Special report: The enduring

vision of Iqbal 1877-1938

Iqbal couldn’t have found approval in the Pakistan of today, much like Jinnah.

The Media Group

Publishing Partner

― Updated Nov 09, 2019 10:07am

Jawab-i-Shikwah – The message of Iqbal

Translation by Altaf Husain

Complain ye not of heart unkind! Nor speak of tyranny! When Love no

bondage knows, Why should Beauty not be free?

Each stack and barn it sets on fire, This lightning-like New Age, Nor howling
wild nor garden gay Escapes its flaming rage;

This new fire feeds on fuel old,— The nations of the past, And they too burn to
whom was sent God’s Messenger, the last.
But if the faith of Abraham There,
once again, is born, Where leaps this
flame, flowers will bloom, And laugh
its blaze to scorn.

Yet, let the gardener not be sad To see

the garden’s plight, For soon its
branches will be gay With buds, like
stars of light;

The withered leaves and weeds will

pass, And all its sweepings old; For
there, again, will martyr-blood In
roses red unfold. But look! a hint of
russet hue, Brightening the eastern
skies, The glow on yon horizon’s
brow, Heralds a new sunrise.

In Life’s old garden a nation lived

Who all its fruits enjoyed, While
others longed in vain, while some The
winter blasts destroyed;

Its trees are legion; some decay, While

others flush with bloom, And
thousands still their birth await, Hid
in the garden’s womb;
A sketch by renowned artist Ajmal Hussain depicting
the man, Allama Iqbal, and his dream, Pakistan. Ajmal
was the nephew of Altaf Hussain, the rst editor of
Dawn Karachi in which the illustration was published on
A symbol of luxuriance, The Tree of April 21, 1948, marking the 10th anniversary of the
death of Allama Iqbal.
Islam reigns, Its fruits achieved with
centuries Of garden-tending pains.

The robe is free from dust of home, Not thine such narrow ties, That Yousuf
thou, whose Canaan sweet, In every Egypt lies;

Thy Qafila can ne’er disperse; Thou holdst the starting bells; Nought else is
needed, if thy will Thy onward march impels. Thou candle-tree! thy wick-like
root Its top with flame illumes, Thy Thought is fire, its very breath All future
care consumes.

And thou shall suffer no surcease Should Iran’s star decline, ‘Tis not the
vessel which decides The potency of wine;

‘Tis proved to all the world, from tales Of Tartar conquerors, The Kaaba brave
defenders found In temple-worshippers.

On thee relies the bark of God, Adrift beyond the bar, The new-born age is
dark as night, And thou its dim pole-star.

The Bulgars march! The fiend of war In fearful fury breathes; The message
comes: “Sleepers, awake! The Balkan cauldron seethes.”

Thou deemest this a cause of grief, Thy heart is mortified; But nay, thy pride,
thy sacrifice, Thus, once again, are tried. Beneath thy foes if chargers neigh,
Why tremblest thou in fright? For never, never, shall their breath Extinguish
Heaven’s light.
Not yet have other nations seen, What thou art truly worth, The realm of
Being has need of thee For perfecting this earth.

If aught yet keeps this world alive, ’Tis thine impetuous zeal, And thou shall
rise its ruling star. And thou shalt shape its weal.

This is no time for idle rest, Yet much remains undone; The lamp of Tauheed
needs thy touch To make it shame the sun!

The translator was the editor of Dawn. This translation was rst published in Dawn
on April 21, 1948, on the 10th death anniversary of Allama Muhammad Iqbal.

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