yi lo-lo

My beloved (Posh-a-mal) is but two and a half petals; lo, the gay love goes out to frolic.

Ga-ts-ta ve-si-yeh an-tan asta lo-lo
He-ai mai kaer-i-mus poshan dasta lo-lo

Go ye my friend, fetch my lover here, A Jasmine, I have woven garlands for him

Veer-nag-h ba nae-rai aa-ga-yey
Achwal-ki posh shae-re la-ga-yey
Vach-a-manz-a-lis ma-nz rachh-a-th dachh. mooriyey
Va-lai kastur-re-yey, paer mai tra-v neer-i-yey

Veer-nag, I’ll go to usher thee,/Thy brow I’ll deck in flowers of Acha-bal/Yeh, vine I’ll twins thee to my breast/come ye kasturi, don’t roam the meadows free
The weaving green of vast meadows, the dancing hues of wild flowers, the crystal springs singing their purity out, the free birds singing ditties to the air: Kashmir is land that is made for love, passion, a life lived through the heart. It is a wonder that this land had to mouth through painful centuries of love-less self-denials, monastic seclusion, dark corners of incisive introspection which is called the path of realization, or sufism.

The Kashmiri literature, (as much of it as is available) opens with Lalla. Lalleshwari was a saint, who saw the world as a beast’s  burden. Lalla lived in the turbulence that was the beginning of Muslim Rule in Kashmir. Nund Reshi followed her, in her footsteps, in a slightly different direction, he was a preacher, who preached the new religion and won converts. His was a Muslim enthusiast living with Buddhist monastic principles, with the zeal of early Buddhist proselytizers, with similar end and results. That was the 14th century, the first Muslim century of Kashmir. Love, was an abhorrence. Faith was all, the beginning, the continuance, the end of life. Except for the interregnum of Buddh-shah, the reigns were harsh ‘Jehads’, against the populace or rival lords. Life was a persecution, living a hard duty, if not a curse. The language, the idiom, the thought and idea all were being transformed to correspond to alien ideals. It was a turbulence where you held your body in two hands, and heart kept pumping frantically under sweeping waves of adrenaline induced by terror. Poetry if any, was a recluse, hidden behind drab walls. Else, it was employed to trans-create Persian fables into heavy persionised Kashmiri for the benefit of converts to firm them in their new faith. Heart was out, for hearts sing free. Kashmir lay in double bonds. The fanatic zealots were out to stifles any free cries. The despots were prowling to cage gay voices.

It took two centuries to breed Habba Khatoon. Habba was swiftly carried to the chak palace. Akbar’s taking over released her  from there, to sing over the saffron fields of Pompor, yearning for her lover, who could not have been Yousef Shahi Chak. A century after Habba came Mahmood Gani. Gani was prolific, too prolific. He introduced Kashmiri to Persian verse-form Ghazal, in a heavily Persianised tongue. Be times he took whole verses from Persian masters and re-laid them with a Kashmiri interjection here, a connective there, a pronoun at other places. Still, he wrote some memorable prices. And he wrote a lot. From masnavi, to gazals, to dainty Kashmiri vatchun, on to pieces dipped in Sofi lore, Gani, lived to be ninety and filled a thick Kuliyat. The one published by Cultural Academy runs to 560 pages, of closely written script!

Gani was a gifted poet, a master versifier, in love with Persian. His bequeath was distilled by Rasul Mir, who loved with heart, lived with heart, and sang from a loveful heart. To a notority’

Rasul yud-vy gun-cha laban
pailth teh-h chhok badnaam
Kho-sh ro-z aashaq kar tse
Naa farmaan dapan chhi.

Rasul, even though you are infamous for your love of tulip lips, be happy, for seldom do the lovers complain of thy in-attention

Love was the task to which Rasul applied himself with abandon. Love, and beloved, a total world, with neither time nor space for the mundane.

Mae-nzi nam-nae van-d-sai bo
Ha-tt-i Koi rath tor-ri lo-lo
Sarva ka-math kam-deev myon
Ja-ma chhis ka-for-ri lo-lo
Zar vanaan ehho-ee Rasul Mir
doori shah-baad ddoore lo-lo

For her hennaed naib I’ll give, pot-fuls of blood from under my throat, that tall beloved of mine, is attired in robes of scent Rasul. Mir is crying his heart, away, far in Dooru, oh love

Tanha chon-e dar zulf girf-taar myonui dil
Dar halqa yo-hai sil-sil-h
don aal-man aa-mai

My heart is not the love one, caged in that love/This is way, the path through which, not one but two worlds’ve gone

Chhus koba hus-nuk roae,
abroo taq bar taq
Dar ra-hi aashq sajda ra-va
don bu-mun aa-mai

That face is the kaaba of beauty, her lashes layered over and over. In the path of love, it is meet to bow to those two brows

Gul ro-ae ra-tah-hath na-la
dev dilas tselem daag
Rasul-h tse rus khar mae bar
farsh-i suman aamai

Ye tulip faced, thee I’d hold, by neck to heal my pain/sans thee, Rasul the flower bed, is a thorny seat for me

Kama-kus ja-ma-h paerith che-ti-yey
Sheeri lae-gith gul-i a-naar
Veeri ta-san-zi nae-r-e mati-mati-yey
Vanta la-ti-ye, tas mae-ni jar.

White are the robes, my Kamdev wears. His brow is adorned in flowers red, His path, I’d take in drunken stupor, go, tell my love of my pangs

Nae-li sho-bee ta-sa var-dan,
bae-li Khorda sae-li-yey
Vae-li kan chie zaeli waen-kan
saeli vodd-ni tac-li-yey-lo

Bride’s robes, would suit thee well, Ye, my beloved of short years/Thy braids of hair, thy ear rings/peep from beneath the gossamer cover

Yae-ri laa-gov maeri man-zi
zaar boj-tai hen-zi-yey
Nae-ri san-zi-yey mae-lh vuchh-ney
pher-vai. Tel-baeliyey-lo

Come let us be friends, ye lovely beauty, listen to my laments, oh Henzi, come to see the mela and, we  shall roam through Telbal)

The object of Rasul’s love is said to have been a Hindu belle of his village. Tales of their having gone to the same mak-tab, and fallen in love have been woven. His poems of love, will yield a thousand tales of prolicy dalliance and passionate love, with little effort. Probably, such soul-full poetry is not possible without a passionate love. You have only to read Mahmood Gani, to know the bubbling heart in Rasul Mir’s lyrics. Henzi-yani, Hindu girl, is an unmistakable refrain in Rasul Mir’s Poems.

Raza hen-zi-ya-ni naaz kyah anzni gardan
Ya illa-hi chesma bad-a nishi rachh-tan
Ga-tsi kam kyah cha-ni baar-ga-hi lo-lo
Rinda poshamal gindi-ney dra-yi lo-lo

 How graceful the swans neck of henziyani looks, spare her from evil eyes, my Lord, Thy bounty, that won’t lessen, O God, Lo, the love goes on a frolic outing.

Whether the love was reciprocated or not is lost, like the details of Rasul Mir’s life, in the depths of past lost to us. It is also not clear whether the mentions would point to a specific person or an idealization of female beauty in the form of a Hindu-maiden (God lenons, they are beauty itself) Raza Henz-yan, passes into Kongi, into Poshmal, Soundermal, Padmaeni, Kostouri, Kongi Padmani, take the primal place, for full lyric ‘Kongi

haav-tai paan.
Bo veer-na-gai he-mai za-gai
La-gai mot gaer zaan
Pooli to cheena-gund kya drengi,
Kongi haa tai paan.

I’ll look for you at Veernag, in the garb of an unknown mendicent, at Pooli, cheeni-gund, Drengi. Give me a glimpse, Kongi

This is a virtual topographical map of the area, where Rasul Mir lived. The compiler of Q. Kulyati Rasul Mir has avered that Poshmaal too is a probable name of the Henziyaen. Rightly so. And so are Sondermaal, Kastour, Padmaan, Shama, which repeatedly occur in his verses.

Gul zun bae tse-nai jama tse-ttith
nae-rh ba-ba-zaar
Padmaeni aa-shaq chh-us tse pa-th
bad-naam niga-ro

Like a tulip, my robe I’ll rent, and come forth; O Padmani, I’m thy loved, infamed by my love

Madno Padmaani mo dim dalai
Mad-h chhas az to tai ada-h no var
Aadan ba-jey va-da na dda-lai-h
Hain-tse-i-h ko-tah tsa-l-h bo

My love, spurn not this Padmani, now for another occasion is not meet. My primal mate, my word I won’t break. How much shall I bear, ye pretender

Dil nith mae jaanus ma zaag
Shama Soundri paa-mun mai laag
Ram-nae-gr-i tsaar-thai veer nag

My heart you’ve taken, trap not my body, O beautiful Shama, expose me not to..... I look for you at Veernag through Ram Nagri

Of course, all these proper nouns can be interpreted in adjectival sense, which every name in reality is Shama Sundri, can be dusky, Soundri, beautiful Shama, or a dusky beauty. And that point needs be made about, about Rasul Mir. For Rasul Mir is a poet of love, a poet par excellance even without any enchanting tales appended to him. He lives his heart out in love-ful lyrics, weaving patterns of beauty in the nunees of emale form and adornments, wringing out a resonance from every listening heart.

Tse yi-vaan roshe chhok-na-t-h
ho-she dda-la-yo madno
Be-h rivaan sor-ma chesman
sor-m-h chha-lae-yo madno.

You stay away, my angry love, and here I sink from senses dear; My tears flow and wash all kajal from my eyes dear

Me-hn eu-than tso-r-ri dil, mas-toor-i
kor-tham hoo-ri k-soor
Bad-nus soor ma-lai, door
tse-la-yo madno
Kha-ttith see-nus-andar
na-lae ra-ttith Shama Sunder
Jama zan sar-va-ka-dus
paan va-lae-yo mad-no.

My heart you stole, and left me a maiden. With a blot in Ashes I’ll smear myself and wander away,dear

Thee I’ll hold by neck, and squeuster away in heart like robe I’ll cling

Mot gom yaar farzana vesi-yey
Kot gom tee kar ba zan-h vesiyay
Pan-ai chho Yousef pa-nai zu-lai-kh-ah
Panus chho aashaq paa-nai vesi-yey

My wise lover is enchanted; whence gone, how’d I know’ He is Yousef, himself is Zulaikhah; a lover he  is undo his self, my dear.

Rasul Mir’s object of love, is an idealization rooted in the world of sights, smells and tastes. His flowery aspect is as enticing as the exuded fragrance is invigorating.

He t-h masval, bai yimberzal,
bar-r-h gai tse kun v-e-e-chhaan
Chesm-h si-yah ro-kh vo-zae-lee
Jam-h che-ti-yey latiyey

Jasmine, Iris narcissus too, looking at thee have withered away/Thine eyes are black, face is red and robes are of the whitest hue

Aash-q-h tab s-o-n bhargi la-lus,
yaam hae-vi-th man-zi num
Aar-h-val chh-ey la-lae-na-vaan
Na-ra-ta-li-yey lati-yey

Loves fire bored into the poppy, the moment they he-nnaed hands it saw. The wild rose is nursing its  boils from burning, dear

The beloved is seen in a floral mien, or else as an ethereal beauty fashioned of the most sublime things around. It is a portraiture that’d brook no reservation for love, because it is formed of a bubbling love, seeking an end and fulfillment in form. Beauty reaches divinity as it progresses to perfection.

Aash-q-h pae-chaan chho-e arg-vanun manz
Ka-teh-h zoon zan don shah-maar-unmanz
Naq-shi chee-nus zu-naar nachli-ye lo
Bosh hus-nuk ro-zi na kae-li-ye lo.

Like an Ivy caught in violets, a full moon trapped by pythons two; or a beauty of China wearing the sacred thread

Gum-h shab-num gul ro-kh-us
Zan chhi arq daa-n-h tus
Zooni pai-tth taa-ru-kh pa-kaan
Kari ro-gun dur-dan.

Like dew on a flower, are the drops of sweat on her face, or else starswalking over moon, that my high-necked love

Vuch aafta-bun chon tsan-dan mokh
te dolus rang
Gae-j Katch-h ta-vuy zoon chhus sar-saam nigaa-ro.

The sun spied thy...Chandan face, and lost color/the moon there upon has been jaded and looks pale

Kad chon alif, laam zulf, meem da-hn chhoe
Por akli sabaq shakli alif laam ni-gaa-ro.

You are talllike alif, thy locks are long like laam, and thy mouth is meem itself; from thy form came all knowledge, in shape of alif-laam

Some where these heady portraits of the lover and beloved mingle into one whole. Kashmiri Gazal, says Abdul Ahad Azad, is a  female seeking the lover, who is male. In Persian from where Kashmiri gazal derives its inspiration, the object of love is a male sought by a male singer. In Rasul Mir, the singer changes from woman to man, the poems, and the elements of female beauty get mixed with distinctly male attributes producing a bivalent image. Azad calls it a defect of conception. This defected concept,’ runs in the Kashmiri gazals from Mahmood to Gani to Mahjoor. It certainly mars a distinctive characteristic of Kashmiri gazals, that set it apart from Persian and its offspring Urdu gazal. This trait has been preserved in female poetesses alone, like Habba and Arnimaal where there is no confusion. Rasul also gets into the gazal a boldness that is characteristically masculine. Thus:

gom ha-n-kli, dr-s-h go-m b-rai
Ts-us gom va-li-nja yaar ma aam
Tae-mi door see-n-h tai mae da-ri na-rey
Van-tai vesi-yey konai aam

The (door-) chain clanged the door was pushed  my heart leapt, was my lover come’ His chest he proffered and I my arms. Tell my friend, why didn’t he come

Zae-li dda-bi be-hi-mai ki-n-h rang-h la-rey
vo-th ve-s-e yaa-rus prae-ng voth-rar
Kai-n-h nai mang-sai shong-sai la-rey
Van-tai vesi-yey kon-ai aam

Would he grace in the balcony, or sit in the painted room’ Arise, my friend, spread his bed. I ask for  little, but to lay be his side. Tell, my friend why didn’t he come

Chum kha-f-h laa-rai pa-ta-h
la-yey bron-ttha na-lus thaf
Da-maa-n-h ra-tt-ai ma-h-sha-rai
baal ma-ra-yo

He is angry, him I’ll chase, by collar I’ll catch hold of him/on dooms day, I’ll hold thee by thy robe; without thee, here I die

It is a practice in Kashmir, for every poet even a singer, to have a spiritual preceptor, a peer. Rasul Mir is said to have had any peers. Rasul Mir sported majestic moustaches, which went tapering across the lip ending in a flowish. Some devotees, it is said, raised some religious objection to Rasul Mir’s moustaches ‘well ask him on the morrow’ said the peer. At night, the devotees, it is said, saw in their dreams the peer himself with similar moustaches. Tuswof, does not alloy Rasul Mir’s’ poetry, Unless, of course, you twist and tear it out of context and ‘discover’ ‘hidden meanings’. But Rasul Mir is an ardent lover, and on that plane, love becomes devotion, godhead.

Rasul chho zae-nith deen-o-maz-hab
rokh te zulf chon
Koh zani kya gov kufur to
Islam niga-ro

Rasuls, knows thy locks and looks is a fine faith. How’d he know what is kufur, and what Islam, dear.

That is Rasul Mir bold beautiful poet of exquisite love. Singer of fervent lyrics. The breath of vibrant air, that sent its freshness over cobwebs of cloistered verses. Almost single handedly, he turned Kashmiri poetry into a bubbling love, gushing forth helplessly, sincerely, fervently. As it should in a vale of beauty

Zae-li vae-nkan bae-li yeli lagi shu-maar
Pachh lag-nus gae-nz-ra-nus lachh tai hazaar
Ami Sha-yi no mok-lan pa-yi lo-lo
Rind-a posh-maal ginda-ney dra-yi lo-lo

When count is taken of thy braids, lacs of fortnights it’ll take. Once begun there is no escape from  there. Lo, the gay love goes out to frolic

Poetry is, needlessly, harangued by analysis and postmortems, split as under to gorge out philosophies, burdened with the weights of duty and messages. Poetry is a communion of hearts. Pure and simple with or without the appeals and advocacy’s, philosophies or campaigns. There reigns Rasul Mir Supreme unmatched. A master singer of heart

Ruslan ta-a-zh kitaab,
yi vaen-nai cha-ni ga-mai
Ani kus taa-b-i jawab
chav mey jam-i ja-mai

This new volume Rasul has sung in thy pang, who’ dare to rebut come,hand me another cup’.

Source: Kashmir Sentinel