This year January has already brought with it a tinge of sadness given the deaths of 22 people over the last weekend in Murree. There is also the spell of the cold winter rain which has enhanced the cold this month. For me, January also marks the death of two of my favourite writers, namely the great short-story writer Saadat Hasan Manto, as well as the master poet, humourist and travel-writer Ibne Insha, who passed away 44 years ago on January 11 yesterday while battling throat cancer in London, aged just 50.
Manto too died from excessive drinking on January 18, 1955. Both Manto and Insha were immensely imaginative and daring Punjabis who pushed the boundaries of artistic excellence in Urdu. Both passed away very early, being relatively unrecognized in their own lifetimes. To remember these literary giants in January, the month of their untimely deaths further enhances the bitter chill of this month.
To remember and pay tribute to Insha on his 44th death anniversary, it will thus be appropriate to re-read his long poem Janvari ki Sard Raaten Hain Taveel (The Wintry Nights of January Are Long) which forms part of his posthumous poetic collection Dil-e-Vahshi (Untamed Heart) in my original English translation.
There is no means to amuse the heart
The wintry nights of January are long
I glance at my past
I heave a cold sigh occasionally
How should I show my heart the right path
With what excuse should I forget her
Leaving all lost in the dream of pleasure
Sleep arrives in my bed chamber
Someone arrives seeing me rest
Someone embraces my chest
Often I see after coming to my senses
Some oppressor lying within my embrace
But I find myself very much alone
Then after a moment I sleep
Then I see someone in a dream
This time I recognize you
You flee near morning time
Leaving me taken by grief and sorrow
I used to love you long ago
You too loved me in those days
Short-sightedness regarding the demands of age
Don’t know what happened one day
One stopped exchanging visits
And a period passed upon it
You misunderstood, I became suspicious
The matter was small, but where it led
I repented very much quickly
You too felt the same
But we were absorbed in the intoxication of conceit
Heavy for us both was the acceptance of defeat
We had to cross the desert of separation
We had found a guide, a sort of anticipation
This is very much the origin of my bravery
The heart very much says that let’s see
The house within which our caravan descended
Still it is possible that it is uninhabited
Till now we kept cheating our hearts
Now the power of endurance is not a bit possible
Come live in my moist eye
Come live in this ruined abode
I very much do take the initiative with determination
I am afraid within the heart of this consideration
Lest you spurn my invitation
I will understand this if you convey your negation
The change of fortune has been turned
What I had lost has been returned.
