(AD 1253–1325; AH 650–725)
One of India’s greatest Persian-language poets, Ab’ul Hasan Yamin al-Din Khusrow (better known as Amir Khusrow Dehlavi) was also a scholar and a musician, credited with being the father of qawwali music.
Among his numerous works – all composed under the patronage of the Muslim rulers of Delhi – are his Khamsa-e-Nizami, a group of five classical romances in emulation of the Khamsa of Nizami Ganjavi. He is also known for two historical poems, Noh Sepehr (The Nine Heavens) and the Tughlaq Nama (Book of the Tughlaqs), as well as his romances, such as Masnavi Duval Rani-Khizr Khan (The Romance of Princess Duval and Prince Khizr), and his Kulliyat of ghazals, which are sung in sama or qawwali gatherings.
Amir Khusrow remains an icon of Indo-Persian and Hindu-Muslim cultural synthesis, a great poet and musician who combined Persian with Indian indigenous forms.
I asked, ‘What’s bright as the Moon?’
‘My beautiful face,’ was the answer.
I said, ‘What’s sweet as sugar?’
‘My speech,’ was the answer.
‘What is the way of Lovers?’ I asked
‘The way of loyalty,’ was the answer.
I said, ‘Don’t be so cruel to me.’
‘It’s my job to behave thus,’ was the answer.
‘What is death for Lovers?’
‘Separation from me,’ was the answer.
‘What is the cure for life’s ills?’
‘To gaze upon my face,’ was the answer.
‘What is spring, what autumn?’
‘Only my changing beauty,’ was the answer.
‘Who is the envy of the gazelle?’
‘My swift gait,’ was the answer.
‘Are you a fairy or a houri?’
‘I am the Lord of Beauty,’ was the answer.
‘Khusrow is helpless,’ I said.
‘He is my devotee,’ was the answer.
My heart has lost all worldly care, so be it!
Hopelessness has wrecked my body, so be it!
Your dark tresses have wrought havoc on your lovers;
May your dark eyes grow ever more beguiling!
Your fresh and lovely face, may it grow more fresh,
And your heart of stone, may it grow harder for me.
O puritan, if you must pray for my salvation utter this:
This man astray in beauty’s streets, may he go further astray!
All say that they have enough of your cruelty,
But I say may you grow more cruel to me!
My heart is in pieces from love’s pain,
But if that makes her happy, may it break again!
O Khusrow, if you are in the habit of crying,
Then may it be that pure tears grace your eyes.
It’s better to be a beggar than to be a king;
It’s better to be a troublemaker than to be chaste!
To be a king is one big headache; for me,
I prefer to be a pauper free.
Friendship with a dog is preferable for man
Than with one who’s arrogant and vain!
Union in love leaves no further desire!
For the Lover, separation fuels the fire!
O Khusrow, leave treacherous humanity.
Fall in love with God’s mystery.
I am a believer of Love.
No need of religion for me!
Each vein of mine throbs with devotion.
No need of the prayer beads for me!
Ignorant doctor, leave me to my fate
And try your medicine in some other place!
There is no cure for Lovers’ ills
But the sight of the Beloved’s face!
Do not my weeping eyes
To clouds compare;
They only rain water from the air:
I weep rivers of blood for my beauty fair!
Rejoice, O heart!
You will be to Beauty sacrificed
Though union is denied.
They say that Khusrow
Is an idol-worshipper.
It’s true, their word,
I seek no truck with the common herd!
We have passed our lives in search
Of the face of the Friend;
Who can find a moment’s rest
Without seeing the face of the Friend?
It matters not if the whole world
In enmity turns away.
We will from our Beloved’s door
Never turn away.
In the world, Kaaba is the place
Of worship that all Muslims know,
But for the Lovers the place of worship
Is the arch of the Beloved’s eyebrows.
O Morning breeze, if you perchance
Should find where my Beloved dwells,
Search in her dark tresses
Our broken hearts entangled there.
O morning breeze,
I’ll give my life to you
If you can bring
My Beloved’s fragrance to me.
On Judgement Day
Each goes his own way,
But Khusrow knows none other
But the Beloved’s way.
I don’t know what place it was
Where I found myself last night;
Everywhere they were dancing,
Love-stricken, where I was last night.
Fairy-faced, cypress-like in form, and rosy cheeked,
Irresistible beauty abounded, in that place,
Where I found myself, last night.
My rivals had her ear
And she was full of grace, and I afraid
To speak, but it was difficult to utter
A word, in the place I was last night.
O Khusrow, God himself held pride of place
And Muhammad was the light of Grace
In the gathering where I was
Last night!
My heart gave me no respite,
I was like a madman last night.
All night I was beguiled,
Indulged and fantasized.
The flame of Love
In my heart burnt bright
And I was a moth
That on the flame alights.
The religious head for the mosque
Each day;
Worshipper of Love’s idol,
I am heading the other way!
The heart, the body and the soul
By her thought was consumed whole;
The only one left untouched
Was I alone, and none to console.
In front of the Beloved
I did not mention Khusrow’s faults;
Entranced by her beguiling beauty
I forgot my honest duty!