Zuhd aur Rindi

A cleric’s tale I mean to tell, Not on my cleverness to dwell.

His Sufi air was known to all, The great and small would heed his call.

He’d say the Law in mystic lore resides, As meaning deep within a sentence hides.

His heart’s own flask with pious wine was filled, But dregs of pride were secretly distilled.

Of his own miracles he’d often speak, For more disciples he would always seek.

For many years he was a neighbor mine, So Saint and Sinner would their paths align.

The holy man once asked a friend I knew Of Iqbal, poet of a meaning true,

“How does he heed the Law’s most sacred plea, Though verses flow that Kalim would envy?

“I hear he calls no Hindu infidel; From worldly philosophy, such thoughts must swell.

“A trace of Shi’a leanings I can see, We’ve heard him, with his own tongue, praise Ali.

“He thinks that music is a holy rite, His goal is but to mock religion’s light.

“He feels no shame with those of beauty’s trade, A habit our old poets long displayed.

“He sings at night, at dawn recites God’s Word; The meaning of this riddle is unheard.

“And yet, I hear his own disciples say His youth is spotless as the light of day.

“A paradox in flesh, not Iqbal’s whole, A sage’s mind, a melancholy soul.

“He knows the Sinner’s path, the Law’s decree, In mystic lore, a new Mansur is he.

“The truth of such a man we cannot find, He’ll found some other Islam of the mind.”

In short, he stretched his sermon far and long, And for a great while flowed his artful song.

A word once spoken through the city flew, And from my friends, I heard the story too.

One day I met the Saint upon the street, And that old topic we again did treat.

He said, “My words were born of love for you, My duty is to show the path that’s true.”

I said, “I hold no grievance in my heart, As neighbor, you were right to play your part.

“My head is bowed before your honored place, My youth finds age in humbleness and grace.

“But you, sir, do not know my inner state, And saying so is not to seem all-great.

“For I myself my own true self can’t find; The ocean of my thoughts runs deep inside my mind.

“I also wish that ‘Iqbal’ I could see, And weep for him who is apart from me.

“For Iqbal is of ‘Iqbal’ unaware, There is no jest in this, by God, I swear.”