Mehfil-e-Rashid محفلِ رشید
GHAZAL VIII

From the Source

براہِ راست

Barāh-e-Rāst

0:00 / 0:00

The Story

All my life I watched his pen glide and dance across the page. He had an eagle eye; not a single comma escaped it. He was a gifted editor, a journalist, a writer, a poet. And he carried questions, especially about God: how much had men of faith passed off in His name that He never said? When he married my mother, he told her she was his second wife; books were his first. She kept him anyway. And he made friends with everyone he ever met; a room never stayed a room of strangers around him for long.

Muslims believe that after death the soul waits in barzakh until the Day of Judgement. I sometimes wonder what it must be like there for him. Everyone who has ever passed is there. For a man who spent his life chasing answers, I can only imagine his delight: every source finally available, every quote at last on the record, every soul a friend he simply hadn’t met yet. Knowing him, he is causing cheerful chaos, reporting live from barzakh, telling tales, dropping punchlines, getting his answers directly from the source. This ghazal is that report.

The Urdu twin ends every verse with barāh-e-rāst. Literally it means by the straight road: directly, first hand, no one in between. But it is also the phrase Urdu news channels use for a live broadcast; when an anchor cuts to a reporter on the scene, the strap on the screen says barāh-e-rāst. One phrase carries both his craft and his new address: the report comes directly, and it comes from the source.

  1. He's filing dispatches tonight, and of course, from the source;
    each fact he could never confirm comes in force, from the source.

    سنا ہے برزخ سے وہ بھیجتے ہیں کتاب، براہِ راست
    وہیں سے ملتا ہے ہر اک سوال کا جواب، براہِ راست

    sunā hai barzakh se wo bhejte haiṅ kitāb, barāh-e-rāst
    wahīṅ se miltā hai har ik sawāl kā jawāb, barāh-e-rāst

    Word has it he is sending a book from barzakh, live; from there, now, comes the answer to every question, direct.

    سُݨیا اے، برزخ توں اوہ گھلدے نے کتاب، سِدھا اوتھوں
    ہر سوال دا ہُݨ لبھدا اے جواب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਸੁਣਿਆ ਏ, ਬਰਜ਼ਖ਼ ਤੋਂ ਓਹ ਘੱਲਦੇ ਨੇ ਕਿਤਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ
    ਹਰ ਸਵਾਲ ਦਾ ਹੁਣ ਲੱਭਦਾ ਏ ਜਵਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    suṇyā e, barzakh toṅ oh ghallde ne kitāb, sidhā othoṅ
    har sawāl dā hun labhdā e jawāb, sidhā othoṅ

    Word is, he sends a book from barzakh, straight from there; every question now finds its answer, straight from there.

  2. The angels who write down our deeds have an editor now;
    no comma survives that his eye won't endorse, from the source.

    فرشتے لکھ رہے ہیں جو بھی نامۂ اعمال
    وہ نقطہ نقطہ جانچتے ہیں اب حساب، براہِ راست

    farishte likh rahe haiṅ jo bhī nāma-e-aʿmāl
    wo nuqta nuqta jāṅchte haiṅ ab hisāb, barāh-e-rāst

    Whatever ledger of deeds the angels are writing, he now audits the account point by point, live.

    فرشتے جہڑا وی لِکھدے نے نامۂ اعمال
    اوہ نُقطہ نُقطہ ہُݨ پرکھدے حساب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਫ਼ਰਿਸ਼ਤੇ ਜਿਹੜਾ ਵੀ ਲਿਖਦੇ ਨੇ ਨਾਮਾ-ਏ-ਆਮਾਲ
    ਓਹ ਨੁਕਤਾ ਨੁਕਤਾ ਹੁਣ ਪਰਖਦੇ ਹਿਸਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    farishté jehṛā vī likhde ne nāmā-e-amāl
    oh nuqtā nuqtā hun parakhde hisāb, sidhā othoṅ

    Whatever record of deeds the angels write, he now goes over the account dot by dot, straight from there.

  3. He always suspected the pulpit had added its lines;
    he strikes what God never said from its discourse, from the source.

    منبر نے جو بڑھا دیا تھا اپنی طرف سے
    وہ کاٹتے ہیں واعظ کا ہر خطاب، براہِ راست

    minbar ne jo baṛhā diyā thā apnī taraf se
    wo kāṭte haiṅ wāʿiz kā har khitāb, barāh-e-rāst

    Whatever the pulpit added on its own, he cuts from the preacher's every address, checked at the source.

    منبر نے جہڑا آپے توں ودھا دِتا سی
    اوہ کَٹ سُٹدے واعظ دا ہر خطاب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਮਿੰਬਰ ਨੇ ਜਿਹੜਾ ਆਪੇ ਤੋਂ ਵਧਾ ਦਿੱਤਾ ਸੀ
    ਓਹ ਕੱਟ ਸੁੱਟਦੇ ਵਾਇਜ਼ ਦਾ ਹਰ ਖ਼ਿਤਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    minbar ne jehṛā āpe toṅ vadhā ditā si
    oh kaṭ suṭṭde wāiz dā har khitāb, sidhā othoṅ

    Whatever the pulpit added on its own, he cuts the preacher's every speech clean out, straight from there.

  4. He asks if the ink on the Page dried before we were born;
    why judge us? The script, He declines to enforce, from the source.

    سوال ان کا: اگر لوح پہ لکھا تھا سب کچھ
    جواب آیا: نہیں بند کوئی باب، براہِ راست

    sawāl un kā: agar lauh pe likhā thā sab kuchh
    jawāb āyā: nahīṅ band koī bāb, barāh-e-rāst

    His question: if everything was already written on the Tablet? The answer came: no chapter is closed, direct.

    اُنہاں دا سوال: جے سبھ کُجھ لوح تے لِکھیا سی
    جواب آیا: کوئی بند نئیں باب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਦਾ ਸਵਾਲ: ਜੇ ਸਭ ਕੁਝ ਲੌਹ ਤੇ ਲਿਖਿਆ ਸੀ
    ਜਵਾਬ ਆਇਆ: ਕੋਈ ਬੰਦ ਨਈਂ ਬਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    unhāṅ dā sawāl: je sabh kujh lauh te likhyā si
    jawāb āyā: koī band nai bāb, sidhā othoṅ

    His question: if it was all already written on the Tablet? The answer came: no chapter is shut, straight from there.

  5. For years they all feared that his questions would bring down the roof;
    it stands on the beams that his doubts reinforce, from the source.

    سبھی کو ڈر تھا، سوالوں سے چھت نہ گر جائے
    ان کو تو شک پہ بھی ملا ثواب، براہِ راست

    sabhī ko ḍar thā, sawāloṅ se chhat na gir jāye
    un ko to shak pe bhī milā sawāb, barāh-e-rāst

    Everyone feared the questions might bring the roof down; he received merit even for the doubt, direct from the source.

    سارِیاں نوں ڈر سی، سوالاں نال چھت نہ ڈِگ پوے
    اُنہاں نوں شک تے وی مِلیا ثواب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਸਾਰਿਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਡਰ ਸੀ, ਸਵਾਲਾਂ ਨਾਲ ਛੱਤ ਨਾ ਡਿਗ ਪਵੇ
    ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਸ਼ੱਕ ਤੇ ਵੀ ਮਿਲਿਆ ਸਵਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    sāreyāṅ nu ḍar si, sawālāṅ nāl chhat nā ḍig pave
    unhāṅ nu shak te vī milyā sawāb, sidhā othoṅ

    Everyone was scared the questions would drop the roof; he got reward even for the doubt, straight from there.

  6. He told my mother when they married: you're my second wife;
    the first were his books, and there is no divorce, from the source.

    دلہن سے بولے نکاح کے دن: تم دوسری ہو
    کتابیں ہیں مرا پہلا انتخاب، براہِ راست

    dulhan se bole nikāh ke din: tum dūsrī ho
    kitābeṅ haiṅ mirā pahlā intikhāb, barāh-e-rāst

    He told the bride on the wedding day: you are the second; books are my first choice, said to her face.

    ویاہ والے دِن لاڑی نوں اوہ کہندے: توں دُوجی ایں
    کتاباں سن میرے پہلے انتخاب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਵਿਆਹ ਵਾਲੇ ਦਿਨ ਲਾੜੀ ਨੂੰ ਓਹ ਕਹਿੰਦੇ: ਤੂੰ ਦੂਜੀ ਏਂ
    ਕਿਤਾਬਾਂ ਸਨ ਮੇਰੇ ਪਹਿਲੇ ਇੰਤਖ਼ਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    vyāh vālé din lāṛī nu oh kehnde: tūṅ dūjī eṅ
    kitābāṅ san mere pehle intikhāb, sidhā othoṅ

    On the wedding day he told the bride: you're the second; the books were my first pick, straight from there.

  7. A library where every author is home to his knock;
    he'll argue the endings with them till he's hoarse, from the source.

    ہر اک ادیب کے در پہ وہ دستک دیتے ہیں
    سبھی سے کہتے ہیں: کہیے جناب، براہِ راست

    har ik adīb ke dar pe wo dastak dete haiṅ
    sabhī se kahte haiṅ: kahiye janāb, barāh-e-rāst

    He knocks at every writer's door and says to each: speak, sir, on the record.

    ہر لِکھاری دے بُوہے تے اوہ جا دستک دیندے
    سارِیاں نوں کہندے: ہُݨ دسو جناب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਹਰ ਲਿਖਾਰੀ ਦੇ ਬੂਹੇ ਤੇ ਓਹ ਜਾ ਦਸਤਕ ਦੇਂਦੇ
    ਸਾਰਿਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਕਹਿੰਦੇ: ਹੁਣ ਦੱਸੋ ਜਨਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    har likhāri de būhe te oh jā dastak dénde
    sāreyāṅ nu kehnde: hun dasso janāb, sidhā othoṅ

    At every writer's door he goes and knocks; he says to each: now out with it, sir, straight from the source.

  8. He never met strangers, just friends who hadn't heard his tales;
    his punchlines are landing across the concourse, from the source.

    قصے وہی، چوٹیں وہی، محفلیں وہی
    ہر اک طرف سے آ رہے ہیں آداب، براہِ راست

    qisse wahī, choṭeṅ wahī, mehfileṅ wahī
    har ik taraf se ā rahe haiṅ ādāb, barāh-e-rāst

    Same tales, same punchlines, same gatherings; from every side the greetings pour in, live.

    قِصے اوہی، چوٹاں اوہی، تے محفلاں اوہی
    ہر پاسیوں آؤندے نے آداب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਕਿੱਸੇ ਓਹੀ, ਚੋਟਾਂ ਓਹੀ, ਤੇ ਮਹਿਫ਼ਲਾਂ ਓਹੀ
    ਹਰ ਪਾਸਿਓਂ ਆਉਂਦੇ ਨੇ ਆਦਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    kisse ohī, choṭāṅ ohī, te mehfilāṅ ohī
    har pāsyoṅ āunde ne ādāb, sidhā othoṅ

    Same tales, same zingers, same gatherings; from every side the salaams keep coming, straight from there.

  9. He never missed one deadline in all his years at the desk;
    he kept the one deadline assigned, no remorse, from the source.

    کبھی نہ ان کا قلم وقت سے پچھڑتا تھا
    ملے اجل سے بھی بغیر اضطراب، براہِ راست

    kabhī na un kā qalam waqt se pichhaṛtā thā
    mile ajal se bhī baghair iztirāb, barāh-e-rāst

    His pen never fell behind the clock; he met even the appointed hour without agitation, face to face.

    کدے وی اُنہاں دا قلم ویلے توں پِچھے نئیں رہیا
    موت نوں وی اوہ مِلے بغیر اضطراب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਕਦੇ ਵੀ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਦਾ ਕਲਮ ਵੇਲੇ ਤੋਂ ਪਿੱਛੇ ਨਈਂ ਰਿਹਾ
    ਮੌਤ ਨੂੰ ਵੀ ਓਹ ਮਿਲੇ ਬਗ਼ੈਰ ਇਜ਼ਤਿਰਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    kadé vī unhāṅ dā qalam vélé toṅ pichhe nai rehyā
    maut nu vī oh milé baghair iztirāb, sidhā othoṅ

    Never once did his pen fall behind the clock; even death he met without a flutter, straight from there.

  10. I begged for one sign that he'd landed on the other side;
    the dreams arrive nightly now, tapped out in Morse, from the source.

    میں اک اشارے کو ترسا کیا مہینوں تک
    اب ان کی خبر سناتا ہے ہر خواب، براہِ راست

    maiṅ ik ishāre ko tarsā kiyā mahīnoṅ tak
    ab un kī khabar sunātā hai har khwāb, barāh-e-rāst

    For months I longed for a single sign; now every dream reads his news bulletin, live.

    میں اِک اشارے نوں ترسیا کِنّے مہینے
    ہُݨ اُنہاں دی خبر سُݨاؤندا ہر خواب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਮੈਂ ਇਕ ਇਸ਼ਾਰੇ ਨੂੰ ਤਰਸਿਆ ਕਿੰਨੇ ਮਹੀਨੇ
    ਹੁਣ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਦੀ ਖ਼ਬਰ ਸੁਣਾਉਂਦਾ ਹਰ ਖ਼ਵਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    maiṅ ik ishāre nu tarasyā kinne mahīne
    hun unhāṅ dī khabar suṇāundā har khwāb, sidhā othoṅ

    For months I ached for one sign; now every dream brings me his news, straight from there.

  11. Keep writing, Imran; he reads every draft at your shoulder;
    correct every comma; you have no recourse, from the source.

    لکھتا چل عمرانؔ، کہ وہ پڑھتے ہیں ہر سطر
    ترا ہر ورق انہیں ہے انتساب، براہِ راست

    likhtā chal, Imrān, ki wo paṛhte haiṅ har satr
    tirā har varq unheṅ hai intisāb, barāh-e-rāst

    Keep writing, Imran, for he reads every line; your every page is a dedication to him, delivered direct.

    لِکھدا جا، عمرانا، اوہ پڑھدے نے تیری ہر سطر
    تیرا ہر ورقہ اُنہاں نوں انتساب، سِدھا اوتھوں

    ਲਿਖਦਾ ਜਾ, ਇਮਰਾਨਾ, ਓਹ ਪੜ੍ਹਦੇ ਨੇ ਤੇਰੀ ਹਰ ਸਤਰ
    ਤੇਰਾ ਹਰ ਵਰਕਾ ਉਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਇੰਤਸਾਬ, ਸਿੱਧਾ ਓਥੋਂ

    likhdā jā, Imrānā, oh paṛhde ne teri har satar
    térā har varkā unhāṅ nu intisāb, sidhā othoṅ

    Keep writing, Imran, he reads your every line; your every page is a dedication to him, straight from there.