UTha do pardah dikhaa do chihra ke noor e baari hijaab mein hain
--Iqbal

that`s by Daagh Dihlavi and sung to perfection by Mehdi Hassan!

Khuub pardaa hai ke chilaman se lage baiThe hai.n
saaf chhupate bhii nahii.n saamane aate bhii nahii.n

Nasah:

Amir Minai Amreeka meiN aaj hotay toa strip joint meiN kehtay:

`` Saraktee jaa-ey hai angiaa-O-Undie aahistaa aahistaa

167:Urstruly
yeh straw kutta beech main kahan se aa gya?



YahaaN sey:

They want to remove the veil from her face but ``Hosla kartay hain lekin hosla hota nahin``


Sometimes shairs take a whole new meaning in an entirely different context . That is the power of good poetry.

now who can top Amir Minai ......sarakti jai hai rukh say niqaab ahista ahista....thanks to Jagjeet.

#164 contd.
That was wrong link. Here it works.

---

Nasah, Naqshbandi & maybe many others.
You`ll enjoy & appreciate this....and do it at your own Ramadhan hours...though personally I find it perfectly OK.



Pyaas kuchh aur bhee bharRkaadee, jhalak dikhlaa kay


Male voice:
You made my desire for you intense, by just letting me a glance
You got get that veil of yours out of our way


Female Voice:
Better teach some manners to your wandering eye
Desire must pay homage & have deference for Beauty


Male Voice:
( even)The Moon and the Stars gaze at you with abandon
Why it only my restless eyes, which are not privy to you

Female Voice:
The Moon is my mirror, and the stars my footprints
So why should a stranger even risk for a view of me


from:
Lalaa Rukh (1958) a good movie to watch for history/music.
Lala Rookh ` immortalised in his verse epic by Thomas Moore in Dublin in 1817

Lalaa Rukh was the daughter of Aurangzeb who was married to the son of a Kashmiri ruler.
The groom had not seen his bride, so he sought permission to escort her from her mid-journey to his Palace and posed as an ordinary Guard. He just wanted to see if she would accept him even if he was not a prince.

So he woos her as a guard, but the girl does not allow him the second view of her enchanting face. Hence the song above
[ as you know one can uncover only once to let the suitor have a ``look``]
[Reply to interact #164]

Re: # 166

He also had a very learned and beautiful daughter called Gulbadan; she wrote a diary about life in his times which is one of our best sources for information about that period. It has been translated by an american woman as, i think, `Princess Rosebody``.

Re: # 176

Zeb-un-Nissa was the poor sufi daughter of that mullah emperor Aurangzeb.......her poetry shines through the dark period of Aurangzeb..........

She had been betrothed by the wish of Shah Jehan, her grandfather, to Suleiman Shikoh, who was her cousin and son of Dara Shikoh; but Aurungzebe, who hated and feared Dara, was unwilling that the marriage should take place, and caused the young prince to be poisoned. She had many other suitors for her hand, but she demanded that she should see the princes and test their attainments before a match was arranged. One of those who wished to marry her was Mirza Farukh, son of Shah Abbas II of Iran; she wrote to him to come to Delhi so that she might see what he was like. The record remains of how he came with a splendid retinue, and was feasted by Zeb-un-Nissa in a pleasure-house in her garden, while she waited on him with her veil upon her face. He asked for a certain sweetmeat in words which, by a play of language, also meant a kiss, and Zeb-un-Nissa, affronted, said: “Ask for what you want from our kitchen.” She told her father that, in spite of the prince’s beauty and rank, his bearing did not please her, and she refused the marriage. Mirza Farukh, however, sent her this verse: “I am determined never to leave this temple; here will I bow my head, here will I prostrate myself, here will I serve, and here alone is happiness.” Zeb-un-Nissa answered: “How light dost thou esteem this game of love, O child. Nothing dost thou know of the fever of longing, and the fire of separation, and the burning flame of love.” And so he returned to Persia without her.

She enjoyed a great deal of liberty in the palace: she wrote to many learned men of her time, and held discussions with them. She was a great favourite with her uncle Dara Shikoh, who was a scholar and wide-minded and enlightened. To him she modestly attributed her verses when first she began to write, and many of the ghazals in the Diwan of Dara Shikoh are by her. She came out in the court, and helped in her father’s councils, but always with the veil upon her face. Perhaps she liked the metaphor of the face hidden till the day when the Divine Belovèd should come; perhaps life behind carven lattices had a charm for her; for her pen-name is Makhfi, the hidden one. Once Nasir Ali said this verse: “O envy of the moon, lift up thy veil and let me enjoy the wonder of thy beauty.” She answered:—

I will not lift my veil,—
For, if I did, who knows?
The bulbul might forget the rose,
The Brahman worshipper
Adoring Lakshmi’s grace
Might turn, forsaking her,
To see my face;
My beauty might prevail.
Think how within the flower
Hidden as in a bower
Her fragrant soul must be,
And none can look on it;
So me the world can see
Only within the verses I have writ—
I will not lift the veil.

She was deeply religious, but she was a Sufi, and did not share her father’s cold and narrow orthodoxy. One day she was walking in the garden, and, moved by the beauty of the world around her, exclaimed, “Four things are necessary to make me happy—wine and flowers and a running stream and the face of the Belovèd.” Again and again she recited the couplet; suddenly she came upon Aurungzebe, on a marble platform under a tree close by, wrapt in meditation. She was seized with fear, thinking he might have heard her profane words; but, as if she had not noticed him, she went on chanting as before, but with the second line changed, “Four things are necessary for happiness—prayers and fasting and tears and repentance!”

She belonged, like her father, to the Sunni sect of Musulmans, and was well versed in con­troversial religious points. One of Aurungzebe’s sons, Muhammad Ma’uzam, was a Shiah, and when sectarian disputes took place in the court the prin­cess was often asked to settle them. Her decision in one dispute is famous, for it was copied and sent to Iran and Turan, and many scores of Begums are said to have been converted to the Sunni cause on that occasion. At first she took great pleasure in the Tazia celebrations, but gave them up at her father’s wish when he came to the throne, and adopted a simpler form of faith.

Much of her personal allowance of four lakhs a year she used in encouraging men of letters, in providing for widows and orphans, and in sending every year pilgrims to Mecca and Medina. She collected a fine library and employed skilled caligraphers to copy rare and valuable books for her; and, as Kashmir paper and Kashmir scribes were famous for their excellence, she had a scriptorium also in that province, where work went on constantly. Her personal interest in the work was great, and every morning she went over the copies that had been made on the previous day. She had contemporary fame as a poet, and literary men used to send their works for her approval or criticism, and she rewarded them according to their merits.

In personal appearance she is described as being tall and slim, her face round and fair in colour, with two moles, or beauty-spots, on her left cheek. Her eyes and abundant hair were very black, and she had thin lips and small teeth. In Lahore Museum is a contemporary portrait, which corresponds to this description. She did not use missia for blackening between the teeth, nor antimony for darkening her eye­lashes, though this was the fashion of her time. Her voice was so beautiful that when she read the Koran she moved her hearers to tears. In dress she was simple and austere; in later life she always wore white, and her only ornament was a string of pearls round her neck. She is held to have invented a woman’s garment, the angya kurti, a modification, to suit Indian conditions, of the dress of the women of Tur­kestan; it is now worn all over India. She was humble in her bearing, courteous, patient, and philosophic in enduring trouble; no one, it is said, ever saw her with a ruffled forehead. Her chief friend was a girl named Imami, a poet like herself. Zeb-un-Nissa was skilled in the use of arms, and several times took part in war.

In the beginning of 1662 Aurungzebe was taken ill, and, his physicians prescribing change of air, he took his family and court with him to Lahore. At that time Akil Khan, the son of his vizier, was governor of that city. He was famous for his beauty and bravery, and was also a poet. He had heard of Zeb-un-Nissa, and knew her verses, and was anxious to see her. On pretence of guarding the city, he used to ride round the walls of the palace, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. One day he was fortunate; he caught sight of her on the house­top at dawn, dressed in a robe of gulnar, the colour of the flower of the pomegranate. He said, “A vision in red appears on the roof of the palace.” She heard and answered, com­pleting the couplet: “Supplications nor force nor gold can win her.” She liked Lahore as a residence, and was laying out a garden there: one day Akil Khan heard that she had gone with her companions to see a marble pavilion which was being built in it. He disguised himself as a mason, and, carrying a hod, managed to pass the guards and enter. She was playing chausar with some of her girl friends, and he, passing near, said: “In my longing for thee I have become as the dust wandering round the earth.” She understood and answered imme­diately: “Even if thou hadst become as the wind, thou shouldst not touch a tress of my hair.” They met again and again, but some rumour reached the ears of Aurungzebe, who was at Delhi, and he hastened back. He wished to hush up the matter by hurrying her into marriage at once. Zeb-un-Nissa demanded free­dom of choice, and asked that portraits of her suitors should be sent to her; and chose naturally that of Akil Khan. Aurungzebe sent for him; but a disappointed rival wrote to him: “It is no child’s play to be the lover of a daughter of a king. Aurungzebe knows your doings; as soon as you come to Delhi, you will reap the fruit of your love.” Akil Khan thought the Emperor planned revenge. So, alas for poor Zeb-un-Nissa! at the critical moment her lover proved a coward; he declined the marriage, and wrote to the king resigning his service. Zeb-un-Nissa was scornful and disappointed, and wrote: “I hear that Akil Khan has left off paying homage to me”—or the words might also mean, “has resigned service”—“on account of some foolishness.” He answered, also in verse, “Why should a wise man do that which he knows he will regret?” (Akil also means, a wise man). But he came secretly to Delhi to see her again, perhaps regretting his fears. Again they met in her garden; the Emperor was told and came unexpectedly, and Zeb-un-Nissa, taken unawares, could think of no hiding-place for her lover but a deg, or large cooking-vessel. The Emperor asked, “What is in the deg?” and was answered, “Only water to be heated.” “Put it on the fire, then,” he ordered; and it was done. Zeb-un-Nissa at that moment thought more of her reputation than of her lover, and came near the deg and whispered, “Keep silence if you are my true lover, for the sake of my honour.” One of her verses says, “What is the fate of a lover? It is to be cruci­fied for the world’s pleasure.” One wonders if she thought of Akil Khan’s sacrifice of his life.

After this she was imprisoned in the fortress of Salimgarh, some say because her father dis­trusted her on account of her friendship with her brother, Prince Akbar, who had revolted against him; others say because of her sympathy with the Mahratta chieftain Sivaji. There she spent long years, and there she wrote much bitter poetry:—

So long these fetters cling to my feet! My friends have become enemies, my relations are strangers to me.

What more have I to do with being anxious to keep my name undishonoured when friends seek to disgrace me?

Seek not relief from the prison of grief, O Makhfi; thy release is not politic.

O Makhfi, no hope of release hast thou until the Day of Judgment come.

Even from the grave of Majnun the voice comes to my ears—“O Leila, there is no rest for the victim of love even in the grave.”

I have spent all my life, and I have won nothing but sorrow, repentance, and the tears of unfulfilled desire:—

Long is thine exile, Makhfi, long thy yearning,
Long shalt thou wait, thy heart within thee burning,
Looking thus forward to thy home-returning.
But now what home hast thou, unfortunate?
The years have passed and left it desolate,
The dust of ages blows across its gate.

If on the Day of Reckoning
God say, “In due proportion I will pay
And recompense thee for thy suffering,”
Lo, all the joys of heaven it would outweigh;
Were all God’s blessings poured upon me, yet
He would be in my debt.

When her memory was becoming dim in the hearts of her friends, Nasir Ali alone thought of her, and wrote a poem to her, saying that, now, the world could not delight in her presence, and he himself had to go about the earth unhappy, having no one but himself to appreciate his verses. But she sent no answering word.

When she was released she lived solitary in Delhi, and the verses she wrote there are very melancholy, telling of the faithlessness of the times:—

Why shouldst thou, O Makhfi, complain of friends, or even of enemies? Fate has frowned upon thee from the beginning of time.

Let no one know the secrets of thy love. On the way of love, O Makhfi, walk alone. Even if Jesus seek to be thy companion, tell him thou desirest not his comradeship.

Here is one of her saddest poems, expressing something of the tragedy of her life:—

O idle arms,
Never the lost Beloved have ye caressed:
Better that ye were broken than like this
Empty and cold eternally to rest.

O useless eyes,
Never the lost Beloved for all these years
Have ye beheld: better that ye were blind
Than dimmed thus by my unavailing tears.

O foolish springs,
That bring not the Beloved to my abode;
Yea, all the friends of youth have gone from me,
Each has set out on his appointed road.

O fading rose,
Dying unseen as hidden thou wert born;
So my heart’s blossom fallen in the dust
Was ne’er ordained His turban to adorn.

She died in 1689 after seven days’ illness, and was buried in her garden at Nawakot, near Lahore, according to the instructions she left. The tomb is desolate now, although once it was made of fine marbles, and had over its dome a pinnacle of gold; it was ruined in the troublous times of the dissolution of the Mogul Empire. The great gate still stands, large enough for an elephant with a howdah to enter, and within the enclosure is a tower with four minarets, roofed with turquoise and straw-yellow tiles. But the garden that was in its time very splendid, being held second only to that of the Shalimar of Shah Jehan, has dis­appeared; and the walls rise up now from the waving fields of grain.

Urstruly:163
Very apt for Jack Straw but for wrong reasons
Ji main aata hai ulat dein un key chehray say niqab
Hosla kartay hain lekin hosla hota naheeN


how about this one by Ghalib?

Munh na khulnai par hai woh aalam ki daikha hi nahin
Zulf se barRkar niqab us shoakh kay munh pUr khula.