Persian Poetry - I

‘Bu-Ali’ means ‘the scent of Ali’, Ali being the Prophet Muhammad’s son-in-law and an important figure in Islamic history and theology. A qalandar is a rank in Sufi mysticism. It is self-explanatory how a Sufi poet got the name ‘Qalandar’. But why is he Bu-Ali?

It is said that the saint was born to a scholarly father in the 13th century Delhi Sultanate, and accordingly was thoroughly initiated into the arts and sciences throughout his youth. But what really attracted him was God. Accordingly, he left his home and wandered for years, finally standing in the flowing Yamuna in penance. He stood in zealous prayer until the fish ate away at his legs, as the story goes.

It was after a long period standing thus that he heard from behind him a resounding voice- the voice of Ali. He was told that his penance had lasted long enough, and it was now time to go forth and teach. He refused, saying that he never wanted to leave the frenzy of devotion. As stubborn as he was, Ali is said to have wrenched him out of that state, with such force that his scent never left the saint. Accordingly, the mystic went forth, as Bu-Ali, to teach.

Bu-Ali’s time was one where Islam as an idea was beginning to find roots in India. Muslims from around the world were coming to find their fortunes in the courts of the immensely wealthy Delhi Sultanate and its vassals. Indians converted to Islam, foreign Muslim soldiers and scholars married local women, and Islam intertwined with local philosophies. Islam was indeed very different from the numerous Dharmic philosophies of the region. Yet these traditions found a common language.

This is a language beyond speech, a language of the soul. It consists of things that don’t need to be defined or explained, things that are known and are felt. There was devotion, which formed the backbone of daily life. Single-minded devotion, to the point of losing yourself. There was vulgarity. Insults were, and still are, common currency in India, whether playfully among friends, or with single-minded hate towards enemies. There was love. Romantic love, love towards one’s parents, love towards one’s friends was an expression of the divine. There was loyalty, a close cousin of love and devotion. And there are very many other components of this language that my words cannot communicate, but which you can feel. Above everything was truth. However you interpreted the words, however insulting or vulgar, or even how beautiful they were, you knew they were not hypocritical.

Both Islam and Indian philosophies had their own traditions of speaking this language. Only two centuries after Islam dawned was Mansur al-Hallaj torn apart in Baghdad for declaring that his devotion made him one with God. And a few centuries before that, verses were written about how lord Shiva was whipped as a coolie on the banks of the Vaigai to protect his devotee from a cruel king’s wrath. Of course, the executioners of al-Hallaj recited the same Qur’an as he did, and the tormenting king prayed at the Shiva’s temple every dawn and dusk.

I like to think that this language has been around since the dawn of humanity. Perhaps even before that. A young lion tearing apart the old pride leader whose leadership was held up by convention and reputation may be speaking this language, in its own unrefined way. It is a language of the threshold, a language purely made of transition and contradiction. Whatever my clumsy attempts are to describe it, it is with this language as a medium that two civilisations learnt to speak to each other on the North Indian plains all those years ago.

The poem above is one of the works from this period of contact. As befits a language universal, such poems were usually set to music. Here is a rendition of this poem that I enjoy particularly. Below is my stylised translation.

If I saw one night the radiant and beautiful lord,
I would throw my head at his feet along with heart and soul.

My beloved is my world’s centre, the Ka’aba means nought to me,
I crawl around the raucuous bar and kiss the drunkards on their feet.

My head is bound, my heart is bound, ruthless are my beloved’s locks
Like a Brahmin with his thread does ‘Sharaf’ boast his bondage.

This form of poetry is a ghazal, which originated from Arabic poetry and found widespread enjoyment across the Islamicate world. Ghazals are comprised of couplets which have a recurring rhyme scheme, refrain and theme. The last verse usually includes the author’s pen name (‘kalam’ in South Asian tradition). Here, the pen name is ‘Sharaf’, meaning virtuous.

• poetry
• Persian
• ghazal