The Answer to the Complaint
Jawab-e-Shikwa
Jawab-e-Shikwa, 'The Answer to the Complaint', is Iqbal's reply to his own earlier poem. Where Shikwa was a believer's grievance addressed up to God, this poem is the voice of God answering back down. Iqbal wrote it in 1912 and recited it in 1913 at another large public gathering in Lahore, with the proceeds going to a charitable cause. The two poems were meant to be read together, and the answer is what gives the pair its lasting power.
The poem keeps the exact shape of Shikwa. It runs in the same six-line stanzas, the same flowing metre, the same music, so that the rebuttal arrives carried by the very rhythm that carried the grievance. It opens with a short prelude in which the complaint, daring as it was, is heard all the way up past the angels and the stars, and then it answers. The answer does not deny that the decline is real. It relocates the cause of it.
The argument is direct and unsparing. You complain, the divine voice says, but look honestly at yourselves. You kept the name of faith and let go of its substance. You inherited something your ancestors earned and stopped doing the things that earned it. You quarrel among yourselves while they were merciful to one another. The stars have not moved; you have. Heaven's grace was never withdrawn. It simply waits, as it always did, for someone willing to act.
Read it slowly and let the rebuke turn, because it does turn. The poem moves from accusation toward something gentler: a promise. The door is open. Build a true and striving selfhood, the voice says, become again the kind of people the earlier glory required, and the glory is yours again. Jawab-e-Shikwa endures past any one creed because it takes a community's pain seriously and then hands that community its agency back. It converts grievance into responsibility without contempt.
What follows is the whole poem, stanza by stanza — the verse in Roman and in Devanagari, a plain English translation, and a short note on each stanza. For the shorter overview of what the poem is and why it matters, read the decoded page.
Jawab-e-Shikwa — in full
36 stanzas. Verse transcribed from the original.
par nahin taqat-e-parwaz magar rakhti hai
qudsi-ul-asl hai rifat pe nazar rakhti hai
KHak se uThti hai gardun pe guzar rakhti hai
ishq tha fitnagar o sarkash o chalak mira
asman chir gaya nala-e-bebak mira
पर नहीं ताक़त-ए-परवाज़ मगर रखती है
क़ुदसी-उल-अस्ल है रिफ़अत पे नज़र रखती है
ख़ाक से उठती है गर्दूं पे गुज़र रखती है
इश्क़ था फ़ित्नागर ओ सरकश ओ चालाक मिरा
आसमाँ चीर गया नाला-ए-बेबाक मिरा
What rises from the heart carries its own force. It has no power of flight, and yet it travels. Sacred in origin, it keeps its gaze fixed on the heights; it lifts from the dust and finds its way to the heavens. My love was a maker of trouble, defiant, restless, and quick, and my fearless cry tore clean through the sky.
The prelude opens by answering a doubt Shikwa never quite settled: can a complaint from a mere mortal reach God at all. Yes, the divine voice says. Words from the heart have no wings, yet they rise on their own. The grievance was heard. That settled, the poem can begin its reply.
bole sayyare sar-e-arsh-e-barin hai koi
chand kahta tha nahin ahl-e-zamin hai koi
kahkashan kahti thi poshida yahin hai koi
kuchh jo samjha mire shikwe ko to rizwan samjha
mujh ko jannat se nikala hua insan samjha
बोले सय्यारे सर-ए-अर्श-ए-बरीं है कोई
चाँद कहता था नहीं अहल-ए-ज़मीं है कोई
कहकशाँ कहती थी पोशीदा यहीं है कोई
कुछ जो समझा मिरे शिकवे को तो रिज़वाँ समझा
मुझ को जन्नत से निकाला हुआ इंसाँ समझा
The old sage of the sky heard it and said, there is someone, somewhere. The planets answered, someone stands at the foot of the highest throne. The moon insisted, no, it is one of the dwellers of earth. The galaxy said, the one is hidden right here. The keeper of paradise, who understood my complaint a little, took me for a man cast out of the garden.
The cry passes upward through the whole cosmos, and no one can place it. Each sphere of heaven guesses wrong. The point is the strangeness of the event: a voice from earth loud enough to puzzle the planets. The decline of a people has produced a sound the universe has to stop and listen to.
arsh walon pe bhi khulta nahin ye raaz hai kya
ta-sar-e-arsh bhi insan ki tag-o-taz hai kya
aa gai KHak ki chuTki ko bhi parwaz hai kya
GHafil aadab se sukkan-e-zamin kaise hain
shoKH o gustaKH ye pasti ke makin kaise hain
अर्श वालों पे भी खुलता नहीं ये राज़ है क्या
ता-सर-ए-अर्श भी इंसाँ की तग-ओ-ताज़ है क्या
आ गई ख़ाक की चुटकी को भी परवाज़ है क्या
ग़ाफ़िल आदाब से सुक्कान-ए-ज़मीं कैसे हैं
शोख़ ओ गुस्ताख़ ये पस्ती के मकीं कैसे हैं
Even the angels were astonished: what is this voice? Even the people of the throne could not see through the mystery. Does man's striving reach as far as the throne itself? Has a pinch of dust learnt to fly? How heedless of manners these dwellers of earth are, how bold and impudent for creatures who live in the low places.
The angels are taken aback, and their reaction quietly raises the stakes. A being made of dust has sent a cry to the very threshold of God. The complaint is treated as an act of overreach, but also, by implication, as proof of the human creature's restless ambition. That ambition is the thing the poem will go on to demand back.
tha jo masjud-e-malaik ye wahi aadam hai
aalim-e-kaif hai dana-e-rumuz-e-kam hai
han magar ijz ke asrar se na-mahram hai
naaz hai taqat-e-guftar pe insanon ko
baat karne ka saliqa nahin nadanon ko
था जो मस्जूद-ए-मलाइक ये वही आदम है
आलिम-ए-कैफ़ है दाना-ए-रुमूज़-ए-कम है
हाँ मगर इज्ज़ के असरार से ना-महरम है
नाज़ है ताक़त-ए-गुफ़्तार पे इंसानों को
बात करने का सलीक़ा नहीं नादानों को
So bold that he is even cross with God. This is the very Adam before whom the angels once bowed. He knows the world of quality, he understands the secrets of quantity; yes, but he is a stranger to the secrets of humility. Men take pride in their power of speech, and yet the foolish have no real grasp of how to speak.
Here the answer turns its first blade. The complainer is indeed the noble Adam the angels honoured, learned in every science, but ignorant of one thing: humility. The closing couplet is the hinge. You are proud of being able to speak, the voice says, but you have not learnt how. The complaint was loud; it was not yet wise.
ashk-e-betab se labrez hai paimana tira
asman-gir hua nara-e-mastana tira
kis qadar shoKH-zaban hai dil-e-diwana tira
shukr shikwe ko kiya husn-e-ada se tu ne
ham-suKHan kar diya bandon ko KHuda se tu ne
अश्क-ए-बेताब से लबरेज़ है पैमाना तिरा
आसमाँ-गीर हुआ नारा-ए-मस्ताना तिरा
किस क़दर शोख़-ज़बाँ है दिल-ए-दीवाना तिरा
शुक्र शिकवे को किया हुस्न-ए-अदा से तू ने
हम-सुख़न कर दिया बंदों को ख़ुदा से तू ने
A voice came: your tale is full of sorrow, your cup brims over with restless tears. Your intoxicated cry has reached up and seized the sky; how sharp the tongue of your maddened heart. Yet you turned a complaint into a thing of grace, and by the beauty of how you spoke it, you have set My servants talking with their God.
The tone softens for a moment, and it is the most generous note in the whole poem. The complaint was sharp, the divine voice grants, but it was made with such artistry that it became something rare: an honest conversation between people and their God. Even a grievance, well and lovingly made, has its dignity.
rah dikhlaen kise rah-raw-e-manzil hi nahin
tarbiyat aam to hai jauhar-e-qabil hi nahin
jis se tamir ho aadam ki ye wo gil hi nahin
koi qabil ho to ham shan-e-kai dete hain
dhunDne walon ko duniya bhi nai dete hain
राह दिखलाएँ किसे रह-रव-ए-मंज़िल ही नहीं
तर्बियत आम तो है जौहर-ए-क़ाबिल ही नहीं
जिस से तामीर हो आदम की ये वो गिल ही नहीं
कोई क़ाबिल हो तो हम शान-ए-कई देते हैं
ढूँडने वालों को दुनिया भी नई देते हैं
We are inclined to grace, but there is no one who asks. Whom should We show the road, when there is no traveller bound for a destination? Training is freely available; it is the worthy substance that is missing. The clay from which a true man could be built is simply not there. Let someone prove worthy, and We grant him the splendour of kings; to those who truly seek, We give a whole new world.
This is the heart of the answer. Grace was never rationed, the divine voice says; it waits, ungiven, because no one is asking, no one is travelling. The fault is not a closed door but an empty road. And the promise is already here in the last couplet: prove worthy, and the splendour returns.
ummati bais-e-ruswai-e-paiGHambar hain
but-shikan uTh gae baqi jo rahe but-gar hain
tha brahim pidar aur pisar aazar hain
bada-asham nae bada naya KHum bhi nae
haram-e-kaba naya but bhi nae tum bhi nae
उम्मती बाइस-ए-रुस्वाई-ए-पैग़म्बर हैं
बुत-शिकन उठ गए बाक़ी जो रहे बुत-गर हैं
था ब्राहीम पिदर और पिसर आज़र हैं
बादा-आशाम नए बादा नया ख़ुम भी नए
हरम-ए-काबा नया बुत भी नए तुम भी नए
Your hands have lost their strength, your hearts grown used to unbelief. His followers have become the cause of the Prophet's disgrace. The breakers of idols are gone; those who remain are makers of idols. Abraham was the father, and the sons are Azar. New drinkers, new wine, and a new jar; a new Kaaba, new idols, and a new you.
The rebuke sharpens into a generational charge. Abraham smashed the idols; his descendants now carve them. Everything has been replaced, and not by something better. This stanza names the inversion the whole poem turns on: the children of the iconoclast have quietly become idolaters of a new kind.
nazish-e-mausam-e-gul lala-e-sahrai tha
jo musalman tha allah ka saudai tha
kabhi mahbub tumhara yahi harjai tha
kisi yakjai se ab ahd-e-GHulami kar lo
millat-e-ahmad-e-mursil ko maqami kar lo
नाज़िश-ए-मौसम-ए-गुल लाला-ए-सहराई था
जो मुसलमान था अल्लाह का सौदाई था
कभी महबूब तुम्हारा यही हरजाई था
किसी यकजाई से अब अहद-ए-ग़ुलामी कर लो
मिल्लत-ए-अहमद-ए-मुर्सिल को मक़ामी कर लो
There were days when this was the wealth of beauty, the pride of the season of flowers, the wild tulip of the desert. Whoever was a Muslim was a man madly in love with God; this faithless wanderer was once your beloved. Go now and swear allegiance, like slaves, to some local thing; reduce the people of Ahmad the Messenger to a small parish of one place.
Iqbal contrasts a faith once vast and God-intoxicated with a faith now content to be narrow. The closing lines carry biting irony: he taunts his readers for shrinking a worldwide community into a parochial, place-bound thing. The grandeur was never geographic; it was the size of the believer's love.
ham se kab pyar hai han nind tumhein pyari hai
tab-e-azad pe qaid-e-ramazan bhari hai
tumhin kah do yahi ain-e-wafadari hai
qaum mazhab se hai mazhab jo nahin tum bhi nahin
jazb-e-baham jo nahin mahfil-e-anjum bhi nahin
हम से कब प्यार है हाँ नींद तुम्हें प्यारी है
तब-ए-आज़ाद पे क़ैद-ए-रमज़ाँ भारी है
तुम्हीं कह दो यही आईन-ए-वफ़ादारी है
क़ौम मज़हब से है मज़हब जो नहीं तुम भी नहीं
जज़्ब-ए-बाहम जो नहीं महफ़िल-ए-अंजुम भी नहीं
How heavy the dawn waking lies upon you. When did you ever love Us? It is sleep you love. Your free-spirited nature finds the discipline of Ramazan a burden. Tell Me yourselves, is this the code of the faithful? A people exists by its faith; where the faith is gone, you too are gone. Without the pull that binds you together, there is no gathering of stars at all.
The complaint becomes pointed and almost domestic. You will not rise for the dawn prayer, you find the fast a burden, and you still call yourselves loyal. The stanza closes on a structural truth Iqbal returns to again and again: a people held together by nothing is not a people, only scattered points of light.
nahin jis qaum ko parwa-e-nasheman tum ho
bijliyan jis mein hon aasuda wo KHirman tum ho
bech khate hain jo aslaf ke madfan tum ho
ho niko nam jo qabron ki tijarat kar ke
kya na bechoge jo mil jaen sanam patthar ke
नहीं जिस क़ौम को परवा-ए-नशेमन तुम हो
बिजलियाँ जिस में हों आसूदा वो ख़िर्मन तुम हो
बेच खाते हैं जो अस्लाफ़ के मदफ़न तुम हो
हो निको नाम जो क़ब्रों की तिजारत कर के
क्या न बेचोगे जो मिल जाएँ सनम पत्थर के
You are the ones who have mastered no craft in the world. You are the people who take no care for their own nest. You are the harvest in which the lightning has made its home. You are the ones who sell off the graves of their ancestors. You who earn a good name by trading in tombs, what would you not sell, if you could lay hands on idols of stone?
The accusation grows scornful. A people who have learnt no skill, who neglect their own shelter, who will even sell their ancestors' graves for profit. The closing line is deliberately savage: people who traffic in tombs would traffic in anything. Decline here is not fate; it is a series of small, chosen betrayals.
nau-e-insan ko GHulami se chhuDaya kis ne
mere kabe ko jabinon se basaya kis ne
mere quran ko sinon se lagaya kis ne
the to aaba wo tumhare hi magar tum kya ho
hath par hath dhare muntazir-e-farda ho
नौ-ए-इंसाँ को ग़ुलामी से छुड़ाया किस ने
मेरे काबे को जबीनों से बसाया किस ने
मेरे क़ुरआन को सीनों से लगाया किस ने
थे तो आबा वो तुम्हारे ही मगर तुम क्या हो
हाथ पर हाथ धरे मुंतज़िर-ए-फ़र्दा हो
Who erased falsehood from the page of the age? Who freed the human race from bondage? Who filled My Kaaba with bowed foreheads? Who held My Quran close against their hearts? They were indeed your forefathers, but what are you? You sit with your hands folded, waiting for some tomorrow to arrive.
The voice lists the great deeds of the past in a chain of questions, then drops the floor away. They were your ancestors, yes, but what are you. The last image is precise and damning: a people who fold their hands and wait, as if the future were something that comes to you rather than something you make.
shikwa beja bhi kare koi to lazim hai shuur
adl hai fatir-e-hasti ka azal se dastur
muslim aain hua kafir to mile hur o qusur
tum mein huron ka koi chahne wala hi nahin
jalwa-e-tur to maujud hai musa hi nahin
शिकवा बेजा भी करे कोई तो लाज़िम है शुऊर
अदल है फ़ातिर-ए-हस्ती का अज़ल से दस्तूर
मुस्लिम आईं हुआ काफ़िर तो मिले हूर ओ क़ुसूर
तुम में हूरों का कोई चाहने वाला ही नहीं
जल्वा-ए-तूर तो मौजूद है मूसा ही नहीं
What was that you said, that the Muslim is offered nothing but the promise of paradise? Even when a complaint goes too far, some sense should govern it. Justice has been the rule of the Maker of being from the first day. Whoever takes on the ways of a Muslim is given the maidens and the mansions; whoever takes on the ways of an unbeliever receives accordingly. Among you there is no one who even desires those maidens. The radiance of Sinai is present; it is the Moses who is missing.
The answer takes up a specific line of the original complaint and turns it. Heaven's law is justice, not favouritism. Reward follows conduct, never a name on a register. The closing image is one of Iqbal's finest: the light of revelation is still here, blazing on the mountain. What the age lacks is anyone willing to climb.
ek hi sab ka nabi din bhi iman bhi ek
haram-e-pak bhi allah bhi quran bhi ek
kuchh baDi baat thi hote jo musalman bhi ek
firqa-bandi hai kahin aur kahin zaten hain
kya zamane mein panapne ki yahi baten hain
एक ही सब का नबी दीन भी ईमान भी एक
हरम-ए-पाक भी अल्लाह भी क़ुरआन भी एक
कुछ बड़ी बात थी होते जो मुसलमान भी एक
फ़िरक़ा-बंदी है कहीं और कहीं ज़ातें हैं
क्या ज़माने में पनपने की यही बातें हैं
This people has one and the same gain, one and the same loss. One Prophet for all, one faith, one belief. The sacred sanctuary is one, God is one, the Quran is one. It would have been no small thing had the Muslims been one too. Here there is sectarianism, and there caste divisions. Are these the ways by which a people flourishes in the world?
Iqbal places unity at the centre of the answer. Everything that should bind the community is already shared, only the community itself is not. The plain ache of the fourth line, that they could so easily have been one, gives way to a flat question about sects and castes: this is not how anyone rises.
maslahat waqt ki hai kis ke amal ka miyar
kis ki aankhon mein samaya hai shiar-e-aGHyar
ho gai kis ki nigah tarz-e-salaf se be-zar
qalb mein soz nahin ruh mein ehsas nahin
kuchh bhi paiGHam-e-mohammad ka tumhein paas nahin
मस्लहत वक़्त की है किस के अमल का मेआर
किस की आँखों में समाया है शिआर-ए-अग़्यार
हो गई किस की निगह तर्ज़-ए-सलफ़ से बे-ज़ार
क़ल्ब में सोज़ नहीं रूह में एहसास नहीं
कुछ भी पैग़ाम-ए-मोहम्मद का तुम्हें पास नहीं
Who is it that has abandoned the way of the chosen Messenger? Whose conduct now takes mere expediency as its standard? In whose eyes has the manner of strangers taken hold? Whose gaze has turned away in disgust from the way of the forebears? There is no fire in the heart, no feeling in the soul; you keep nothing at all of the message of Muhammad.
A run of questions exposes a quiet drift away from inherited principle, replaced by whatever is convenient and whatever the strangers do. The final couplet states the loss without ornament: the heart has gone cold, the soul has stopped feeling, and the message that once animated the community is simply not carried any more.
zahmat-e-roza jo karte hain gawara to GHarib
nam leta hai agar koi hamara to GHarib
parda rakhta hai agar koi tumhara to GHarib
umara nashsha-e-daulat mein hain GHafil ham se
zinda hai millat-e-baiza GHuraba ke dam se
ज़हमत-ए-रोज़ा जो करते हैं गवारा तो ग़रीब
नाम लेता है अगर कोई हमारा तो ग़रीब
पर्दा रखता है अगर कोई तुम्हारा तो ग़रीब
उमरा नश्शा-ए-दौलत में हैं ग़ाफ़िल हम से
ज़िंदा है मिल्लत-ए-बैज़ा ग़ुरबा के दम से
It is the poor who go and stand in the prayer rows of the mosques. It is the poor who willingly bear the hardship of the fast. If anyone takes My name, it is the poor. If anyone guards your honour, it is the poor. The wealthy are heedless of Us, lost in the intoxication of riches; the shining community lives on by the breath of the poor.
The voice draws a sharp line through the community itself. The faith is being kept alive, the divine voice says, by the poor, while the rich, drunk on their wealth, have forgotten God entirely. It is a striking moment of social judgement: devotion has migrated downward, and the community survives on the loyalty of those with the least.
barq-e-tabii na rahi shola-maqali na rahi
rah gai rasm-e-azan ruh-e-bilali na rahi
falsafa rah gaya talqin-e-GHazali na rahi
masjidein marsiyan-KHwan hain ki namazi na rahe
yani wo sahib-e-ausaf-e-hijazi na rahe
बर्क़-ए-तबई न रही शोला-मक़ाली न रही
रह गई रस्म-ए-अज़ाँ रूह-ए-बिलाली न रही
फ़ल्सफ़ा रह गया तल्क़ीन-ए-ग़ज़ाली न रही
मस्जिदें मर्सियाँ-ख़्वाँ हैं कि नमाज़ी न रहे
यानी वो साहिब-ए-औसाफ़-ए-हिजाज़ी न रहे
The community's preacher no longer has that ripe and settled thought. The natural lightning is gone, the fiery eloquence is gone. The custom of the call to prayer remains; the soul of Bilal is gone. The philosophy remains; the spiritual counsel of Ghazali is gone. The mosques are reciting elegies, for the worshippers are no more; that is, the men who carried the qualities of the Hijaz are no more.
Iqbal mourns the survival of form without spirit. The call to prayer is still sounded, but without Bilal's fervour. The philosophy is still studied, but without Ghazali's living counsel. The mosques themselves seem to grieve. The lesson is exact: ritual outlives faith, and a building full of empty habits is its own kind of elegy.
ham ye kahte hain ki the bhi kahin muslim maujud
waza mein tum ho nasara to tamaddun mein hunud
ye musalman hain jinhein dekh ke sharmaen yahud
yun to sayyad bhi ho mirza bhi ho afGHan bhi ho
tum sabhi kuchh ho batao to musalman bhi ho
हम ये कहते हैं कि थे भी कहीं मुस्लिम मौजूद
वज़्अ में तुम हो नसारा तो तमद्दुन में हुनूद
ये मुसलमाँ हैं जिन्हें देख के शरमाएँ यहूद
यूँ तो सय्यद भी हो मिर्ज़ा भी हो अफ़्ग़ान भी हो
तुम सभी कुछ हो बताओ तो मुसलमान भी हो
There is an outcry that the Muslims have vanished from the world. We say, were there ever really any Muslims to begin with? In your manners you are Christians, in your way of life Hindus. These are Muslims at the sight of whom the Jews would feel ashamed. You are Sayyid, you are Mirza, you are Afghan as well; you are all of these things, but tell Me, are you Muslims too?
The answer makes a brutal distinction between a label and a life. Others mourn that Muslims have disappeared; the divine voice asks whether the lived faith was ever there. The final couplet lands the charge with a list of inherited identities of race and rank, and a single quiet question that none of them answers.
adl us ka tha qawi laus-e-maraat se pak
shajar-e-fitrat-e-muslim tha haya se namnak
tha shujaat mein wo ek hasti-e-fauq-ul-idrak
KHud-gudazi nam-e-kaifiyat-e-sahba-yash bud
KHali-az-KHesh shudan surat-e-mina-yash bud
अदल उस का था क़वी लौस-ए-मराआत से पाक
शजर-ए-फ़ित्रत-ए-मुस्लिम था हया से नमनाक
था शुजाअत में वो इक हस्ती-ए-फ़ोक़-उल-इदराक
ख़ुद-गुदाज़ी नम-ए-कैफ़ियत-ए-सहबा-यश बूद
ख़ाली-अज़-ख़ेश शुदन सूरत-ए-मीना-यश बूद
When the Muslim spoke, his truthfulness was fearless. His justice was strong, untainted by the stain of favouritism. The tree of the Muslim's nature was moist with modesty. In courage he was a being beyond ordinary understanding. To melt himself away was the very dew of his wine's quality; to be emptied of self was the shape of his goblet.
The voice recalls the inner character of the believer at his best: fearless honesty, justice free of favour, courage, and modesty together. The two Persian lines, slipped in deliberately, name the deepest quality of all: self-effacement. The old Muslim's strength was that he had been emptied of his own ego.
us ke aaina-e-hasti mein amal jauhar tha
jo bharosa tha use quwwat-e-bazu par tha
hai tumhein maut ka Dar us ko KHuda ka Dar tha
baap ka ilm na beTe ko agar azbar ho
phir pisar qabil-e-miras-e-pidar kyunkar ho
उस के आईना-ए-हस्ती में अमल जौहर था
जो भरोसा था उसे क़ुव्वत-ए-बाज़ू पर था
है तुम्हें मौत का डर उस को ख़ुदा का डर था
बाप का इल्म न बेटे को अगर अज़बर हो
फिर पिसर क़ाबिल-ए-मीरास-ए-पिदर क्यूँकर हो
Every Muslim was a lancet to the vein of falsehood. In the mirror of his being, action was the precious essence. The trust he placed was placed in the strength of his own arm. You fear death; he feared God. If the son has not learnt the father's knowledge by heart, then how can the son be worthy of the father's inheritance?
The contrast becomes a single clean blade: you fear death, he feared God. The old believer trusted his own striving arm; the present one trusts nothing and risks nothing. The closing image of inheritance is the moral of the stanza. A legacy is not received by birth; it is earned by mastering what the fathers knew.
tum musalman ho ye andaz-e-musalmani hai
haidari faqr hai ne daulat-e-usmani hai
tum ko aslaf se kya nisbat-e-ruhani hai
wo zamane mein muazziz the musalman ho kar
aur tum KHwar hue tarik-e-quran ho kar
तुम मुसलमाँ हो ये अंदाज़-ए-मुसलमानी है
हैदरी फ़क़्र है ने दौलत-ए-उस्मानी है
तुम को अस्लाफ़ से क्या निस्बत-ए-रूहानी है
वो ज़माने में मुअज़्ज़िज़ थे मुसलमाँ हो कर
और तुम ख़्वार हुए तारिक-ए-क़ुरआँ हो कर
Everyone is drunk on the wine of a taste for comfort and ease. You are Muslims, and this is your idea of being Muslim? It is the holy poverty of Ali you have, nor the wealth of the Ottomans; what spiritual kinship do you have with the forefathers at all? They were honoured in their age because they were true Muslims, and you were disgraced because you abandoned the Quran.
The stanza names the modern affliction as comfort itself, a wine everyone is drunk on. The old believers had neither worldly riches nor that craving for ease; they had a chosen, dignified poverty. The closing couplet states the whole poem's logic in two lines: honour followed faith, disgrace followed its abandonment.
tum KHata-kar o KHata-bin wo KHata-posh o karim
chahte sab hain ki hon auj-e-suraiya pe muqim
pahle waisa koi paida to kare qalb-e-salim
taKHt-e-faGHfur bhi un ka tha sarir-e-kai bhi
yunhi baten hain ki tum mein wo hamiyat hai bhi
तुम ख़ता-कार ओ ख़ता-बीं वो ख़ता-पोश ओ करीम
चाहते सब हैं कि हों औज-ए-सुरय्या पे मुक़ीम
पहले वैसा कोई पैदा तो करे क़ल्ब-ए-सलीम
तख़्त-ए-फ़ग़फ़ूर भी उन का था सरीर-ए-कई भी
यूँ ही बातें हैं कि तुम में वो हमिय्यत है भी
You are full of fury with one another; they were merciful with one another. You are sinners and fault-finders; they were coverers of faults and generous. Everyone wishes to dwell on the heights of the Pleiades; first let someone bring into being a heart as sound as theirs. The throne of China was theirs, and the throne of the Persian kings as well. These are only words; is that high zeal even left in you?
The mirror is held up couplet by couplet: their mercy against your anger, their generosity against your fault-finding. Everyone wants the heights, the voice says, but no one will first build the sound heart that earns them. The closing line cuts through the talk and asks whether the old fierce dignity survives at all.
tum uKHuwwat se gurezan wo uKHuwwat pe nisar
tum ho guftar saraapa wo saraapa kirdar
tum taraste ho kali ko wo gulistan ba-kanar
ab talak yaad hai qaumon ko hikayat un ki
naqsh hai safha-e-hasti pe sadaqat un ki
तुम उख़ुव्वत से गुरेज़ाँ वो उख़ुव्वत पे निसार
तुम हो गुफ़्तार सरापा वो सरापा किरदार
तुम तरसते हो कली को वो गुलिस्ताँ ब-कनार
अब तलक याद है क़ौमों को हिकायत उन की
नक़्श है सफ़्हा-ए-हस्ती पे सदाक़त उन की
Self-destruction is your way; they were full of honour and self-respect. You flee from brotherhood; they gave their lives for it. You are speech from head to foot; they were character from head to foot. You long for a single bud; they had whole gardens at hand. Even now the nations remember their story. Their truthfulness is engraved on the page of existence.
The clearest line in the poem sits here: you are all speech, they were all character. You talk; they acted. The reward of that action is the closing image. Their truthfulness is still legible on the page of the world, while the present generation, all words, has written nothing the nations will remember.
but-e-hindi ki mohabbat mein birhman bhi hue
shauq-e-parwaz mein mahjur-e-nasheman bhi hue
be-amal the hi jawan din se bad-zan bhi hue
in ko tahzib ne har band se aazad kiya
la ke kabe se sanam-KHane mein aabad kiya
बुत-ए-हिन्दी की मोहब्बत में बिरहमन भी हुए
शौक़-ए-परवाज़ में महजूर-ए-नशेमन भी हुए
बे-अमल थे ही जवाँ दीन से बद-ज़न भी हुए
इन को तहज़ीब ने हर बंद से आज़ाद किया
ला के काबे से सनम-ख़ाने में आबाद किया
They shone like stars on the horizon of the people, and in their love of Indian idols they even became Brahmins. In their craving to soar, they were also torn from their own nest. The young, idle to begin with, also grew suspicious of their faith. This civilisation has freed them from every binding, and, bringing them from the Kaaba, has settled them in the idol-house.
Iqbal turns to the young of his own generation. A craving for flight has cut them loose from their roots, and a borrowed civilisation has, in the name of freedom, carried them out of the sacred and into the idol-house. The freedom is real and the loss is real, and the stanza refuses to pretend they are not the same act.
shahr ki khae hawa badiya-paima na rahe
wo to diwana hai basti mein rahe ya na rahe
ye zaruri hai hijab-e-ruKH-e-laila na rahe
gila-e-zaur na ho shikwa-e-bedad na ho
ishq azad hai kyun husn bhi azad na ho
शहर की खाए हवा बादिया-पैमा न रहे
वो तो दीवाना है बस्ती में रहे या न रहे
ये ज़रूरी है हिजाब-ए-रुख़-ए-लैला न रहे
गिला-ए-ज़ौर न हो शिकवा-ए-बेदाद न हो
इश्क़ आज़ाद है क्यूँ हुस्न भी आज़ाद न हो
Let Qais no longer endure the hardship of the desert's solitude; let the wanderer of the wilds breathe the air of the city instead. He is a madman; whether he stays in the settlement or not hardly matters. What matters is that the veil should no longer hide the face of Laila. Let there be no grievance of force, no complaint of injustice; love is free, so why should beauty not be free as well?
Through the old story of Qais and Laila, the lover and the veiled beloved, the voice answers the complaint's charge of unfairness. Let the grievance go, it says. The lover is free; let beauty be free too. Devotion has no claim it can enforce. It is freely given, and what it draws toward it cannot be demanded.
aiman is se koi sahra na koi gulshan hai
is nai aag ka aqwam-e-kuhan indhan hai
millat-e-KHatm-e-rusul shola-ba-pairahan hai
aaj bhi ho jo brahim ka iman paida
aag kar sakti hai andaz-e-gulistan paida
ऐमन इस से कोई सहरा न कोई गुलशन है
इस नई आग का अक़्वाम-ए-कुहन ईंधन है
मिल्लत-ए-ख़त्म-ए-रसूल शोला-ब-पैराहन है
आज भी हो जो ब्राहीम का ईमाँ पैदा
आग कर सकती है अंदाज़-ए-गुलिस्ताँ पैदा
The new age is lightning, a setter of fire to every harvest. No desert and no garden is safe from it. The old nations are the fuel of this new fire; the people of the last of the Messengers wears a robe of flame. Even today, let the faith of Abraham come into being, and the fire can take on the manner of a garden of flowers.
The new age is a fire that burns every old harvest, and the answer does not pretend otherwise. But fire, for Iqbal, is also the test Abraham walked into and survived. The promise is in the last couplet: with Abraham's faith, the flames that consume others turn, for the believer, into a blossoming garden.
kaukab-e-GHuncha se shaKHen hain chamakne wali
KHas o KHashak se hota hai gulistan KHali
gul-bar-andaz hai KHun-e-shohada ki lali
rang gardun ka zara dekh to unnabi hai
ye nikalte hue suraj ki ufuq-tabi hai
कौकब-ए-ग़ुंचा से शाख़ें हैं चमकने वाली
ख़स ओ ख़ाशाक से होता है गुलिस्ताँ ख़ाली
गुल-बर-अंदाज़ है ख़ून-ए-शोहदा की लाली
रंग गर्दूं का ज़रा देख तो उन्नाबी है
ये निकलते हुए सूरज की उफ़ुक़-ताबी है
Gardener, do not be troubled by the present colour of the garden. The branches are about to glitter with the stars of buds. The garden is being emptied of straw and rubbish; the redness of the martyrs' blood is scattering flowers. Look a moment at the colour of the sky: it is deep red, the glow of a rising sun upon the horizon.
The poem turns hopeful and stays there. The gardener should not despair at a garden that looks bare, for the buds are coming and the dead matter is only being cleared away. The red on the horizon, which could be read as blood, is named instead as dawn. The decline, the voice insists, is a clearing, not an ending.
aur mahrum-e-samar bhi hain KHizan-dida bhi hain
saikDon naKHl hain kahida bhi balida bhi hain
saikDon batn-e-chaman mein abhi poshida bhi hain
naKHl-e-islam namuna hai birau-mandi ka
phal hai ye saikDon sadiyon ki chaman-bandi ka
और महरूम-ए-समर भी हैं ख़िज़ाँ-दीदा भी हैं
सैकड़ों नख़्ल हैं काहीदा भी बालीदा भी हैं
सैकड़ों बत्न-ए-चमन में अभी पोशीदा भी हैं
नख़्ल-ए-इस्लाम नमूना है बिरौ-मंदी का
फल है ये सैकड़ों सदियों की चमन-बंदी का
In the garden of existence, there are nations whose fruit has been gathered, and others bereft of fruit, others that have seen autumn. There are hundreds of trees, some withered and some flourishing. Hundreds more lie still hidden in the womb of the garden. The tree of Islam is a model of fruitfulness; it is the fruit of the garden-tending of hundreds of centuries.
Iqbal widens the lens to the whole sweep of history. Nations rise, bear fruit, and fade, while others wait unborn in the soil. Against this long view, the community of faith is presented not as a faded thing but as a fruitful tree, the slow yield of centuries of patient cultivation, and therefore far from finished.
tu wo yusuf hai ki har misr hai kanan tera
qafila ho na sakega kabhi viran tera
GHair yak-bang-e-dara kuchh nahin saman tera
naKHl-e-shama asti o dar shola do-resha-e-tu
aqibat-soz bawad saya-e-andesha-e-tu
तू वो यूसुफ़ है कि हर मिस्र है कनआँ तेरा
क़ाफ़िला हो न सकेगा कभी वीराँ तेरा
ग़ैर यक-बाँग-ए-दारा कुछ नहीं सामाँ तेरा
नख़्ल-ए-शमा अस्ती ओ दर शोला दो-रेशा-ए-तू
आक़िबत-सोज़ बवद साया-ए-अंदेशा-ए-तू
The hem of your garment is clean of the dust of any one homeland. You are that Joseph for whom every Egypt is a Canaan. Your caravan can never be laid waste. You carry nothing but the single ringing call of the bell. You are the tree of the candle, and your roots reach into the flame; the shadow of your thought consumes the very end of things.
The believer is told he belongs to no single soil. Like Joseph, he is at home wherever he is carried, and his caravan cannot be destroyed because it travels light, owning only its call. The closing Persian couplet gives the strange, exact image: a being rooted in fire, whose thought burns its way through to the future.
nashsha-e-mai ko taalluq nahin paimane se
hai ayan yurish-e-tatar ke afsane se
pasban mil gae kabe ko sanam-KHane se
kashti-e-haq ka zamane mein sahara tu hai
asr-e-nau-rat hai dhundla sa sitara tu hai
नश्शा-ए-मय को तअल्लुक़ नहीं पैमाने से
है अयाँ यूरिश-ए-तातार के अफ़्साने से
पासबाँ मिल गए काबे को सनम-ख़ाने से
कश्ती-ए-हक़ का ज़माने में सहारा तू है
अस्र-ए-नौ-रात है धुँदला सा सितारा तू है
You will not be wiped out if Iran is wiped out; the intoxication of wine has no dependence on any single cup. It is plain from the tale of the Tatar invasion: the Kaaba found its guardians among the very people of the idol-house. You are the support of the ship of truth in this age; the new age is night, and you are its dim and distant star.
Survival, the voice says, never depended on any one empire. The wine is the thing, not the cup. The Mongol example is precise and consoling: the conquerors who came to destroy were themselves drawn into the faith. The closing line is honest, not flattering, the believer is a star, but a faint one, in a night that needs even faint light.
GHafilon ke liye paiGHam hai bedari ka
tu samajhta hai ye saman hai dil-azari ka
imtihan hai tire isar ka KHuddari ka
kyun hirasan hai sahil-e-faras-e-aada se
nur-e-haq bujh na sakega nafas-e-aada se
ग़ाफ़िलों के लिए पैग़ाम है बेदारी का
तू समझता है ये सामाँ है दिल-आज़ारी का
इम्तिहाँ है तिरे ईसार का ख़ुद्दारी का
क्यूँ हिरासाँ है सहिल-ए-फ़रस-ए-आदा से
नूर-ए-हक़ बुझ न सकेगा नफ़स-ए-आदा से
The uproar that has broken out over the Bulgarian advance is, for the heedless, a message to wake up. You take it to be an instrument for grieving the heart; it is a test of your self-sacrifice and your self-respect. Why are you frightened by the neighing of the enemy's horse? The light of truth cannot be put out by the breath of the foe.
A contemporary crisis is reframed as an alarm clock. What looks like only a wound, the voice says, is in fact a test of how much the community will give and how much dignity it will keep. The closing assurance is one the whole poem rests on: no enemy can extinguish a light that is divine in origin.
hai abhi mahfil-e-hasti ko zarurat teri
zinda rakhti hai zamane ko hararat teri
kaukab-e-qismat-e-imkan hai KHilafat teri
waqt-e-fursat hai kahan kaam abhi baqi hai
nur-e-tauhid ka itmam abhi baqi hai
है अभी महफ़िल-ए-हस्ती को ज़रूरत तेरी
ज़िंदा रखती है ज़माने को हरारत तेरी
कौकब-ए-क़िस्मत-ए-इम्काँ है ख़िलाफ़त तेरी
वक़्त-ए-फ़ुर्सत है कहाँ काम अभी बाक़ी है
नूर-ए-तौहीद का इत्माम अभी बाक़ी है
Your true reality is hidden from the eyes of the nations. The gathering of existence still has need of you. Your warmth is what keeps the age alive. Your spiritual leadership is the bright star of the destiny of all that is possible. Where is the time for rest? There is work still to be done; the perfecting of the light of divine oneness is still unfinished.
The voice tells the believer that his worth is invisible to others but real, that the world still needs the heat he carries. And then the spur: there is no time to rest. The work of carrying the light of God's oneness to its completion is not yet done, and a people with unfinished work has no right to despair.
raKHt-bar-dosh hawa-e-chamanistan ho ja
hai tunak-maya tu zarre se bayaban ho ja
naGHma-e-mauj hai hangama-e-tufan ho ja
quwwat-e-ishq se har past ko bala kar de
dahr mein ism-e-mohammad se ujala kar de
रख़्त-बर-दोश हवा-ए-चमनिस्ताँ हो जा
है तुनक-माया तू ज़र्रे से बयाबाँ हो जा
नग़्मा-ए-मौज है हंगामा-ए-तूफ़ाँ हो जा
क़ुव्वत-ए-इश्क़ से हर पस्त को बाला कर दे
दहर में इस्म-ए-मोहम्मद से उजाला कर दे
Like fragrance, you lie imprisoned in the bud; break out and scatter. Take up your baggage and become the breeze of the garden. You are slight; from a mere speck, become a wilderness. You are the song of a single wave; become the tumult of the storm. By the power of love, lift every low thing high. Fill the world with light by the name of Muhammad.
This is the poem's great call to action, and every line is an instruction to grow. Stop being a fragrance trapped in a bud, a speck, a single wave. Become the breeze, the wilderness, the whole storm. The means is named plainly: love. The aim is named plainly: to lift what is low and light up the world.
chaman-e-dahr mein kaliyon ka tabassum bhi na ho
ye na saqi ho to phir mai bhi na ho KHum bhi na ho
bazm-e-tauhid bhi duniya mein na ho tum bhi na ho
KHema-e-aflak ka istada isi nam se hai
nabz-e-hasti tapish-amada isi nam se hai
चमन-ए-दह्र में कलियों का तबस्सुम भी न हो
ये न साक़ी हो तो फिर मय भी न हो ख़ुम भी न हो
बज़्म-ए-तौहीद भी दुनिया में न हो तुम भी न हो
ख़ेमा-ए-अफ़्लाक का इस्तादा इसी नाम से है
नब्ज़-ए-हस्ती तपिश-आमादा इसी नाम से है
Were this flower not to exist, the nightingale's song would not exist either; in the garden of the age the buds would have no smile. Were this cupbearer not to be, there would be no wine and no jar; the assembly of divine oneness would not be in the world, and you would not be either. The tent of the heavens stands upright by this name; the pulse of existence beats warm by this name.
Iqbal sets out a chain of dependence: without the believer there is no song, no joy, no gathering of faith, finally no believer at all. Everything that gives the world meaning rests on the name carried by the Prophet. The stanza turns the answer into something close to cosmic: the believer's purpose holds up the sky.
bahr mein mauj ki aaGHosh mein tufan mein hai
chin ke shahr maraqash ke bayaban mein hai
aur poshida musalman ke iman mein hai
chashm-e-aqwam ye nazzara abad tak dekhe
rifat-e-shan-e-rafana-laka-zikrak dekhe
बहर में मौज की आग़ोश में तूफ़ान में है
चीन के शहर मराक़श के बयाबान में है
और पोशीदा मुसलमान के ईमान में है
चश्म-ए-अक़्वाम ये नज़्ज़ारा अबद तक देखे
रिफ़अत-ए-शान-ए-रफ़ाना-लका-ज़िक्र देखे
It is in the desert, on the slope of the mountain, on the open plain. It is in the sea, in the embrace of the wave, in the storm. It is in the cities of China and in the wilderness of Morocco, and it lies hidden in the faith of the Muslim. Let the eyes of the nations watch this spectacle to the end of time; let them see the high glory of We raised high your name.
The Prophet's name is shown to be everywhere, in desert and sea, in China and Morocco, and most of all hidden inside the believer's own faith. The closing line invokes the Quranic promise that the Prophet's name was raised high, and offers it as a permanent spectacle the nations will go on witnessing.
wo tumhare shohada palne wali duniya
garmi-e-mehr ki parwarda hilali duniya
ishq wale jise kahte hain bilali duniya
tapish-andoz hai is nam se pare ki tarah
GHota-zan nur mein hai aankh ke tare ki tarah
वो तुम्हारे शोहदा पालने वाली दुनिया
गर्मी-ए-मेहर की परवरदा हिलाली दुनिया
इश्क़ वाले जिसे कहते हैं बिलाली दुनिया
तपिश-अंदोज़ है इस नाम से पारे की तरह
ग़ोता-ज़न नूर में है आँख के तारे की तरह
The pupil of the earth's eye, that is, the dark world; that world which nurses your martyrs. A crescent world, raised on the warmth of the sun's affection; the world the people of love call the world of Bilal. By this name it quivers with heat, like quicksilver; by this name it is plunged in light, like the bright point of the eye.
Iqbal turns to Africa, the dark world that has cradled the faith's martyrs and given it Bilal. The imagery is tender and unusual: that continent is the very pupil of the earth's eye. The name of the Prophet is what makes it tremble with warmth and what fills it, like the eye itself, with light.
mire darwesh KHilafat hai jahangir teri
ma-siwa-allah ke liye aag hai takbir teri
tu musalman ho to taqdir hai tadbir teri
ki mohammad se wafa tu ne to ham tere hain
ye jahan chiz hai kya lauh-o-qalam tere hain
मिरे दरवेश ख़िलाफ़त है जहाँगीर तिरी
मा-सिवा-अल्लाह के लिए आग है तकबीर तिरी
तू मुसलमाँ हो तो तक़दीर है तदबीर तिरी
की मुहम्मद से वफ़ा तू ने तो हम तेरे हैं
ये जहाँ चीज़ है क्या, लौह-ओ-क़लम तेरे हैं
Your reason is your shield, and love is your sword. My dervish, your spiritual leadership is the conqueror of the world. For all that is other than God, your cry of God is great is a consuming fire. If you become a true Muslim, then your own striving becomes your destiny. Be true to Muhammad, and We are yours; what is this world, the Tablet and the Pen themselves are yours.
The poem ends on its most famous lines, and they reframe the entire complaint. If you become truly a believer, your effort itself becomes your fate; you stop waiting on heaven and start making it. And the final couplet completes the answer Shikwa was crying for: be faithful, and not only the world but the Tablet and the Pen, the very instruments of destiny, are placed in your hands.
Read against Shikwa, the answer does something quietly radical. The complaint had asked heaven to account for a decline. The reply accepts that the decline is real and then, line by line, hands the account back. Nothing was withdrawn from above. The road simply emptied of travellers, the prayer rows thinned, the character behind the rituals wore away. The poem never sneers at the pain in the original grievance. It takes that pain entirely seriously, and precisely because it does, it refuses to let the pain stay an accusation. It turns it into a task.
That turn is the whole achievement of the pair. Shikwa gives full, beautiful voice to disappointment; Jawab-e-Shikwa answers it not with comfort but with agency. The closing lines, where striving becomes destiny and faithfulness places even the Tablet and the Pen in human hands, are the seed of everything Iqbal would later build under the name of Khudi, the awakened and responsible self. Stated here in the voice of God, the idea carries its full weight: heaven is bound to the person who is willing to act.
The poem outlasts the moment and the creed it was written from because the move it makes is universal. Every community that has ever felt itself fading has been tempted to blame the heavens, the times, the enemy, the age. Jawab-e-Shikwa lets that complaint be spoken in full, and then it answers with the one reply that returns power to the person hearing it. The stillness you blame on the sky, it says, is the stillness you stopped working to end. That is a hard answer, and a generous one, and it belongs to anyone willing to receive it.
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