A question that comes to mind: Beauty and Truth, are they two separate things? Could a magnificent monument - be it Taj Mahal, Egyptian Pyramids, large Cathedrals, or extensive Mosques - built on the involuntary sweat and blood of innocent people be ever considered beautiful?
I copy two different translations of the poem below.
Taj Mahal by Sahir Ludhianvi
For you, the Taj may be a monument of love;
you may adore this lovely spot
but, darling,
let's meet somewhere else!
In such royal places,
we-- the poor?
Regal opulence seen every which way,
two poor lovers-- here?
Really out-of-place!
Sweetheart, under this so-called symbol of love,
if only you'd seen the vulgar splurge of opulence.
Charmed you may be by royal mausoleums,
if only you'd thought
of our own dismal homes!
Countless millions are in love;
who can say their emotions aren’t real
just because they, like us, have no means
to put up an advertisement?
These mausoleums, these arrogant forts,
these pillars of royal eminence, these lush gardens:
In these very flowers and vines
runs the blood of our own ancestors, my love.
Don't you think they must also have been in love,
the people whose art and skill
made this monument so beautiful?
They and their loved ones now lie nameless,
in unmarked graves,without a single candle
yet lit for them.
These gardens, by the Jamuna [River],
this palace, the embroidered doors, walls and niches--
that's just how an emperor,
using his wealth and power,
mocks the love between us destitutes.
Could we meet somewhere else, darling ?
Translated by: Riz Rahim
Taj Mahal by Sahir Ludhianvi
The Taj, mayhap, to you may seem, a mark of love supreme
You may hold this beauteous vale in great esteem;
Yet, my love, meet me hence at some other place!
How odd for the poor folk to frequent royal resorts;
‘Tis strange that the amorous souls should tread the regal paths
Trodden once by mighty kings and their proud consorts.
Behind the facade of love my dear, you had better seen,
The marks of imperial might that herein lie screen’d
You who take delight in tombs of kings deceased,
Should have seen the hutments dark where you and I did wean.
Countless men in this world must have loved and gone,
Who would say their loves weren’t truthful or strong?
But in the name of their loves, no memorial is raised
For they too, like you and me, belonged to the common throng.
These structures and sepulchres, these ramparts and forts,
These relics of the mighty dead are, in fact, no more
Than the cancerous tumours on the face of earth,
Fattened on our ancestor’s very blood and bones.
They too must have loved, my love, whose hands had made,
This marble monument, nicely chiselled and shaped
But their dear ones lived and died, unhonoured, unknown,
None burnt even a taper on their lowly graves.
This bank of Jamuna, this edifice, these groves and lawns,
These carved walls and doors, arches and alcoves,
An emperor on the strength of wealth,
Has played with us a cruel joke.
Meet me hence, my love, at some other place.
Translation by: K.C. Kanda
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