Karbala-A Poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam

Kazi Nazrul Islam 

Dr.Mazhar Naqvi

Kazi (Qazi)Nazrul Islam , the national poet of Bangladesh, is known for producing poetry against oppression and exploitation of down trodden. As themes of his poetry includes religious devotion and spiritualism and call for political and social justice, he is also called as rebel poet. Born on May 26, 1899, Kazi wrote passionately about human rights, women's rights, religious, racial and ethnic harmony before breathing his last on August 27,1976. Unfortunately,little research has been done on the life and works of Kazi despite his exalted status as an extremely talented poet with universal appeal. Likewise, no attempt has been made to ascertain as to why he raised his voice against oppression and exploitation through his poems and what inspired him to do so. One however gets an idea about his ‘rebel’ against oppression and social injustice from his poem on Karbala-the place where Hazrat Imam Hussain was martyred by barbaric forces of Caliph Yazid. He wrote the poem in Bengali but late Mizanur Rahman translated it into English so as to enable non-Bengalis to go through it .The following are excerpts from the translation :

“The sky o'erhead is blue and dark. 
The world, is red with blood. 
"Done is thy darling, mother, by the murderous hand."
Waileth  a womanly voice on the Euphrates-Karbala end.
The wailing causeth tear, even to Shimar's spear 
In the Damascus sky, ringeth the terrible cry : 
"Who hath made Zainal dear, this murderous dress to wear?" 
Like the tempest, swelleth the moan, again and again 
"Ya Husain! Ya Husain! Ya Husain !" 
The sword in Yazid's grip, trembleth in terror deep! 
Mad with grief, duldul scours Madina's street. 
To see if Husain, the prince of Ali. 
Might have been there in the confused melee! 
With the tresses at sixes and sevens. 
Fatima, the mother weeps in Heavens,  
Holding the corpses cold of the martyred sons, 
And the garments white of the daughters undone! 
Qasim bridegroom of the merest day. 
Forget fast for the fighting fray, 
With the coating of mehdi wiped away 
All too soon, in the saddest way ! 
"Alas, Alas" wail the eastern wind. 
And the southernly breeze : 
"Take off thy bridal wear, O Sakina dear
These bangles and painchees !" 
Who is the luck-lorn lass, weeping in distress. 
Holding the cut-out head 
Of Qasirn in her tender lap! 

Abbas, the lion of men. 
Tho bereft of the two arms then. 
Managed to bring water for drink 
To the "bravo," even of the enemy! 
The trumpet rang:"drim, drim, drim."
At the wonted pause, loud and grim ! 
The desert-sun. burning bright. 
Was frying the soul, like kabab fried, 
Karbala desert, grim and grave. 
Without water, without date ! 
Mothers' breasts, bereft of milk. 
Making the babies writhe in grief 
Can the licking of tongue, parched and dried. 
Keep the tender life in the body alive? 
Under the burning blaze of the Karbala sun, 
Banoo was crying, in utter disconsolation: 
"Water, water, water please. 
For my darling Asghar is dying." 
No water could be had. The child drank instead 
Blood newly-shed, fresh and red. 
The mother wept bitter tears and said, 
"Come back, babe, come thou back to me : 
Water for drink I shall give to thee." 

With, Haidari shout, he is on duldul's back, 
Brandishing the sword to terrify the enemy's rank. 
The enemy's sword dropping from the hand, 
And file Day of Judgment flashing before the ken! 
The enemy ranks are unstrung. 
But who is this hero, weary of strife. 
Entering the Euphrates, wiping the eyes? 
Where is Asghar dear? The breast is rent 
By grief, like the sieve torn and bent! 
The sight of water made Husain's breast 
Burst and burnt! (And he said;) 
"The children breathed their last 
Writhing and crying for a drop to drink. 
But none was given, alas! to the dying babes 
By the cruel, cowardly, low-born breed! 
The water on the enclenched fist 
Dropped down, in unceasing stream ! 
Dropped down Husain, endowed with strongest arms 
Badly bruised by the daggers' darts! . 
Who is the heartless wretch, 
Sitting on the breast and striking against the neck? 
The sun was eclipsed, as it were.  
By the darkness dense of a dreary night! 
The sky at noon was filled, as it were 
With the fleeting clouds of the even-tide ! 

Gone are Muharrams; gone are years ! 
But can't forget the crimson blood 
Of the martyred heroes, as yet! 
O Muslims! Ye are Zainul Abedins of the age! 
Will time fly, merely by the mournful cry 
"Ya Husain! Ya Husain! Ya Husain !" 
Back is Muharrarn, the sacred month of thine! 
Wanted sacrifices, not rnarthia mournful cry
 Up with the turbaned head 
Crowned with the Holy Quran ! 
Wanted sword in hand-sword of the Arabian ! 
The head of a Muslim, whenever born, 
Must not lie, low and lorn. 
Beware, Islam! Thy sun is sinking! 
Wake up Muslims! With Haidari cry of war! 
On this Martyrs' Day, be it all red with blood! 
Wear the Bridegroom's dress, glittering clean, 
But let the fringes be, in crimson, tinged! 
'This day is the special day of dying 
On the field of fight freely fighting! 
Let us drink the cup of poison, as Hasan drank 
Let us take, like Husain, the knives of wrong on the breast! 
Let us sacrifice sons, as Asghar was done! 
Let us avenge the tyrant. (as in Karbala maidan) 
Laying our lives in the grave, on this sacred day! 
To our mothers and daughters all, I say- 
Let us give to the Sakina's garments white but gay 
Let us resist wrongs, with lives, in Qasim's way!
Muharram! Karbala! Ya Husain! Ya Husain! 
Weep it out, if ye please, again and again!
But let not the martyrs' blood
By the desert's sun be dried outright!

(Reference available on request. Photo Courtesy Google Images)