The Complaint
Shikwa
Shikwa, 'The Complaint', is one of the boldest poems in the Urdu language. In it Iqbal does something almost unthinkable in devotional verse: he addresses God directly and files a complaint. The speaker is a Muslim of the early twentieth century who looks at the fallen state of his community and asks heaven to account for it. We kept faith with You, he says across thirty-one stanzas; why have You not kept faith with us? The poem is a single sustained argument, sung in a flowing metre, and it never once lets the grievance go slack.
Iqbal recited Shikwa at a public gathering of the Anjuman-e-Himayat-e-Islam in Lahore. The effect was electric, and to some listeners, scandalous. A poem that argued with God struck conservative ears as something close to blasphemy, and Iqbal drew sharp criticism for it. But the criticism mistook the poem's form for its meaning. Shikwa is not a rejection of faith. It is the protest of a wounded lover, and a lover only complains to someone he still believes in. The speaker even apologises for his own daring before he begins, hand to mouth, half afraid of his own voice.
The poem moves in two great motions. First it remembers: it reminds God of everything the believers once did, how they carried a message across deserts and centuries, how they refused idols when the world knelt to them, how kings and beggars stood in a single row before the divine. Then it turns to the present and to the ache of watching all of that fade, while others who never kept the faith now prosper. The complaint is not abstract. It is specific, historical, and personal.
Read Shikwa as a universal poem and it opens far past any single creed. It gives dignified voice to a feeling everyone who has ever believed in something will recognise: the moment devotion meets disappointment and the heart dares to ask why. Iqbal lets that hard question run its full length, beautifully and without flinching, precisely so that it can later be answered. Shikwa ends unresolved on purpose. It is the first half of a conversation, and it was written to be replied to.
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.
Shikwa — in full
31 stanzas. Verse transcribed from the original.
fikr-e-farda na karun mahw-e-gham-e-dosh rahun
nale bulbul ke sunun aur hama-tan gosh rahun
ham-nawa main bhi koi gul hun ki KHamosh rahun
jurat-amoz meri tab-e-suKHan hai mujh ko
shikwa allah se KHakam-ba-dahan hai mujh ko
फ़िक्र-ए-फ़र्दा न करूँ महव-ए-ग़म-ए-दोश रहूँ
नाले बुलबुल के सुनूँ और हमा-तन गोश रहूँ
हम-नवा मैं भी कोई गुल हूँ कि ख़ामोश रहूँ
जुरअत-आमोज़ मिरी ताब-ए-सुख़न है मुझ को
शिकवा अल्लाह से ख़ाकम-ब-दहन है मुझ को
Why should I choose to be the loser, forgetful of my own gain? Why should I take no thought for tomorrow and stay drowned in yesterday's grief? Why should I only listen to the nightingale's laments and remain all ears? Friend, am I a flower, that I should keep silent? My power of speech makes me bold; my complaint against God, dust be in my mouth, is mine to make.
The poem opens not with the complaint itself but with the speaker arguing himself into the right to make it. He refuses to be the patient, silent loser. The phrase 'dust be in my mouth' is a traditional apology for saying something improper, and it tells us everything: he knows the complaint is daring, and he is going to make it anyway.
qissa-e-dard sunate hain ki majbur hain hum
saz KHamosh hain fariyaad se mamur hain hum
nala aata hai agar lab pe to mazur hain hum
ai KHuda shikwa-e-arbab-e-wafa bhi sun le
KHugar-e-hamd se thoDa sa gila bhi sun le
क़िस्सा-ए-दर्द सुनाते हैं कि मजबूर हैं हम
साज़ ख़ामोश हैं फ़रियाद से मामूर हैं हम
नाला आता है अगर लब पे तो मा'ज़ूर हैं हम
ऐ ख़ुदा शिकवा-ए-अर्बाब-ए-वफ़ा भी सुन ले
ख़ूगर-ए-हम्द से थोड़ा सा गिला भी सुन ले
It is true, we are famous for our way of submission; we tell our tale of pain only because we are forced to it. We are silent instruments, yet brimming with our lament; if a cry escapes our lips, then forgive us. O God, hear also the complaint of the faithful; from those long used to praising You, accept this little grievance too.
Here the speaker formally asks for a hearing. He stresses that complaint is not his habit; praise is. That is the poem's key move: it is the faithful, not the faithless, who are speaking, and so the grievance carries weight rather than rebellion.
phul tha zeb-e-chaman par na pareshan thi shamim
shart insaf hai ai sahib-e-altaf-e-amim
bu-e-gul phailti kis tarah jo hoti na nasim
hum ko jamiyat-e-KHatir ye pareshani thi
warna ummat tere mahbub ki diwani thi
फूल था ज़ेब-ए-चमन पर न परेशाँ थी शमीम
शर्त इंसाफ़ है ऐ साहिब-ए-अल्ताफ़-ए-अमीम
बू-ए-गुल फैलती किस तरह जो होती न नसीम
हम को जमईयत-ए-ख़ातिर ये परेशानी थी
वर्ना उम्मत तिरे महबूब की दीवानी थी
Your ancient being existed from all eternity; the flower adorned the garden, yet its fragrance had not yet been scattered abroad. Justice demands an answer, O Lord of universal grace: how could the scent of the rose spread if there were no breeze to carry it? This restless striving of ours was for Your sake; otherwise the community of Your beloved was content in heart.
The argument turns subtle. God existed from eternity, the speaker says, but it was the believers who carried His name into the world, the breeze to His fragrance. The community took on its restless mission for God's sake, not its own. This sets up the long historical recital that follows.
kahin masjud the patthar kahin mabud shajar
KHugar-e-paikar-e-mahsus thi insan ki nazar
manta phir koi an-dekhe KHuda ko kyunkar
tujh ko malum hai leta tha koi nam tera
quwwat-e-bazu-e-muslim ne kiya kaam tera
कहीं मस्जूद थे पत्थर कहीं मा'बूद शजर
ख़ूगर-ए-पैकर-ए-महसूस थी इंसाँ की नज़र
मानता फिर कोई अन-देखे ख़ुदा को क्यूँकर
तुझ को मालूम है लेता था कोई नाम तिरा
क़ुव्वत-ए-बाज़ू-ए-मुस्लिम ने किया काम तिरा
Before our time, strange was the spectacle of Your world: in one place stones were worshipped, in another trees were adored. The human eye was used only to forms it could touch and see; how then would anyone believe in an unseen God? You know it well, no one even spoke Your name; it was the strength of the Muslim's arm that did Your work.
The speaker now begins the case for the defence. The world before, he says, was sunk in idol worship; the very idea of one unseen God had no foothold. The closing couplet makes the boldest claim of the stanza, that human effort carried God's message when nothing else would.
ahl-e-chin chin mein iran mein sasani bhi
isi mamure mein aabaad the yunani bhi
isi duniya mein yahudi bhi the nasrani bhi
par tere nam pe talwar uThai kis ne
baat jo bigDi hui thi wo banai kis ne
अहल-ए-चीं चीन में ईरान में सासानी भी
इसी मामूरे में आबाद थे यूनानी भी
इसी दुनिया में यहूदी भी थे नसरानी भी
पर तिरे नाम पे तलवार उठाई किस ने
बात जो बिगड़ी हुई थी वो बनाई किस ने
Here too lived the Seljuks and the people of Turan; the people of China in China, and in Iran the Sasanians. In this same settled world dwelt the Greeks; in this same world there were Jews and there were Christians. But who raised the sword in Your name? Who set right the matter that had gone wrong?
Iqbal lists the great peoples of the world, each settled and powerful in its own land, and then asks the rhetorical question that recurs through the next stanzas: many nations lived, but who acted for You? The complaint is built as a long courtroom argument, and these questions are its evidence.
KHushkiyon mein kabhi laDte kabhi dariyaon mein
din azanen kabhi europe ke kalisaon mein
kabhi africa ke tapte hue sahraon mein
shan aankhon mein na jachti thi jahan-daron ki
kalma paDhte the hamin chhanw mein talwaron ki
ख़ुश्कियों में कभी लड़ते कभी दरियाओं में
दीं अज़ानें कभी यूरोप के कलीसाओं में
कभी अफ़्रीक़ा के तपते हुए सहराओं में
शान आँखों में न जचती थी जहाँ-दारों की
कलमा पढ़ते थे हमीं छाँव में तलवारों की
It was we alone who stood in the ranks of Your battles, fighting now on dry land and now on the rivers. We sounded the call to prayer in the churches of Europe, and again in the burning deserts of Africa. The splendour of mighty rulers carried no weight in our eyes; it was we who recited the creed in the shadow of swords.
The recital reaches its proudest pitch. The believers feared no empire and were awed by no throne. The image of reciting the creed 'in the shadow of swords' captures the whole self-portrait: a people defined by conviction held under threat.
aur marte the tere nam ki azmat ke liye
thi na kuchh teghzani apni hukumat ke liye
sar-ba-kaf phirte the kya dahr mein daulat ke liye
qaum apni jo zar-o-mal-e-jahan par marti
but-faroshi ke ewaz but-shikani kyun karti
और मरते थे तिरे नाम की अज़्मत के लिए
थी न कुछ तेग़ज़नी अपनी हुकूमत के लिए
सर-ब-कफ़ फिरते थे क्या दहर में दौलत के लिए
क़ौम अपनी जो ज़र-ओ-माल-ए-जहाँ पर मरती
बुत-फ़रोशीं के एवज़ बुत-शिकनी क्यूँ करती
If we lived, we lived for the hardship of holy wars; and if we died, we died for the glory of Your name. Our sword was not wielded for the sake of our own rule; did we wander with our lives in our palms for the world's wealth? Had our people been in love with the gold and goods of the world, why would they have broken idols instead of selling them?
The speaker insists the believers' motive was pure: not empire, not riches, only God's name. The closing couplet is the sharpest argument of the stanza. Idols were valuable; a greedy people would have traded in them, not destroyed them. Devotion, not profit, drove the act.
panw sheron ke bhi maidan se ukhaD jate the
tujh se sarkash hua koi to bigaD jate the
tegh kya chiz hai hum top se laD jate the
naqsh-e-tauhid ka har dil pe biThaya hum ne
zer-e-KHanjar bhi ye paigham sunaya hum ne
पाँव शेरों के भी मैदाँ से उखड़ जाते थे
तुझ से सरकश हुआ कोई तो बिगड़ जाते थे
तेग़ क्या चीज़ है हम तोप से लड़ जाते थे
नक़्श-ए-तौहीद का हर दिल पे बिठाया हम ने
ज़ेर-ए-ख़ंजर भी ये पैग़ाम सुनाया हम ने
We would not be moved; once we stood firm in battle, even the feet of lions were torn from the field. If anyone rose in rebellion against You, we turned fierce; what is a sword? We would fight against the cannon. We stamped the mark of Your oneness on every heart; even beneath the dagger we proclaimed this message.
The military boast peaks here, but its purpose is theological. The believers' courage existed to defend God's oneness; even at the point of a blade they would not stop preaching it. The complaint keeps tying every act of valour back to faith, building the debt it feels God owes.
shahr qaisar ka jo tha us ko kiya sar kis ne
toDe maKHluq KHuda-wandon ke paikar kis ne
kaT kar rakh diye kuffar ke lashkar kis ne
kis ne ThanDa kiya aatish-kada-e-iran ko
kis ne phir zinda kiya tazkira-e-yazdan ko
शहर क़ैसर का जो था उस को किया सर किस ने
तोड़े मख़्लूक़ ख़ुदावंदों के पैकर किस ने
काट कर रख दिए कुफ़्फ़ार के लश्कर किस ने
किस ने ठंडा किया आतिश-कदा-ए-ईराँ को
किस ने फिर ज़िंदा किया तज़्किरा-ए-यज़्दाँ को
You Yourself say it: who tore down the gate of Khaibar? Who conquered the city that belonged to Caesar? Who broke the carved forms of false, man-made gods? Who cut down and laid low the armies of the unbelievers? Who put out the fire-temple of Iran? Who once again brought to life the remembrance of God?
A rapid drumroll of historical questions, each demanding the same answer: the believers did it. By naming famous victories and asking 'who?', the speaker forces God to acknowledge the record. The last line restates the theme: it was this people who revived the worship of the one God.
aur tere liye zahmat-kash-e-paikar hui
kis ki shamshir jahangir jahan-dar hui
kis ki takbir se duniya teri bedar hui
kis ki haibat se sanam sahme hue rahte the
munh ke bal gir ke hu-allahu-ahad kahte the
और तेरे लिए ज़हमत-कश-ए-पैकार हुई
किस की शमशीर जहाँगीर जहाँ-दार हुई
किस की तकबीर से दुनिया तिरी बेदार हुई
किस की हैबत से सनम सहमे हुए रहते थे
मुँह के बल गिर के हू-अल्लाहू-अहद कहते थे
Which nation sought You and You alone, and bore the toil of battle for Your sake? Whose sword became world-conquering and world-ruling? At whose cry of God's greatness did the world awake to You? Before whose dread did the idols stay cowering, falling on their faces and crying, He is God, the One?
The questions continue, but now with a darker edge of pride: even the idols, the speaker imagines, fell down and confessed God's oneness in fear of the believers. The recital of glory is almost complete; the next stanzas will show the levelling that faith made among people.
qibla-ru ho ke zamin-bos hui qaum-e-hijaz
ek hi saf mein khaDe ho gae mahmud o ayaz
na koi banda raha aur na koi banda-nawaz
banda o sahab o mohtaj o ghani ek hue
teri sarkar mein pahunche to sabhi ek hue
क़िबला-रू हो के ज़मीं-बोस हुई क़ौम-ए-हिजाज़
एक ही सफ़ में खड़े हो गए महमूद ओ अयाज़
न कोई बंदा रहा और न कोई बंदा-नवाज़
बंदा ओ साहब ओ मोहताज ओ ग़नी एक हुए
तेरी सरकार में पहुँचे तो सभी एक हुए
If the hour of prayer arrived in the very thick of battle, the people of Hijaz turned toward the qibla and bowed to the ground. Mahmud and Ayaz stood together in a single row; there remained no servant and no master of servants. Servant and lord, the needy and the rich, became one; once they reached Your court, all became equal.
This is the poem's great image of equality. The famous king Mahmud and his slave Ayaz stand in one prayer row, rank dissolved. The complaint's case is not only valour but also the moral order faith created; it made all worshippers equal before God.
mai-e-tauhid ko le kar sifat-e-jam phire
koh mein dasht mein le kar tera paigham phire
aur malum hai tujh ko kabhi nakaam phire
dasht to dasht hain dariya bhi na chhoDe hum ne
bahr-e-zulmat mein dauDa diye ghoDe hum ne
मय-ए-तौहीद को ले कर सिफ़त-ए-जाम फिरे
कोह में दश्त में ले कर तिरा पैग़ाम फिरे
और मालूम है तुझ को कभी नाकाम फिरे
दश्त तो दश्त हैं दरिया भी न छोड़े हम ने
बहर-ए-ज़ुल्मात में दौड़ा दिए घोड़े हम ने
Through the gathering of all creation and space we moved, morning and evening, carrying the wine of Your oneness like a brimming cup. Into mountains and wildernesses we went bearing Your message; and You know whether we ever returned having failed. Deserts were nothing; we did not even leave the rivers untried; into the sea of darkness we drove our horses.
The believers carried God's message everywhere, the speaker says, and never came back defeated. The closing image, horses driven into the 'sea of darkness', evokes the legendary edge of the known world, the limit of human daring. The recital of service is total.
nau-e-insan ko ghulami se chhuDaya hum ne
tere kabe ko jabinon se basaya hum ne
tere quran ko sinon se lagaya hum ne
phir bhi hum se ye gila hai ki wafadar nahin
hum wafadar nahin tu bhi to dildar nahin
नौ-ए-इंसाँ को ग़ुलामी से छुड़ाया हम ने
तेरे का'बे को जबीनों से बसाया हम ने
तेरे क़ुरआन को सीनों से लगाया हम ने
फिर भी हम से ये गिला है कि वफ़ादार नहीं
हम वफ़ादार नहीं तू भी तो दिलदार नहीं
From the page of the world we erased all falsehood; we set humankind free from slavery. We filled Your Kaaba with our bowed foreheads; we held Your Quran close against our hearts. And still the grievance against us is that we are not faithful. We are not faithful, but then You too are not loving.
The recital ends and the complaint sharpens to its boldest line. After everything, the speaker says, God still calls the believers unfaithful, and he answers back: if we have failed in faithfulness, You have failed in love. This is the hinge of the poem; from here it turns from past glory to present grievance.
ijz wale bhi hain mast-e-mai-e-pindar bhi hain
un mein kahil bhi hain ghafil bhi hain hushyar bhi hain
saikDon hain ki tere nam se be-zar bhi hain
rahmaten hain teri aghyar ke kashanon par
barq girti hai to bechaare musalmanon par
इज्ज़ वाले भी हैं मस्त-ए-मय-ए-पिंदार भी हैं
उन में काहिल भी हैं ग़ाफ़िल भी हैं हुश्यार भी हैं
सैकड़ों हैं कि तिरे नाम से बे-ज़ार भी हैं
रहमतें हैं तिरी अग़्यार के काशानों पर
बर्क़ गिरती है तो बेचारे मुसलमानों पर
There are other communities too, and among them are sinners; some are humble, and some are drunk on the wine of conceit. Among them are the lazy and the heedless, and also the shrewd; there are hundreds who are weary of Your very name. Yet Your mercies fall upon the houses of strangers, while the lightning, when it strikes, strikes the poor Muslims.
The complaint turns to its central injustice. Other peoples have their sinners and their scoffers too, the speaker says, yet God's blessings rain on them while disaster falls only on the believers. The grievance is now about fairness, the unequal distribution of grace and ruin.
hai KHushi un ko ki kabe ke nigahban gae
manzil-e-dahr se unTon ke hudi-KHwan gae
apni baghlon mein dabae hue quran gae
KHanda-zan kufr hai ehsas tujhe hai ki nahin
apni tauhid ka kuchh pas tujhe hai ki nahin
है ख़ुशी उन को कि का'बे के निगहबान गए
मंज़िल-ए-दहर से ऊँटों के हुदी-ख़्वान गए
अपनी बग़लों में दबाए हुए क़ुरआन गए
ख़ंदा-ज़न कुफ़्र है एहसास तुझे है कि नहीं
अपनी तौहीद का कुछ पास तुझे है कि नहीं
In the idol-houses the idols say, the Muslims are gone; they rejoice that the guardians of the Kaaba are gone. The camel-drivers who sang their songs have departed from the world's halting-place; they have gone, with the Quran pressed under their arms. Unbelief stands laughing; have You any sense of this or not? Have You any care left for Your own oneness or not?
The grievance grows almost taunting. Iqbal personifies the idols themselves, laughing because the believers who once shamed them have faded. The closing couplet flings the boldest challenge of the poem: does God notice that His own oneness is now being mocked?
nahin mahfil mein jinhen baat bhi karne ka shuur
qahr to ye hai ki kafir ko milen hur o qusur
aur bechaare musalman ko faqat wada-e-hur
ab wo altaf nahin hum pe inayat nahin
baat ye kya hai ki pahli si mudaraat nahin
नहीं महफ़िल में जिन्हें बात भी करने का शुऊ'र
क़हर तो ये है कि काफ़िर को मिलें हूर ओ क़ुसूर
और बेचारे मुसलमाँ को फ़क़त वादा-ए-हूर
अब वो अल्ताफ़ नहीं हम पे इनायात नहीं
बात ये क्या है कि पहली सी मुदारात नहीं
This is no grievance, that their treasuries are full while those who have no skill even to speak in company prosper. The real cruelty is this: the unbeliever is given fair companions and palaces, while the poor Muslim is given only the promise of them. Now those favours are not ours, those kindnesses are not ours; what is the matter, that the old warm welcome is no more?
The complaint becomes very plain and human. It is not the wealth of strangers that stings, the speaker says, but the sense of a relationship cooled. The believers were promised paradise; meanwhile others receive their reward now. The closing line is the ache of a love grown distant.
teri qudrat to hai wo jis ki na had hai na hisab
tu jo chahe to uThe sina-e-sahra se habab
rah-raw-e-dasht ho saili-zada-e-mauj-e-sarab
tan-e-aghyar hai ruswai hai nadari hai
kya tere nam pe marne ka ewaz KHwari hai
तेरी क़ुदरत तो है वो जिस की न हद है न हिसाब
तू जो चाहे तो उठे सीना-ए-सहरा से हबाब
रह-रव-ए-दश्त हो सैली-ज़दा-ए-मौज-ए-सराब
तान-ए-अग़्यार है रुस्वाई है नादारी है
क्या तिरे नाम पे मरने का एवज़ ख़्वारी है
Why is worldly wealth so scarce among the Muslims, when Your power is the power that has no limit and no reckoning? If You willed it, bubbles of water could rise from the breast of the desert, and the traveller of the wilderness be flooded by a wave of mirage. The taunting of strangers, the disgrace, the destitution; is humiliation the reward for dying in Your name?
The complaint puts the question squarely to God's omnipotence. If You can do anything, the speaker says, why this poverty for Your own? The final line is the poem's rawest charge: that loyalty unto death has been repaid with shame.
rah gai apne liye ek KHayali duniya
hum to ruKHsat hue auron ne sanbhaali duniya
phir na kahna hui tauhid se KHali duniya
hum to jite hain ki duniya mein tera nam rahe
kahin mumkin hai ki saqi na rahe jam rahe
रह गई अपने लिए एक ख़याली दुनिया
हम तो रुख़्सत हुए औरों ने सँभाली दुनिया
फिर न कहना हुई तौहीद से ख़ाली दुनिया
हम तो जीते हैं कि दुनिया में तिरा नाम रहे
कहीं मुमकिन है कि साक़ी न रहे जाम रहे
The world that loves and admires has now become the strangers'; for ourselves there is left only an imagined world. We have taken our leave; others have taken charge of the world. Then do not say one day that the world has been emptied of Your oneness. We live only so that Your name may endure in the world; is it possible the cup-bearer should be gone, yet the cup remain?
The speaker presses a warning. If the believers fade, who will keep God's name alive? The image of the cup-bearer and the cup says it sharply: the message cannot survive without the people who carry it. The complaint now ties God's own honour to the community's fate.
shab ki aahen bhi gain subh ke nale bhi gae
dil tujhe de bhi gae apna sila le bhi gae
aa ke baiThe bhi na the aur nikale bhi gae
aae ushshaq gae wada-e-farda le kar
ab unhen DhunD charagh-e-ruKH-e-zeba le kar
शब की आहें भी गईं सुब्ह के नाले भी गए
दिल तुझे दे भी गए अपना सिला ले भी गए
आ के बैठे भी न थे और निकाले भी गए
आए उश्शाक़ गए वादा-ए-फ़र्दा ले कर
अब उन्हें ढूँड चराग़-ए-रुख़-ए-ज़ेबा ले कर
Your gathering is gone, and those who loved You are gone; the sighs of the night are gone, and the laments of the dawn are gone. They gave You their hearts, and took their reward and left; they had hardly come and sat down before they were turned out. The lovers came, and went away carrying only the promise of tomorrow; now go seek them, with the lamp of Your own lovely face.
An elegy within the complaint. The lovers came, served, were given only a promise, and were dismissed before they could rest. The final line gently turns the grievance back on God: if You want them back, You must go looking, lighting the way with Your own beauty.
najd ke dasht o jabal mein ram-e-ahu bhi wahi
ishq ka dil bhi wahi husn ka jadu bhi wahi
ummat-e-ahmad-e-mursil bhi wahi tu bhi wahi
phir ye aazurdagi-e-ghair sabab kya mani
apne shaidaon pe ye chashm-e-ghazab kya mani
नज्द के दश्त ओ जबल में रम-ए-आहू भी वही
इश्क़ का दिल भी वही हुस्न का जादू भी वही
उम्मत-ए-अहमद-ए-मुर्सिल भी वही तू भी वही
फिर ये आज़ुर्दगी-ए-ग़ैर सबब क्या मा'नी
अपने शैदाओं पे ये चश्म-ए-ग़ज़ब क्या मा'नी
The pain of Laila is still the same, and the side of Qais is still the same; in the deserts and hills of Najd the bounding of the deer is still the same. The heart of love is still the same, the magic of beauty is still the same; the community of Ahmad the Messenger is still the same, and You are still the same. Then what does this groundless coldness mean? What does this eye of wrath upon Your own devotees mean?
The speaker reasons closely. Nothing essential has changed; the lover, the beloved, the longing, the community, and God Himself are all unchanged. So the estrangement, he argues, has no cause. The complaint is now a bewildered question rather than an accusation.
but-gari pesha kiya but-shikani ko chhoDa
ishq ko ishq ki aashufta-sari ko chhoDa
rasm-e-salman o uwais-e-qarani ko chhoDa
aag takbir ki sinon mein dabi rakhte hain
zindagi misl-e-bilal-e-habashi rakhte hain
बुत-गरी पेशा किया बुत-शिकनी को छोड़ा
इश्क़ को इश्क़ की आशुफ़्ता-सरी को छोड़ा
रस्म-ए-सलमान ओ उवैस-ए-क़रनी को छोड़ा
आग तकबीर की सीनों में दबी रखते हैं
ज़िंदगी मिस्ल-ए-बिलाल-ए-हबशी रखते हैं
Have we abandoned You, or abandoned the Arabian Messenger? Have we taken up the making of idols, and given up the breaking of idols? Have we forsaken love, and the beautiful madness of love? Have we given up the way of Salman and of Uwais of Qaran? We still keep the fire of God's praise pressed within our breasts; we still keep a life like that of Bilal the Abyssinian.
Here the speaker mounts a defence against the unspoken charge of disloyalty. We have not left You, he says; we still carry the old fire and the old way. The naming of Salman, Uwais, and Bilal, all early companions of humble or foreign origin, quietly reasserts that faith outranks rank and birth.
jada-paimali-e-taslim-o-raza bhi na sahi
muztarib dil sifat-e-qibla-numa bhi na sahi
aur pabandi-e-ain-e-wafa bhi na sahi
kabhi hum se kabhi ghairon se shanasai hai
baat kahne ki nahin tu bhi to harjai hai
जादा-पैमाई-ए-तस्लीम-ओ-रज़ा भी न सही
मुज़्तरिब दिल सिफ़त-ए-क़िबला-नुमा भी न सही
और पाबंदी-ए-आईन-ए-वफ़ा भी न सही
कभी हम से कभी ग़ैरों से शनासाई है
बात कहने की नहीं तू भी तो हरजाई है
As for love, grant that we no longer have the old grace of it; grant that we no longer walk the road of surrender and contentment. Grant that our restless heart no longer points true like a compass to the qibla; grant that we no longer keep the law of faithfulness. But sometimes You befriend us, and sometimes the strangers; though it is not a thing to say aloud, You too are inconstant.
The boldest accusation of the whole poem. The speaker concedes every fault, then turns it around: even granting that the believers have lapsed, God Himself shifts His favour from one people to another. To call God 'inconstant' is exactly the daring that scandalised early listeners; the apology 'not a thing to say aloud' admits as much.
ek ishaare mein hazaron ke liye dil tu ne
aatish-andoz kiya ishq ka hasil tu ne
phunk di garmi-e-ruKHsar se mahfil tu ne
aaj kyun sine hamare sharer-abaad nahin
hum wahi soKHta-saman hain tujhe yaad nahin
इक इशारे में हज़ारों के लिए दिल तू ने
आतिश-अंदोज़ किया इश्क़ का हासिल तू ने
फूँक दी गर्मी-ए-रुख़्सार से महफ़िल तू ने
आज क्यूँ सीने हमारे शरर-आबाद नहीं
हम वही सोख़्ता-सामाँ हैं तुझे याद नहीं
On the heights of Faran You perfected the faith; with a single sign You won the hearts of thousands. You made love itself catch fire; with the warmth of Your face You set the whole gathering ablaze. Why then are our breasts no longer peopled with sparks today? We are the same burnt-out, kindling souls; do You not remember?
The complaint reaches back to the founding moment, the revelation that set the early community on fire, and asks why that fire has gone cold. The pleading tone deepens: we are the same people, the speaker says; have You simply forgotten us?
qais diwana-e-nazzara-e-mahmil na raha
hausle wo na rahe hum na rahe dil na raha
ghar ye ujDa hai ki tu raunaq-e-mahfil na raha
ai KHusha aan roz ki aai o ba-sad naz aai
be-hijabana su-e-mahfil-e-ma baz aai
क़ैस दीवाना-ए-नज़्ज़ारा-ए-महमिल न रहा
हौसले वो न रहे हम न रहे दिल न रहा
घर ये उजड़ा है कि तू रौनक़-ए-महफ़िल न रहा
ऐ ख़ुशा आँ रोज़ कि आई ओ ब-सद नाज़ आई
बे-हिजाबाना सू-ए-महफ़िल-ए-मा बाज़ आई
In the valley of Najd that clamour of chains is heard no more; Qais, mad for the sight of the litter, is there no more. Those high spirits are gone, we are gone, the heart is gone; this house lies ruined because You no longer grace the gathering. O blessed will be that day when You come, and come with a hundred graces, and return unveiled toward our assembly.
The grief turns toward longing. The old ardour is gone, and the speaker names the true cause: the house is ruined because God Himself no longer adorns it. The stanza ends not in accusation but in hope, a wish for the day God returns to His people.
sunte hain jam-ba-kaf naghma-e-ku-ku baiThe
daur hangama-e-gulzar se yaksu baiThe
tere diwane bhi hain muntazir-e-hu baiThe
apne parwanon ko phir zauq-e-KHud-afrozi de
barq-e-derina ko farman-e-jigar-sozi de
सुनते हैं जाम-ब-कफ़ नग़्मा-ए-कू-कू बैठे
दौर हंगामा-ए-गुलज़ार से यकसू बैठे
तेरे दीवाने भी हैं मुंतज़िर-ए-हू बैठे
अपने परवानों को फिर ज़ौक़-ए-ख़ुद-अफ़रोज़ी दे
बर्क़-ए-देरीना को फ़रमान-ए-जिगर-सोज़ी दे
The strangers are the wine-drinkers now, seated in the garden by the stream's edge; cup in hand, they sit listening to the song of the cuckoo. Set apart from the tumult and bustle of the rose-garden, Your devotees too sit waiting for a sign of You. Give Your moths once more the joy of burning themselves up; give the old lightning the command to set the heart alight.
The contrast is stark: strangers enjoy the garden while the believers sit apart, waiting. The stanza closes by turning the complaint into a prayer. The speaker no longer asks why; he asks God to rekindle the old self-consuming devotion, the moth's love of the flame.
le uDa bulbul-e-be-par ko mazaq-e-parwaz
muztarib-e-bagh ke har ghunche mein hai bu-e-niyaz
tu zara chheD to de tishna-e-mizrab hai saz
naghme betab hain taron se nikalne ke liye
tur muztar hai usi aag mein jalne ke liye
ले उड़ा बुलबुल-ए-बे-पर को मज़ाक़-ए-परवाज़
मुज़्तरिब-बाग़ के हर ग़ुंचे में है बू-ए-नियाज़
तू ज़रा छेड़ तो दे तिश्ना-ए-मिज़राब है साज़
नग़्मे बेताब हैं तारों से निकलने के लिए
तूर मुज़्तर है उसी आग में जलने के लिए
The wandering nation turns its reins once more toward Hijaz; the taste for flight has lifted the wingless nightingale into the air. In every bud of the restless garden there is the scent of longing; only touch the strings, and the instrument thirsts for the plectrum. The melodies are impatient to break free from the strings; Mount Tur is restless to burn again in that same fire.
The poem swings toward yearning and readiness. The community is turning back to its source; the longing is everywhere, only waiting for God to strike the first note. The reference to Mount Tur, where Moses saw the divine fire, casts the prayer in the language shared across faiths.
mor-e-be-maya ko ham-dosh-e-sulaiman kar de
jins-e-nayab-e-mohabbat ko phir arzan kar de
hind ke dair-nashinon ko musalman kar de
ju-e-KHun mi chakad az hasrat-e-dairina-e-ma
mi tapad nala ba-nishtar kada-e-sina-e-ma
मोर-ए-बे-माया को हम-दोश-ए-सुलेमाँ कर दे
जिंस-ए-नायाब-ए-मोहब्बत को फिर अर्ज़ां कर दे
हिन्द के दैर-नशीनों को मुसलमाँ कर दे
जू-ए-ख़ूँ मी चकद अज़ हसरत-ए-दैरीना-ए-मा
मी तपद नाला ब-निश्तर कद-ए-सीना-ए-मा
Make easy the troubles of this stricken community; make the worthless ant the equal companion of Solomon. Make the rare and precious thing that is love cheap and freely had once more; turn the temple-dwellers of Hind into believers. A stream of blood drips down from our long-held longing; the lament throbs within the dagger-house of our breast.
The prayer becomes generous and open. The speaker asks not for revenge but for renewal, even for the salvation of those outside the faith. The two Persian lines at the close, a different language for the deepest cry, let the longing spill past the poem's own tongue.
kya qayamat hai ki KHud phul hain ghammaz-e-chaman
ahd-e-gul KHatm hua TuT gaya saz-e-chaman
uD gae Daliyon se zamzama-pardaz-e-chaman
ek bulbul hai ki mahw-e-tarannum ab tak
us ke sine mein hai naghmon ka talatum ab tak
क्या क़यामत है कि ख़ुद फूल हैं ग़म्माज़-ए-चमन
अहद-ए-गुल ख़त्म हुआ टूट गया साज़-ए-चमन
उड़ गए डालियों से ज़मज़मा-पर्दाज़-ए-चमन
एक बुलबुल है कि महव-ए-तरन्नुम अब तक
उस के सीने में है नग़्मों का तलातुम अब तक
The scent of the rose has carried the garden's secret outside the garden; what a calamity, that the flowers themselves are the garden's informers. The season of the rose is over, the garden's instrument is broken; the singers who made melody have flown from the branches. There is one nightingale still lost in its song; in its breast there is still a surging tide of melodies.
The garden, the poem's image of the community, has lost its season and its singers. Only one nightingale still sings. That solitary singer is the poet himself, and the poem he is reciting, the last living voice of an old devotion.
pattiyan phul ki jhaD jhaD ke pareshan bhi huin
wo purani raushen bagh ki viran bhi huin
Daliyan pairahan-e-barg se uryan bhi huin
qaid-e-mausam se tabiat rahi aazad us ki
kash gulshan mein samajhta koi fariyaad us ki
पत्तियाँ फूल की झड़ झड़ के परेशाँ भी हुईं
वो पुरानी रौशें बाग़ की वीराँ भी हुईं
डालियाँ पैरहन-ए-बर्ग से उर्यां भी हुईं
क़ैद-ए-मौसम से तबीअत रही आज़ाद उस की
काश गुलशन में समझता कोई फ़रियाद उस की
The ring-doves have fled from the branch of the pine; the petals of the flowers, falling and falling, lie scattered. The old walks of the garden have fallen into ruin; the branches stand bare, stripped of their robe of leaves. Yet that one nightingale's nature stayed free of the prison of the seasons; if only someone in the garden understood its lament.
The desolation deepens, but so does the figure of the lone singer. Unlike the seasonal birds, this nightingale is not bound by time; its song outlasts the ruin. The closing wish, that someone might understand it, is the poet asking to be heard.
kuchh maza hai to yahi KHun-e-jigar pine mein
kitne betab hain jauhar mere aaine mein
kis qadar jalwe taDapte hain mere sine mein
is gulistan mein magar dekhne wale hi nahin
dagh jo sine mein rakhte hon wo lale hi nahin
कुछ मज़ा है तो यही ख़ून-ए-जिगर पीने में
कितने बेताब हैं जौहर मिरे आईने में
किस क़दर जल्वे तड़पते हैं मिरे सीने में
इस गुलिस्ताँ में मगर देखने वाले ही नहीं
दाग़ जो सीने में रखते हों वो लाले ही नहीं
There is no pleasure left in dying, no relish left in living; if there is any relish, it is only in drinking the blood of one's own heart. How impatient the hidden brilliances are within my mirror; how the visions throb and struggle within my breast. But in this garden there is no one with eyes to see; there are no tulips left that carry a scar within the breast.
The lone nightingale speaks of its own gift and its loneliness. It holds visions no one will look at; the garden has no tulips, the flower marked with a dark centre, that is, no hearts that carry the scar of true longing. The poet feels the rarity of a faith still felt deeply.
jagne wale isi bang-e-dara se dil hon
yani phir zinda nae ahd-e-wafa se dil hon
phir isi baada-e-dairina ke pyase dil hon
ajami KHum hai to kya mai to hijazi hai meri
naghma hindi hai to kya lai to hijazi hai meri
जागने वाले इसी बाँग-ए-दरा से दिल हों
या'नी फिर ज़िंदा नए अहद-ए-वफ़ा से दिल हों
फिर इसी बादा-ए-दैरीना के प्यासे दिल हों
अजमी ख़ुम है तो क्या मय तो हिजाज़ी है मिरी
नग़्मा हिन्दी है तो क्या लय तो हिजाज़ी है मिरी
May hearts be torn open by the song of this solitary nightingale; may hearts be wakened by this same caravan-bell. May hearts come alive again through a new covenant of faithfulness; may hearts thirst once more for this same old wine. What if the jar is Persian? My wine is still of Hijaz. What if the song is Indian? My melody is still of Hijaz.
The complaint closes by reaching for renewal. The lone song hopes to wake hearts into a new covenant. The final couplet, which gives Iqbal's collection Bang-e-Dara its name, the caravan-bell, says the message is one even where the vessel differs: the form may be Persian or Indian, the source is the same. The poem ends in longing, not resolution, and so calls out for a reply.
Shikwa works because it never breaks character. From the first stanza to the last it stays a single sustained address, a believer speaking up to God, and it earns its boldness by keeping faith even while protesting. The complaint is not that God does not exist or does not matter; it is that He seems to have grown distant from people who gave Him everything. That is a grievance only a believer can feel, and only a believer would bother to voice. The scandal the poem caused in its time came from mistaking the courage of the address for irreverence. Read closely, every accusation rests on an unshaken assumption that God is there, is listening, and owes the conversation.
The poem also carries a quieter argument under the loud one. By stanza 28 the garden has lost its season and its singers, and only one nightingale is left singing to an audience that cannot hear it. That image hints at what the answer will later make explicit: perhaps the decline is not heaven withdrawing but the community falling silent, ceasing to do the things that once earned its glory. Shikwa lets the complaint run to its full, beautiful length without conceding this. It states the grievance so completely, and so movingly, that the grievance demands a response.
And that is why the poem needed an answer, and why Iqbal wrote one. Read alone, Shikwa is a thunderclap of grief and protest, unresolved on purpose. Read as the first half of a pair, it becomes the setup for one of the most searching replies in modern poetry. Its lasting power reaches well past any single creed. Anyone who has held a deep belief and then watched the world seem to reward the indifferent will recognise the feeling exactly. Iqbal's achievement was to give that hard, near-forbidden question a voice of dignity and music, and to insist that asking it honestly is itself a form of faith.
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