Marsiya, a genre of Urdu and Persian poetry, is traditionally composed to mourn the martyrdom of Imam Hussain and his companions in the Battle of Karbala, often evoking themes of grief, valour, and sacrifice. Yet, on occasion, it extends to mourn other profound losses or tragedies.
In Urdu, the deceased is referred to as "Marhum," and this poem, Marsiya-e-Dilli-e-Marhum, laments the fall of Delhi in 1857. Recited in Lahore by Altaf Hussain Hali in the 1870s, translating it rekindled the realization that a vibrant world existed beyond the narratives crafted by the colonisers — one we were systematically shielded from.
Delhi, once lively and beloved, is vividly brought to life, revealing the chaos of the First War of Independence, which was but a fragment of its essence. This poem starkly reminds us of the death of a tehzeeb and the fall of an empire—a tragedy that we have been desensitized to through everything ever written in English: from the IGCSE curriculum to books for adults, to documentaries and films. It is this very feeling, which spurred us to translate this poem; for the English speaker deserves a glimpse into the records the Raj tried to erase.
Do not speak of the death of Dilli, oh dear friend
It is a tale we will not be able to hear, oh no
Do not talk of the tale of the flower in autumn, oh dear Bulbul
Do not make us sob whilst you laugh, oh please no
Heart seeks excuses, pretending happy, but sorrow lingers deep within,
Do not recite to us a Ghazal full of pain, oh no
We will miss the cherished visions lost to time's cruel hand,
Spare us mended sights, oh no, let memo
We have brought countless black marks on our chests, oh Look,
Do not wander amongst the ruins of this city, oh no
In every nook and cranny, a precious gem, buried beneath the dirt
Nowhere will you find such a treasure buried, oh no
Even the signs of your erasure have been erased,
Oh dear sky, do not erase anymore than this, oh no,
They had forgotten, but we forgot them too
Things have never changed this way, and they never will
Untouched by accidents and by wounds,
There is not one such household we can see, oh no
If you made us cry, so be it, oh wheel of fate
But do not have the strangers mock us, oh you cruel one
Even at the end of times, swear to me oh wine waiter
Pour a glassful for the thirsty to drink, please oh you, turn of time,
People have slept after being awake for ages,
Time's turn, people sleep after ages, disturb not their newfound slumber,
Oh knowledge and art, Dilli was your home
Even if you have forgotten us, do not forget your home, oh no
Ghalib, Shefta, Nayyar, Azurda, and Zauq
Will never show their faces to the world again, oh no
Momin, Alvi, Sahbai, and Mamnun, After you,
No man of wisdom will ever mention a couplet again, oh no
Listen to Dagh and Majruh in this garden,
For you will not hear the song of a Bulbul ever again, oh no
The night is over, the topsy turvy have gotten together,
Now, you shall never see the pleasure of the evening, oh no,
It is an assembly of poets, not one for mourning,
It is not okay to weep, and also make others cry here, oh no.
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