The Book of the Cup-Bearer
Saqi Nama
A saqi-nama is one of the oldest forms in Persian and Urdu poetry. The poet speaks to the saqi, the cup-bearer, the one who pours the wine, and asks to be served. By long convention the wine is not the drink of the tavern. It stands for spiritual intoxication, for vision, for the warmth that lifts a person out of dullness. Poets reached for the form when they wanted to think aloud about life and death, time and the soul, while keeping the gentle rhythm of a request to a friend.
Iqbal takes this inherited shape and fills it with the urgency of his own age. The poem opens in spring. The caravan of the season has pitched its tent, the hillsides have turned into a garden, a mountain stream tumbles down the rocks carrying, Iqbal says, the very message of life. Against this scene of renewal he turns to the cup-bearer and asks not for the wine of forgetfulness but for a wine that burns away veils, a wine that lights the conscience of life itself.
From the spring opening the poem widens into a survey of the modern world. Old kingships have fallen, the age of unchecked capital has played its trick and gone, the East is stirring, the springs of the Himalaya are boiling over. Iqbal looks hard at his own community too and finds courage of belief but a heart still tangled in borrowed idols, learning that has lost the taste of longing. So the request to the cup-bearer becomes a prayer: free the intellect from servitude, make the young the teachers of the old, give the heart fire again.
The long second movement is Iqbal's meditation on khudi, the self. Life is a sea always in motion, never still; the self is the sword's edge of that motion, the waking of the whole universe inside a single point. Read the poem as one continuous argument that renewal outside and renewal inside are the same act. The cup it asks for is the courage to keep moving, to break the spell of time and place, and to discover that the self carries worlds still unborn.
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.
Saqi Nama — in full
35 stanzas. Verse transcribed from the original.
iram ban gaya daman-e-koh-sar
gul o nargis o sosan o nastaran
shahid-e-azal lala-khunin kafan
jahan chhup gaya parda-e-rang mein
lahu ki hai gardish rag-e-sang mein
faza nili nili hava mein surur
Thaharte nahin aashiyan mein tuyur
इरम बन गया दामन-ए-कोह-सार
गुल ओ नर्गिस ओ सोसन ओ नस्तरन
शहीद-ए-अज़ल लाला-ख़ूनीं कफ़न
जहाँ छुप गया पर्दा-ए-रंग में
लहू की है गर्दिश रग-ए-संग में
फ़ज़ा नीली नीली हवा में सुरूर
ठहरते नहीं आशियाँ में तुयूर
The caravan of spring has pitched its tent, and the skirts of the mountain have become a paradise. Rose and narcissus, lily and wild briar; the tulip, martyr of the first day, wears a blood-red shroud. The whole world has hidden itself behind a veil of colour, and blood is moving even in the veins of stone. The sky is a deep blue, there is a glad warmth in the air, and the birds will not stay quiet in their nests.
The poem opens the way a saqi-nama traditionally does, with spring. But Iqbal makes the season strain forward. The stone has a pulse, the birds cannot settle. From the first lines, renewal is restlessness, not rest.
aTakti lachakti sarakti hui
uchhalti phisalti sambhalti hui
baDe pech kha kar nikalti hui
ruke jab to sil chir deti hai ye
pahaDon ke dil chir deti hai ye
zara dekh ai saqi-e-lala-fam
sunati hai ye zindagi ka payam
अटकती लचकती सरकती हुई
उछलती फिसलती सँभलती हुई
बड़े पेच खा कर निकलती हुई
रुके जब तो सिल चीर देती है ये
पहाड़ों के दिल चीर देती है ये
ज़रा देख ऐ साक़ी-ए-लाला-फ़ाम
सुनाती है ये ज़िंदगी का पयाम
That mountain stream, leaping along, catching, bending, slipping, jumping, sliding, steadying itself, working free through great twists and turns. When it is checked it splits the rock; it cuts through the very heart of the mountains. Look a moment, O cup-bearer with the tulip-red face: this stream is reciting the message of life.
The stream is the poem's first image of the self. It does not avoid obstacles; it cuts through them. Where it is blocked it grows stronger. Iqbal asks the cup-bearer to read the lesson off the running water before he pours.
ki aati nahin fasl-e-gul roz roz
wo mai jis se raushan zamir-e-hayat
wo mai jis se hai masti-e-kaenat
wo mai jis mein hai soz-o-saz-e-azal
wo mai jis se khulta hai raaz-e-azal
uTha saqiya parda is raaz se
laDa de mamule ko shahbaz se
कि आती नहीं फ़स्ल-ए-गुल रोज़ रोज़
वो मय जिस से रौशन ज़मीर-ए-हयात
वो मय जिस से है मस्ती-ए-काएनात
वो मय जिस में है सोज़-ओ-साज़-ए-अज़ल
वो मय जिस से खुलता है राज़-ए-अज़ल
उठा साक़िया पर्दा इस राज़ से
लड़ा दे ममूले को शहबाज़ से
Pour me that wine which burns away the veil, for the season of flowers does not come every day. The wine by which the conscience of life is lit; the wine that is the intoxication of the whole universe; the wine that holds the burning and the music of the first eternity; the wine by which the secret of eternity is opened. Lift the veil from this secret, O cup-bearer, and set the small wagtail to fight the royal falcon.
Here is the central request. Iqbal does not want forgetfulness. He wants the wine of insight, the draught that makes a weak bird brave enough to face a hawk. The spring will not last, so the asking is urgent.
naya rag hai saz badle gae
hua is tarah fash raaz-e-farang
ki hairat mein hai shisha-baz-e-farang
purani siyasat-gari KHwar hai
zamin mir o sultan se be-zar hai
gaya daur-e-sarmaya-dari gaya
tamasha dikha kar madari gaya
नया राग है साज़ बदले गए
हुआ इस तरह फ़ाश राज़-ए-फ़रंग
कि हैरत में है शीशा-बाज़-ए-फ़रंग
पुरानी सियासत-गरी ख़्वार है
ज़मीं मीर ओ सुल्ताँ से बे-ज़ार है
गया दौर-ए-सरमाया-दारी गया
तमाशा दिखा कर मदारी गया
The ways of the age have changed; there is a new tune, the instruments have changed. The secret of the West has been exposed so completely that the West's own conjuror stands amazed. The old craft of politics is in disgrace; the earth is weary of its lords and kings. The age of capital is gone, gone; the magician has shown his trick and slipped away.
The poem turns outward to the modern world. Iqbal reads the fall of empire and the exhaustion of unchecked capital as the close of an old order. The conjuror's trick has been seen through. The stage is clearing for something new.
himala ke chashme ubalne lage
dil-e-tur-e-sina-o-faran do-nim
tajalli ka phir muntazir hai kalim
musalman hai tauhid mein garam-josh
magar dil abhi tak hai zunnar-posh
tamaddun tasawwuf shariat-e-kalam
butan-e-ajam ke pujari tamam
हिमाला के चश्मे उबलने लगे
दिल-ए-तूर-ए-सीना-ओ-फ़ारान दो-नीम
तजल्ली का फिर मुंतज़िर है कलीम
मुसलमाँ है तौहीद में गरम-जोश
मगर दिल अभी तक है ज़ुन्नार-पोश
तमद्दुन तसव्वुफ़ शरीअत-ए-कलाम
बुतान-ए-अजम के पुजारी तमाम
The deep slumber of the Chinese has begun to break; the springs of the Himalaya have begun to boil. The heart of Sinai and of Faran is split in two, and Moses again waits for the flash of revelation. The Muslim is fervent in the oneness of God, yet his heart still wears the unbeliever's thread. Civilisation, mysticism, religious law, theology: all of them are worshippers of foreign idols.
Iqbal sees the East waking, but he refuses to flatter his own community. Belief is loud on the tongue and divided in the heart. He names the idols by name, and they are not other people's gods but borrowed habits of thought.
ye ummat riwayat mein kho gai
lubhata hai dil ko kalam-e-KHatib
magar lazzat-e-shauq se be-nasib
bayan is ka mantiq se suljha hua
lughat ke bakheDon mein uljha hua
wo sufi ki tha KHidmat-e-haq mein mard
mohabbat mein yakta hamiyat mein fard
ये उम्मत रिवायात में खो गई
लुभाता है दिल को कलाम-ए-ख़तीब
मगर लज़्ज़त-ए-शौक़ से बे-नसीब
बयाँ इस का मंतिक़ से सुलझा हुआ
लुग़त के बखेड़ों में उलझा हुआ
वो सूफ़ी कि था ख़िदमत-ए-हक़ में मर्द
मोहब्बत में यकता हमीयत में फ़र्द
Truth has been lost in idle tales; this community has been lost in mere custom. The preacher's speech charms the heart, yet it is empty of the sweetness of longing. His exposition is neatly sorted by logic and tangled in the quarrels of dictionaries. As for the Sufi, once a man in the service of truth, unmatched in love and singular in zeal -
The complaint sharpens. Preaching has become clever and cold; learning has shrunk to argument about words. Iqbal turns last to the Sufi, the figure he most admired, and the line breaks off, leading straight into the loss described next.
ye salik maqamat mein kho gaya
bujhi ishq ki aag andher hai
musalman nahin rakh ka Dher hai
sharab-e-kuhan phir pila saqiya
wahi jam gardish mein la saqiya
mujhe ishq ke par laga kar uDa
meri KHak jugnu bana kar uDa
ये सालिक मक़ामात में खो गया
बुझी इश्क़ की आग अंधेर है
मुसलमाँ नहीं राख का ढेर है
शराब-ए-कुहन फिर पिला साक़िया
वही जाम गर्दिश में ला साक़िया
मुझे इश्क़ के पर लगा कर उड़ा
मिरी ख़ाक जुगनू बना कर उड़ा
He too was lost in foreign speculations; this seeker was lost among the stations of his own path. The fire of love has died out and all is darkness; the Muslim is not himself but a heap of ashes. Pour the old wine again, O cup-bearer; set the same cup moving once more. Give me the wings of love and let me fly; turn my dust into a firefly and send it up.
The diagnosis ends and the prayer returns. The cure for ashes is fire. Iqbal asks for the old wine, the love that lit earlier ages, and for his own dust to be made to glow.
jawanon ko piron ka ustad kar
hari shaKH-e-millat tere nam se hai
nafas is badan mein tere dam se hai
taDapne phaDakne ki taufiq de
dil-e-murtaza soz-e-siddiq de
jigar se wahi tir phir par kar
tamanna ko sinon mein bedar kar
जवानों को पीरों का उस्ताद कर
हरी शाख़-ए-मिल्लत तिरे नम से है
नफ़स इस बदन में तिरे दम से है
तड़पने फड़कने की तौफ़ीक़ दे
दिल-ए-मुर्तज़ा सोज़-ए-सिद्दीक़ दे
जिगर से वही तीर फिर पार कर
तमन्ना को सीनों में बेदार कर
Free the intellect from servitude; make the young the teachers of the old. The branch of the community is green because of your moisture; breath in this body is there by your breath. Grant the power to throb and to quiver; give the heart of Ali and the burning of the truthful one. Drive that same arrow through the heart again; awaken longing in our breasts.
The prayer becomes a list of gifts. Notice the reversal: the young should teach the old. Iqbal wants a self that can ache and quiver again, not one that is merely comfortable.
zaminon ke shab zinda-daron ki KHair
jawanon ko soz-e-jigar baKHsh de
mera ishq meri nazar baKHsh de
meri naw girdab se par kar
ye sabit hai to is ko sayyar kar
bta mujh ko asrar-e-marg-o-hayat
ki teri nigahon mein hai kaenat
ज़मीनों के शब ज़िंदा-दारों की ख़ैर
जवानों को सोज़-ए-जिगर बख़्श दे
मिरा इश्क़ मेरी नज़र बख़्श दे
मिरी नाव गिर्दाब से पार कर
ये साबित है तो इस को सय्यार कर
बता मुझ को असरार-ए-मर्ग-ओ-हयात
कि तेरी निगाहों में है काएनात
Blessing on the stars of your heavens, blessing on the night-watchers of your earth. Grant the young the burning of the heart; grant them my love and my vision. Carry my boat through the whirlpool; if it stands still, set it moving. Tell me the secrets of death and of life, for in your gaze the whole universe is held.
Iqbal asks for the young to receive what he most values, his love and his way of seeing. He would rather his boat be in motion through danger than safe and still. Stillness, for him, is the only real death.
mere dil ki poshida betabiyan
mere nala-e-nim-shab ka niyaz
meri KHalwat o anjuman ka gudaz
umangen meri aarzuen meri
ummiden meri justujuen meri
मिरे दिल की पोशीदा बेताबियाँ
मिरे नाला-ए-नीम-शब का नियाज़
मिरी ख़ल्वत ओ अंजुमन का गुदाज़
उमंगें मिरी आरज़ूएँ मिरी
उम्मीदें मिरी जुस्तुजुएँ मिरी
The sleeplessness of my wet eyes, the hidden restlessness of my heart, the humility of my midnight cry, the melting of my solitude and of my company, my high spirits and my desires, my hopes and my searchings -
Iqbal opens his inner ledger. He lists the things he carries, sleeplessness, longing, the cry at midnight, and the sentence runs on into the next stanza, where he hands the whole list over.
ghazalan-e-afkar ka murgh-zar
mera dil meri razm-gah-e-hayat
gumanon ke lashkar yaqin ka sabaat
yahi kuchh hai saqi mata-e-faqir
isi se faqiri mein hun main amir
ग़ज़ालान-ए-अफ़्कार का मुर्ग़-ज़ार
मिरा दिल मिरी रज़्म-गाह-ए-हयात
गुमानों के लश्कर यक़ीं का सबात
यही कुछ है साक़ी मता-ए-फ़क़ीर
इसी से फ़क़ीरी में हूँ मैं अमीर
My nature, a mirror of the times; a meadow where the gazelles of thought run free. My heart, the battlefield of my life, where armies of doubt meet the firmness of certainty. This is all the wealth I have, O cup-bearer, the goods of a poor man; and it is by this that in my poverty I am rich.
The heart is a battlefield where doubt and certainty fight. Iqbal does not pretend the doubt away. His point is that this inner struggle is itself his only fortune, and a real one.
luTa de Thikane laga de ise
dama-dam rawan hai yam-e-zindagi
har ek shai se paida ram-e-zindagi
isi se hui hai badan ki numud
ki sho'le mein poshida hai mauj-e-dud
लुटा दे ठिकाने लगा दे इसे
दमा-दम रवाँ है यम-ए-ज़िंदगी
हर इक शय से पैदा रम-ए-ज़िंदगी
इसी से हुई है बदन की नुमूद
कि शो'ले में पोशीदा है मौज-ए-दूद
Spend this wealth freely among my caravan; give it away, put it to good use. The sea of life flows on without pause; from every single thing the motion of life appears. By this the body itself came into view, just as in the flame a wave of smoke lies hidden.
Iqbal asks that his inner wealth be given away, not hoarded. The stanza then opens the long meditation on life as a sea that never stops moving. The body is one shape that this restless current threw up.
KHush aai ise mehnat-e-ab-o-gil
ye sabit bhi hai aur sayyar bhi
anasir ke phandon se be-zar bhi
ye wahdat hai kasrat mein har dam asir
magar har kahin be-chugon be-nazir
ख़ुश आई इसे मेहनत-ए-आब-ओ-गिल
ये साबित भी है और सय्यार भी
अनासिर के फंदों से बे-ज़ार भी
ये वहदत है कसरत में हर दम असीर
मगर हर कहीं बे-चुगों बे-नज़ीर
Though the company of water and clay is heavy, the labour of water and clay has pleased it. Life is fixed and also moving; it is also weary of the snares of the elements. It is a single unity held captive at every moment within multiplicity, yet everywhere it is beyond comparison, beyond likeness.
Life is bound into matter and chafes against it at the same time. Iqbal sets up a paradox he will keep returning to: one life threaded through countless forms, never fully caught by any of them.
isi ne tarasha hai ye somnat
pasand is ko takrar ki KHu nahin
ki tu main nahin aur main tu nahin
man o tu se hai anjuman-afrin
magar ain-e-mahfil mein KHalwat-nashin
इसी ने तराशा है ये सोमनात
पसंद इस को तकरार की ख़ू नहीं
कि तू मैं नहीं और मैं तू नहीं
मन ओ तू से है अंजुमन-आफ़रीं
मगर ऐन-ए-महफ़िल में ख़ल्वत-नशीं
This world, this idol-temple of the six directions: it is life itself that has carved this Somnath. It has no taste for repetition; that is why you are not I, and I am not you. Through the play of self and other it makes the gathering, yet at the very centre of the gathering it sits alone.
Life makes variety on purpose; it dislikes repeating itself, so no two selves are the same. Iqbal sketches a creative power present in every crowd and still solitary, a unity that loves difference.
ye chandi mein sone mein pare mein hai
usi ke bayaban usi ke babul
usi ke hain kanTe usi ke hain phul
kahin us ki taqat se kohsar chur
kahin us ke phande mein jibrail o hur
ये चाँदी में सोने में पारे में है
उसी के बयाबाँ उसी के बबूल
उसी के हैं काँटे उसी के हैं फूल
कहीं उस की ताक़त से कोहसार चूर
कहीं उस के फंदे में जिब्रील ओ हूर
Its gleam is in the lightning and in the star; it is in silver, in gold, in quicksilver. The deserts are its own, the acacias its own; the thorns are its own and the flowers its own. Somewhere its power has crushed a mountain; somewhere Gabriel and the houri are caught in its snare.
Iqbal traces the one life across the whole scale of being, from stone to angel. It is in the harshest things and the loveliest. Nothing stands outside it.
lahu se chakoron ke aaluda chang
kabutar kahin aashiyane se dur
phaDakta hua jal mein na-subur
fareb-e-nazar hai sukun o sabaat
taDapta hai har zarra-e-kaenat
लहू से चकोरों के आलूदा चंग
कबूतर कहीं आशियाने से दूर
फड़कता हुआ जाल में ना-सुबूर
फ़रेब-ए-नज़र है सुकून ओ सबात
तड़पता है हर ज़र्रा-ए-काएनात
Somewhere it is the quicksilver-coloured falcon, its talons stained with the blood of partridges. Somewhere a pigeon far from its nest, fluttering restlessly, caught in a net. Rest and stillness are a trick of the eye; every single speck of the universe is throbbing.
The famous claim arrives plainly: stillness is an illusion. Predator and prey, freedom and the net, are all the same restless force. Every atom is in motion.
ki har lahz hai taza shan-e-wajud
samajhta hai tu raaz hai zindagi
faqat zauq-e-parwaz hai zindagi
bahut us ne dekhe hain past o buland
safar us ko manzil se baDh kar pasand
कि हर लहज़ है ताज़ा शान-ए-वजूद
समझता है तू राज़ है ज़िंदगी
फ़क़त ज़ौक़-ए-परवाज़ है ज़िंदगी
बहुत उस ने देखे हैं पस्त ओ बुलंद
सफ़र उस को मंज़िल से बढ़ कर पसंद
The caravan of existence never halts, for at every moment the splendour of existence is new. You think life is a hidden secret; life is simply the joy of flight. It has seen many heights and depths, and it loves the journey more than the destination.
One of the poem's clearest lines: life loves the journey more than the arrival. The destination would mean an end, and life refuses to end. Movement is the meaning, not a means to it.
safar hai haqiqat hazar hai majaz
ulajh kar sulajhne mein lazzat use
taDapne phaDakne mein rahat use
hua jab use samna maut ka
kaThin tha baDa thamna maut ka
सफ़र है हक़ीक़त हज़र है मजाज़
उलझ कर सुलझने में लज़्ज़त उसे
तड़पने फड़कने में राहत उसे
हुआ जब उसे सामना मौत का
कठिन था बड़ा थामना मौत का
The journey is life's provision and its instrument; the journey is the truth and standing still is mere illusion. Its delight is to tangle and then work itself free; its ease lies in throbbing and quivering. When life came face to face with death, holding death back was a hard, hard thing.
Journeying is real; staying put is the illusion. Iqbal then brings death into the argument. Even life's encounter with death becomes part of its forward motion rather than its end.
rahi zindagi maut ki ghat mein
mazaq-e-dui se bani zauj zauj
uThi dasht o kohsar se fauj fauj
gul is shaKH se TuTte bhi rahe
isi shaKH se phuTte bhi rahe
रही ज़िंदगी मौत की घात में
मज़ाक़-ए-दुई से बनी ज़ौज ज़ौज
उठी दश्त ओ कोहसार से फ़ौज फ़ौज
गुल इस शाख़ से टूटते भी रहे
इसी शाख़ से फूटते भी रहे
Coming down into the world of consequences, life lived always in death's ambush. Out of the play of duality it became pair upon pair; it rose from desert and mountain in army upon army. Flowers kept breaking off from this branch, and from the same branch kept budding again.
Life and death share a single branch. Iqbal answers the fear of death by absorbing it into growth. Each flower that falls is matched by one that opens; the loss and the renewal are one motion.
ubharta hai miT miT ke naqsh-e-hayat
baDi tez jaulan baDi zud-ras
azal se abad tak ram-e-yak-nafs
zamana ki zanjir-e-ayyam hai
damon ke ulaT-pher ka nam hai
उभरता है मिट मिट के नक़्श-ए-हयात
बड़ी तेज़ जौलाँ बड़ी ज़ूद-रस
अज़ल से अबद तक रम-ए-यक-नफ़स
ज़माना कि ज़ंजीर-ए-अय्याम है
दमों के उलट-फेर का नाम है
The foolish think life unstable; the pattern of life rises again each time it is erased. Swift in its course, quick to reach its mark, from the first day to the last it is the motion of a single breath. Time, which is the chain of days, is only a name for the turning over of breaths.
What looks like instability is renewal: the pattern keeps redrawing itself. Iqbal even reduces time to breathing. From eternity to eternity it is one continuous breath, and the calendar is just its rhythm.
KHudi kya hai talwar ki dhaar hai
KHudi kya hai raaz-darun-hayat
KHudi kya hai bedari-e-kaenat
ख़ुदी क्या है तलवार की धार है
ख़ुदी क्या है राज़-दरून-हयात
ख़ुदी क्या है बेदारी-ए-काएनात
What is this wave of breath? It is a sword. And what is selfhood? It is the edge of that sword. What is selfhood? The secret hidden within life. What is selfhood? The waking of the whole universe.
The poem reaches its theme by name. Khudi, selfhood, is the cutting edge of life's motion. Iqbal piles up definitions because no single one is enough: it is a secret, and it is the universe coming awake.
samundar hai ek bund pani mein band
andhere ujale mein hai tabnak
man o tu mein paida man o tu se pak
समुंदर है इक बूँद पानी में बंद
अँधेरे उजाले में है ताबनाक
मन ओ तू में पैदा मन ओ तू से पाक
Selfhood is a manifestation, wildly intoxicated and yet fond of solitude; it is an ocean shut inside a single drop of water. In darkness and in light it shines; it appears through self and other, and yet is untouched by self and other.
The ocean inside a drop is the heart of Iqbal's idea of the self. The individual is small and yet contains everything. The self comes into being among other people but is not reducible to them.
na had us ke pichhe na had samne
zamane ke dariya mein bahti hui
sitam us ki maujon ke sahti hui
न हद उस के पीछे न हद सामने
ज़माने के दरिया में बहती हुई
सितम उस की मौजों के सहती हुई
Eternity behind it, eternity ahead of it; no boundary behind it and no boundary ahead. It flows on in the river of time, bearing the cruelty of that river's waves.
The self is set in time but not contained by it: limitless before and behind. It does not escape the river of time; it endures its rough water and keeps moving.
dama-dam nigahen badalti hui
subuk us ke hathon mein sang-e-giran
pahaD us ki zarbon se reg-e-rawan
दमा-दम निगाहें बदलती हुई
सुबुक उस के हाथों में संग-ए-गिराँ
पहाड़ उस की ज़र्बों से रेग-ए-रवाँ
Changing the roads of its searching, changing its gaze from moment to moment; in its hands a heavy stone grows light, and under its blows a mountain becomes shifting sand.
The self keeps revising how it looks for things. And it is strong: weight turns light in its grip, mountains crumble under its strokes. This is selfhood as a working, transforming power.
yahi us ki taqwim ka raaz hai
kiran chand mein hai sharar sang mein
ye be-rang hai Dub kar rang mein
यही उस की तक़्वीम का राज़ है
किरन चाँद में है शरर संग में
ये बे-रंग है डूब कर रंग में
Its journey is both its end and its beginning; this is the secret of its calendar. It is the ray within the moon, the spark within the stone; it is colourless, and yet it has plunged into colour.
For the self, ending and beginning are the same point, so it never truly stops. It is hidden in things, the ray inside the moon, and colourless in itself yet present in all colour.
nasheb o faraaz o pas-o-pesh se
azal se hai ye kashmakash mein asir
hui KHak-e-adam mein surat-pazir
नशेब ओ फ़राज़ ओ पस-ओ-पेश से
अज़ल से है ये कशमकश में असीर
हुई ख़ाक-ए-आदम में सूरत-पज़ीर
What has it to do with less and more, with low ground and high, with before and after? From the first day it has been caught in struggle, and it took shape within the dust of Adam.
The self is indifferent to small comparisons of high and low. Its true element is struggle. Iqbal places that struggle inside the human being: the self found its form in Adam's clay.
falak jis tarah aankh ke til mein hai
KHudi ke nigahban ko hai zahr-nab
wo nan jis se jati rahe us ki aab
फ़लक जिस तरह आँख के तिल में है
ख़ुदी के निगहबाँ को है ज़हर-नाब
वो नाँ जिस से जाती रहे उस की आब
The nest of selfhood is within your own heart, just as the whole sky lies within the pupil of the eye. To the guardian of selfhood it is sheer poison, that bread which would take away his honour.
Iqbal turns from cosmos to reader: the self lives in your heart, the way the sky fits inside an eye. The one who guards the self would rather starve than eat bread that costs him his dignity.
rahe jis se duniya mein gardan buland
KHudi fal-e-mahmud se darguzar
KHudi par nigah rakh ayazi na kar
रहे जिस से दुनिया में गर्दन बुलंद
ख़ुदी फ़ाल-ए-महमूद से दरगुज़र
ख़ुदी पर निगह रख अयाज़ी न कर
Only that bread is precious to him by which his head stays high in the world. For the sake of selfhood, give up the fortune of Mahmud; keep your gaze on selfhood and do not live as Ayaz.
Mahmud the king and Ayaz his devoted servant become a choice. Iqbal tells the reader to refuse even a king's fortune if it means becoming a servant. Self-respect outranks reward.
ki ho jis se har sajda tujh par haram
ye aalam ye hangama-e-rang-o-saut
ye aalam ki hai zer-e-farman-e-maut
कि हो जिस से हर सज्दा तुझ पर हराम
ये आलम ये हंगामा-ए-रंग-ओ-सौत
ये आलम कि है ज़ेर-ए-फ़रमान-ए-मौत
That prostration alone is worth the trouble which makes every other prostration forbidden to you. This world, this clamour of colour and sound; this world that lies under the command of death -
Bow only to what frees you from bowing to anything else, that is, to God alone. Iqbal then names the world below as a place ruled by death, leading into the call to rise above it.
jahan zindagi hai faqat KHurd o nosh
KHudi ki ye hai manzil-e-awwalin
musafir ye tera nasheman nahin
जहाँ ज़िंदगी है फ़क़त ख़ुर्द ओ नोश
ख़ुदी की ये है मंज़िल-ए-अव्वलीं
मुसाफ़िर ये तेरा नशेमन नहीं
This world, this idol-temple of eye and ear, where life is no more than eating and drinking; this is only the first stage of selfhood. Traveller, this is not your resting place.
A world of mere consumption is just the beginning, not the home. Iqbal addresses the reader as a traveller and refuses to let comfort be mistaken for arrival.
jahan tujh se hai tu jahan se nahin
baDhe ja ye koh-e-giran toD kar
tilism-e-zaman-o-makan toD kar
जहाँ तुझ से है तू जहाँ से नहीं
बढ़े जा ये कोह-ए-गिराँ तोड़ कर
तिलिस्म-ए-ज़मान-ओ-मकाँ तोड़ कर
Your fire is not from this heap of dust; the world is because of you, you are not because of the world. Press on, breaking this great mountain as you go, breaking the spell of time and space.
One of the poem's boldest claims: the self does not depend on the world; the world depends on the self. Iqbal urges the reader to break through mountains and through the very enchantment of time and place.
zamin us ki said aasman us ka said
jahan aur bhi hain abhi be-numud
ki KHali nahin hai zamir-e-wajud
ज़मीं उस की सैद आसमाँ उस का सैद
जहाँ और भी हैं अभी बे-नुमूद
कि ख़ाली नहीं है ज़मीर-ए-वजूद
Selfhood is the lion of God, and the world is its prey; the earth is its prey and the sky is its prey. There are still other worlds yet unrevealed, for the conscience of existence is not empty.
The self is no victim but a hunter, with whole worlds as its game. And the supply is not exhausted: existence still holds worlds that have not yet appeared.
teri shauKHi-e-fikr-o-kirdar ka
ye hai maqsad gardish-e-rozgar
ki teri KHudi tujh pe ho aashkar
तिरी शौख़ी-ए-फ़िक्र-ओ-किरदार का
ये है मक़्सद गर्दिश-ए-रोज़गार
कि तेरी ख़ुदी तुझ पे हो आश्कार
Every one of them awaits your assault, awaits the daring of your thought and your action. This is the whole purpose of the turning of the age: that your selfhood should be revealed to you.
The unborn worlds are waiting for the self to come and take them. Iqbal states the purpose of history in one line: everything turns so that you can finally see your own self clearly.
tujhe kya bataun teri sarnawisht
haqiqat pe hai jama-e-harf-e-tang
haqiqat hai aaina-e-guftar-e-zang
तुझे क्या बताऊँ तिरी सरनविश्त
हक़ीक़त पे है जामा-ए-हर्फ़-ए-तंग
हक़ीक़त है आईना-ए-गुफ़्तार-ए-ज़ंग
You are the conqueror of the world of fair and foul; what shall I tell you of your own destiny? On truth the garment of the word is too tight; truth is a mirror, and speech is the rust upon it.
Iqbal calls the reader the conqueror of both beauty and ugliness, then admits that words cannot hold the truth. Language is a garment too small, even a rust that clouds the mirror.
magar tab-e-guftar rakhti hai bas
agar yak-sar-e-mu-e-bartar param
farogh-e-tajalli ba-sozad param
मगर ताब-ए-गुफ़्तार रखती है बस
अगर यक-सर-ए-मू-ए-बरतर परम
फ़रोग़-ए-तजल्ली ब-सोज़द परम
The lamp of breath is alight in my breast, but it has only so much strength of speech. If I were to fly a single hair's breadth higher, the blaze of the divine manifestation would burn my wings.
The poem closes on a confessed limit. The poet's lamp can carry the song only so far. The last lines, in Persian, borrow the old image of Gabriel's wing: rise one hair higher and the sheer light would consume you. Iqbal ends not in triumph but in awe.
Saqi Nama begins with a spring and ends with a wing held back at the edge of unbearable light. Between those two images Iqbal lays out a single argument. The world is in motion, the old order has fallen, the seasons of history turn, and the poem reads all of this as one invitation: wake up and move. The wine the poet asks for is the courage to take that invitation. It is not escape; it is the opposite of escape.
At the centre of the poem is khudi, the self. Iqbal will not let the self be small. He calls it an ocean shut inside a drop, the lion of God with whole worlds for its prey, the place where the universe comes awake. He also refuses to let it be comfortable. The self he honours lives by struggle, would rather starve than be dishonoured, and presses on by breaking mountains and the spell of time itself. The journey, not the destination, is the point, because a destination would mean the self had stopped, and a self that has stopped is only ash.
The poem outlasts any one creed because the renewal it asks for is human before it is anything else. A reader of any faith, or none, can recognise the diagnosis: belief gone loud and hollow, learning gone clever and cold, a heart that has lost the taste of longing. And the cure Iqbal offers is open to anyone: certainty, ceaseless effort, and a love large enough to take on the world. He ends in humility, his wings near the fire, which is the truest note of all. The self he describes is vast, and still it stands in awe before something greater. That is why the request to the cup-bearer never sounds like pride. It sounds like a prayer for a new age, and for the person brave enough to be born into it.
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