HAMIDI KASHMIRI: A CRITICAL STUDY of SELECT POEMS : PROFESSOR MUHAMMAD ASLAM

HAMIDI KASHMIRI: A CRITICAL STUDY of SELECT POEMS 

PROFESSOR MUHAMMAD ASLAM 

THE POET 

Born on 9 January 1932 as Habibullah at Bohuri Kadal, a downtown area, in Srinagar, Kashmir, Hamidi Kashmiri (his nom de plume) was a legend of his time. As a poet, critic and fiction writer, he has left an indelible mark on the Urdu literary landscape in the subcontinent and abroad, wherever Urdu is used. He had an illustrious career as a member of the teaching faculty, rising to the level of Vice Chancellor at the University of Kashmir during a very turbulent time. My acquaintance with him goes back to 1992, when I was appointed as a Reader (what is now called Associate Professor) during his tenure. We later became friends; he often asked me to translate his book on criticism, which, unfortunately, I couldn’t do. He was the first Sheikh-ul- Aalam Chair that eventually culminated into Markaz-e-Noor at Kashmir University. Professor Hamidi passed away on 27 December 2018 at his residence at Shalimar, Srinagar. He has authored scores of books, most of them are listed in the WORD CLOUD. 

I have selected his poems from rekhta.org. 

(1)

yeh chalti phirti si lashein shumaar karne ko 

bohat hai kaam sar-e-rahguzaar karne ko

guzar rahe hain ba-ajlat bahaar ke ayyam 

pada hai rakht-e-badan taar taar karne ko

gale ki simt mere apne haath badhte hain

 raha hi kya hai bhala aitbaar karne ko

badan ko chaat liya hai siyah kaayi ne 

abhi toh kitne samandar hain paar karne ko

abhi se chaand sitaron ki aankhein pathrayi 

padi hai raat abhi intezaar karne ko

samajh mein aa na saki yeh ada gulaabon ki 

chaman mein aate hain seena- figaar karne ko

(1) 

These walking, breathing corpses are more than enough

To keep us busy, tallying the dead along the road.

Spring’s days are slipping past in frantic haste,

While garments of the body lie, torn apart, to shred.

My own hands rise instinctively toward my throat—

What trust is left, worth placing anywhere?

Black moss has licked the body clean of life;

And still, how many seas remain to cross?

Already, the eyes of moon and stars have turned to stone;

The night still lies ahead, waiting to be endured.

I could not grasp this habit of the roses—

They come into the garden only to wound the heart.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION 

This poem is a clear meditation on moral exhaustion, existential dread, and collective decay, rendered through haunting corporeal imagery. The speaker inhabits a world where life has thinned to mere survival: humans are reduced to “walking corpses,” motion without vitality, presence without meaning. This opening metaphor immediately establishes a landscape of spiritual death rather than physical annihilation. This opening recalls Derek Walcott’s portrayal of Africa in ‘A Far Cry From Africa’: 

A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt

Of Africa. Kikuyu, quick as flies,

Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.

Corpses are scattered through a paradise.

Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:

“Waste no compassion on these separate dead!”

Statistics justify and scholars seize

The salients of colonial policy.

What is that to the white child hacked in bed?

To savages, expendable as Jews?

“Corpses are scattered through a paradise” is a horrifying picture of an otherwise peaceful place, and people have become so inhuman as to “[w]aste no compassion these separate dead.” In Hamidi’s poem, the “breathing corpses are more than enough for tallying the dead on the road”. 

In the third line, time—traditionally a source of renewal—is rendered hostile. Spring—symbol of rebirth—passes “in frantic haste,” while the human body is left stripped and torn. The contrast exposes a bitter irony: nature renews itself indifferently while human meaning collapses. Renewal exists, but not for us.

The gesture of the speaker’s hands reaching toward their own throat is especially powerful. It suggests not only self-destruction but the internalization of violence—a world so devoid of trust that danger no longer needs an external enemy. Suspicion has turned inward.

“How many seas remain to cross?” traditionally implies journey or hope, but here it becomes a measure of exhaustion. The body is already corroded by “black moss,” an image of slow, suffocating decay, making the remaining journey feel cruelly excessive.

Cosmic witnesses—the moon and stars—are stripped of romanticism. Their “stoned eyes” imply indifference, paralysis, or judgment without mercy. The night, far from sheltering, is something to be waited out, endured rather than lived.

The final image of roses arriving in the garden “to wound the heart” subverts classical poetic convention. Beauty is no longer consoling; it is complicit. Even flowers participate in injury. This inversion completes the poem’s grim thesis: nothing remains innocent—not nature, not beauty, not the self.

It is interesting to note that TS Eliot also lamented the loss of morality and spiritual void in the modern world in Waste Land. The long poem “reflects the utter barrenness of the human condition that caused a spiritual fog in the post-World War world. Eliot reckoned that such degradation borne of lust, greed and anger would lead to a state of annihilation”. He said: 

April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring 

Dull roots with spring rain. 

…

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. 

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) found Nature and Man in confrontation with each other and lamented in ‘Lines Written in Early Spring’: 

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature’s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

The Chillian poet, Pablo Neruda, also laments the loss of spirituality in ‘Keeping Quiet’ in this way: 

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still

for once on the face of the earth,

let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for a second,

and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines;

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victories with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about;

I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.

The poem “is a passionate plea for universal peace, introspection, and environmental harmony by urging humanity to stop all activity, language, and movement for a brief moment. By counting to twelve and embracing stillness, the poem argues we can escape destructive, self-absorbed lives and understand ourselves.”

(2)

aaye mashriq se shahsawar bahut 

kis ko tha un ka intezar bahut

qafilon ki koi khabar si nahin 

door uthta raha ghubaar bahut

subah hone tak us ne jaan na di 

umr bhar tha khud-ikhtiyar bahut

phir koi saniha hua hoga 

mehrban kyun hain gham-gusar bahut

kyun hai har zarra karbala manzar 

hai humein un pe aitbar bahut

ho gayi sab ke aage ruswai 

kis hunar par tha iftikhar bahut

(2) TRANSLATION 

Riders arrived from the East in a sweeping tide,

Yet who had waited for them—who had sighed?

No word came from the passing caravans,

Only distant clouds of dust, rising wide.

Till dawn, he clung to life, would not let go,

Throughout his years, he claimed full will and pride.

Some other tragedy must have struck the land—

Why else do mourners smile, so gentle-eyed?

Why does each particle resemble Karbala’s plain?

On these same hands, we once placed boundless trust.

Disgrace stood naked before every face—

What art was it, we boasted of with such pride?

CRITICAL APPRECIATION 

This poem is a compressed elegy of disillusionment, drawing its emotional power from ambiguity, irony, and historical symbolism. Though the language is restrained, the grief it carries is expansive.

The opening image of “Riders from the East” immediately suggests invasion, upheaval, or ideological arrival. The question that follows—who was waiting for them?—undermines any notion of welcome or destiny, establishing a tone of scepticism. The poet refuses heroic framing; arrival here is empty, unanticipated, and ominous.

The “East” is considered special for its architecture, spirituality, and history. It is also associated with the rising sun, symbolizing new beginnings, growth, prosperity, and health. It is often considered the “direction of the gods” or the source of light. Its key features are: 

1: Dispelling darkness, improving mood and enhancing mental clarity. 

    

2: East-facing rooms are favoured for meditation and positive energy. 

    

3: Historically, it is regarded as the source of civilisation, the ‘Orient’ or cradle of spiritual wisdom. 

4: It is considered a ‘rendezvous of multiple communities and diverse biodiversity. 

 

Hamidi Kashmiri is perhaps referring to the spiritual teachers or saints who came from what was, in ancient times, called Fars (modern-day Iran), known for great saints and poets like Hafiz, Saadi, and many more. 

The recurring image of dust rising in the distance, in the poem, is especially effective. Dust replaces news, certainty, and meaning. It suggests chaos without clarity—movement without purpose—mirroring societies where events unfold but understanding never arrives.

One of the poem’s sharpest ironies lies in the line about free will: a man who lived believing himself autonomous cannot even choose the moment of his death. This is a quiet but devastating commentary on human illusion—particularly political or moral self-confidence.

The sudden turn toward Karbala deepens the poem’s resonance. Karbala (a place in Iraq where the Prophet’s grandson, Imam Hussain, was martyred in 680 CE) is not invoked sentimentally but existentially: Every particle of existence has become a site of moral trial. This universalization of Karbala transforms it from a historical tragedy into a living condition—an ongoing betrayal of trust, sacrifice, and truth.

“Karbala” is a motif for atrocities, inhuman treatment, and the killing of innocents. The family of Hussain, a grandson of the Prophet, suffered enormously at Karbala before most of them, excluding children and women, were martyred. Since then, any tragedy that consumes human lives is associated with that event. Hence, “Karbala manzar” (scene like Karbala) in the poem. 

The final couplet seals the poem’s critique. Public disgrace replaces pride, and the poet asks what skill or virtue was ever worth such arrogance. The question lingers unanswered, leaving the reader with moral unease rather than resolution.

(3)

yeh ab ke kaisi mushkil ho gayi hai 

Bhatakti mauj sahil ho gayi hai

Muyassar qurbatein ab bhi hain lekin 

Koi deewar haail ho gayi hai

Hai hafiz ab Khuda hi vaadiyon ka 

Bala-e-koh nazil ho gayi hai

Kahin koi sitara bujh gaya hai 

Shikasta rang-e-mehfil ho gayi hai

Usi se kar lo andaza safar ka 

Qareeb aa door manzil ho gayi hai

(3) TRANSLATION 

How strangely difficult this moment has become—

The wandering wave has turned into a shore.

Nearness is still granted, yes, it lingers on,

Yet some unseen wall now stands between us.

God alone is the guardian of the valleys now.

A calamity has descended from the mountains.

Somewhere, a star has quietly gone dark,

And the gathering has faded into broken hues.

From this alone, measure the nature of the journey:

The destination seems near—yet grows ever more distant.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION

I believe this poem is an elegy on the situation that prevailed in Kashmir in the 1990s and 2000s of the last century. Our society fell apart. The “closeness” (qurbatain) existed, but people hardly came close to one another. “The calamity descended from the mountains” refers to the way mountainous paths were used for infiltration into the valley: “God alone is the guardian of the valleys now.” Hamidi was a witness to “[s]omewhere, a star has quietly gone dark”. The gullible considered “[t]he destination” so near, yet every passing day made it “more distant” and unachievable. Our situation was like that of Naseer Turabi when he heard about the fall of Dhaka: 

woh hum-safar tha magar us se hum-nawai na thee

ke dhoop-chhaon ka aalam raha, judai na thee

na apna ranj, na auron ka dukh, na tera malal

shab-e-firaq kabhee hum ne yūn ganwa’ee na thee

muhabbaton ka safar is tarah bhee guzra tha

shikasta-dil the musafir, shikasta-pa’ee na thee

adawatein theen, taghaful tha, ranjishen theen bahut

bichharne wale mein sab kuch tha, be-wafa’ee na thee

bichharte waqt un ankhon mein thee hamaree ghazal

ghazal bhee woh jo kisee ko abhee sunaee na thee

kisey pukar raha tha woh doobta hua din

sada to a’ee thee lekin ko’ee duha’ee na thee

kabhee yeh hal ke donoṅ mein yak-dilee thee bahut

kabhee yeh marḥala jaise ke ashna’ee na thee

ajeeb hotee hai rah-e-sukhan bhee dekh naseer

wahaṅ bhee a gaye akhir, jahaṅ rasaee na thee

He walked beside me, yet no harmony was there;

The world stayed caught in sun and shade—no parting was there.

No private grief, no borrowed pain, no trace of you,

The night of separation passed—we wasted none there.

The journey of our love went on in stranger ways:

Our hearts were broken, travellers with no limp there.

There were hostilities, neglect, so many wounds,

Yet in the one who left, no faithless whim was there.

At parting, in those eyes, our ghazal lived on—

A ghazal still unsung, unheard by anyone there.

Whom did the drowning day cry out to as it fell?

A call was heard, but no one came, no plea there.

At times, such unity—our hearts were one indeed;

At times, it felt as if no kinship had been there.

Strange is the road of speech itself—O Nasir, see:

At last, we reached the place where no access was there.

Hamidi’s poem is a controlled meditation on alienation, disrupted intimacy, and the irony of distance. Its power lies not in lament but in restraint: subtle metaphors transform private experience into a shared condition.

The opening couplet establishes a paradox—a wandering wave turned into a shore. Motion congeals into stasis; arrival signals loss rather than rest. This inversion sets the poem’s logic: meaning dissolves at the moment of fulfillment.

The third line intensifies the tension. Proximity remains, yet an unnamed barrier intervenes. The wall’s very indefiniteness is its force—it can signify emotional estrangement, historical trauma, social division, or spiritual rupture, allowing the poem to speak beyond the personal.

God’s appearance as the sole guardian of the valleys marks a retreat of human agency. Calamity descending from the mountains evokes both natural catastrophe and political or existential threat, lending the poem a subdued apocalyptic tone.

Images of an extinguished star and a colourless gathering suggest collective dimming—hope, imagination, and vitality quietly erased. The star does not explode; it simply goes dark, underscoring the poem’s muted grief.

The closing couplet articulates the poem’s philosophical core: distance is perceptual, not spatial. The closer the destination appears, the more unreachable it becomes—a concise expression of modern striving and its hollowness.

Stylistically, the poem is defined by economy and cohesion. Each couplet stands alone yet contributes to a unified emotional arc. The language is spare and disciplined; nothing is ornamental, and nothing is overstated.

(4)

mujh ko marne ki koi ujlat na thi 

khud se milne ki koi surat na thi

dekhte kya husn ki nairangiyan 

aankh jhapkane ki bhi fursat na thi

khud-ba-khud yeh zakhm lo dene lage 

mujh ko koi haajat-e-shohrat na thi

uth raha hai dil se aahon ka dhuaan 

mehfil-e-shab mehfil-e-ishrat na thi

ped patte jal ke khaakistar huay 

dosto woh baarish-e-rehmat na thi

apne chehre ajnabi hote gaye 

un ki aankhon mein koi hairat na thi

(4) TRANSLATION 

I felt no haste at all to meet with death,

Yet found no way ever to meet myself.

What shifting wonders beauty chose to show—

There wasn’t even time to blink an eye.

These wounds began to glow of their own will;

I never yearned for fame to mark my name.

From the heart, a smoke of sighs keeps rising still;

The night’s assembly was no feast of joy.

Trees and leaves burned down to ashen dust—

My friends, that rain was mercy only in name.

Even our faces slowly turned to strangers;

In their eyes, there flickered no surprise.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION 

This poem unfolds as a quiet existential confession, shaped by introspection, disillusionment, and a deep sense of inner exile. Rather than dramatizing pain, the poet allows it to emerge naturally, almost inevitably, which gives the poem its haunting restraint.

The opening couplet establishes the poem’s philosophical tension: the speaker is neither eager for death nor capable of self-recognition. The inability to “meet oneself” suggests a fractured identity, a self estranged by time, experience, or moral compromise. This inward alienation becomes the emotional axis of the poem.

“Recognising self” or the Philosophy of Self is a fundamental inquiry into the nature of identity, consciousness, and what constitutes a person. This approach examines whether the ‘self’ is a permanent soul, a biological brain, a product of experience, or a social construct. Rene Descartes’ “Cogito, ergo sum” (I think, therefore I am”) maintains that the self is an immaterial substance distinct from the physical body. Hume talked against the existence of any ‘permanent self’ and argued that introspection revealed a ‘bundle of constantly changing perceptions, sensations and emotions. However, Locke argued that the self was defined by consciousness and memory. On the other hand, Socrates said that the self was synonymous with the immortal soul. So “Know Thyself” would necessarily lead to a ‘good’ life. 

“One who knows his own self, knows his Lord” (man ‘araf nafsahu faqd ‘arafa rabbahu) is a famous Hadith that talks about how penetrating into one’s soul will lead to God recognition. Allama Iqbal’s philosophy of ‘khudi’ or ‘selfhood’ pertains to understanding our role as human beings. Allama said: 

apne man main doob kar pa ja surag-e—zindagi

tu agar mera nahi na ban, apna to ban

Dive deep within your own soul and find the trace of life. 

If you cannot be mine, then at least be truly your own.

To Iqbal, Self is God recognition (His being THE ONLY ONE): 

khudi ka sir-e-nihan la illaha illAllah

khudi hain taiqh fasa—lal illaha illAllah

The hidden secret of the self is no god but only Allah.

The self’s keen, world-cleaving sword is no god but only Allah.

Hamidi Kashmir is facing the dilemma of not finding ways to ‘know’ his Self. 

(5)

shaam se zoron pe toofaan hai bohat 

us ke laut aane ka imkaan hai bohat

aaye gi noor-e-mujassam ban kar 

surat-e-saaya gurezaan hai bohat

kuch bhi hoon mauj-o-hawa ke tewar 

jism parwarda-e-toofaan hai bohat

shayad aa pohnche hain woh asp-sawaar 

sheher ka sheher haraasaan hai bohat

jism-o-jaan varta-e-zulmat hi sahi 

paikar-e-harf darakhshaan hai bohat

zer-e-farmaan rahe iqleem-e-sukhan 

rehne ko gosha-e-veeraan hai bohat

(5) TRANSLATION 

Since dusk, the storm has gathered brutal force.

The chance of his return feels pressing, fierce.

He will arrive, embodied light made whole,

Though as a shadow—fleeing, hard to hold.

Whatever moods the wind and waves may wear,

This body’s nurtured by the storm’s own care.

Perhaps the horsemen have drawn near at last—

The entire city is terror-stricken.

Though flesh and soul lie sunk in seas of night,

The form of words still blazes, sharp with light.

Though empires of speech once bowed to my command,

To dwell in ruins now is more than bland.

CRITICAL APPRECIATION 

This poem is charged with apocalyptic tension and lyrical resistance, weaving together storm imagery, political unease, and the enduring sovereignty of language. The toofan (storm) operates on multiple levels: as a natural force, a historical upheaval, and an inner state of unrest. From the very first couplet, uncertainty dominates—yet it is not passive uncertainty but one vibrating with expectation and imminent return.

The recurring contrast between light and shadow is especially striking. The beloved or awaited figure is imagined as “noor mujassam” (light incarnate), yet paradoxically appears in the form of a fleeing shadow. This tension captures the modern condition: truth and hope are sensed intensely but remain elusive, never fully graspable.

In the central verses, the speaker asserts a hardened identity—“jism parwarda-e-toofaan”—a self forged by chaos rather than broken by it. Even when the city is gripped by collective fear (the ominous arrival of the asp-sawaar, often read as symbols of invading powers, tyrants, or catastrophic change), the poet does not retreat into silence.

The most powerful turn comes in the declaration that even if body and soul are trapped in darkness, the word itself remains radiant. Language becomes an act of defiance. Poetry is no longer ornament but survival—harf as illumination against tyranny and despair.

The final couplet carries quiet irony and humility. Once ruling the “realms of speech,” the poet now accepts exile in desolation. Yet this withdrawal feels chosen, even dignified: a refusal to compromise the autonomy of expression.

Hamidi repeatedly refers to the debilitating impact of the unfortunate events in Kashmir and taking stock of the situation as an insider who is witnessing devastation and destruction, both physical and spiritual. He is like Amir Jan Sabori of Afghanistan, who wails his country’s devastation in these words: 

shahr khali, jadah khali, koocha khali, khana khali

jam khali sufra khali, saghar-o-paimana khali

kooch kerda dasta dasta, aashna yandileeba

bagh khali baghcha khali, shakha khali, laana khali

waaye az duniya ki yaar az yaar metarsad

ghunchaahaye tashna az gulzaar metarsad

ashiq az awazaae didaar metarsad

panjaae khamyagaraan az daar metarsad

shehsawar az jada’e hamwaar metarsad

in tabeeb az didaan’e bimaar metarsad

Empty city, empty paths, empty streets and house is empty

Empty corolla, empty table - linen, empty cup and wine’s empty

The familiar acquaintances of this heart’s garden have migrated in droves

Empty is garden, empty is bed of flowers, empty branches and the nest’s empty

Alas world! Here even a friend is afraid of another friend.

The thirsty buds are scared of the marsh (rose-garden)

A lover is scared by fame of meeting (sight)

The hand (fingers) of a professional musician is scared of the strings

Night riders are scared of even (smooth) roads

And this physician is scared of seeing a patient

CONCLUSION 

Taken together, these poems form a bleak yet profoundly resonant cartography of the modern human condition. Across varied imagery—corpses that walk, dust-laden caravans, dimming stars, false rain, storms, mirrors, and mountains—the poems return insistently to a shared moral and existential crisis. What emerges is not a single lament but a cumulative vision of a world where trust has eroded, meaning has thinned, and survival itself feels like an act of endurance rather than hope.

A striking unity lies in the repeated inversion of traditional symbols. Spring does not renew, beauty wounds, nearness becomes distance, rain withholds mercy, and light appears only as shadow. Nature, history, and even language refuse their old consolations. This inversion reflects a deeper ethical collapse: collective ideals—faith, freedom, pride, progress—have lost their anchoring power. Whether through the universalization of Karbala, the allusion to Eliot’s spiritual wasteland, or the image of a surveilled city where birds cannot fly, the poems insist that moral failure is not episodic but systemic.

Yet these works do not surrender entirely to nihilism. What resists annihilation is awareness itself. The speakers are wounded, alienated, and exhausted, but they are not unconscious. Blood still flows from the brow; sighs still rise from the heart; words still blaze even when body and soul are submerged in darkness. Poetry becomes both witness and refuge—a means of holding grief without falsifying it.

Importantly, these poems reject heroic closure. There is no easy redemption, no final crossing of the mountain. History repeats, exile persists, and despair becomes ordinary. But in refusing false hope, the poems achieve moral clarity. They insist on seeing the world as it is, not as it should be.

In this sense, the collection stands in a powerful modernist lineage while remaining deeply rooted in cultural, historical, and spiritual memory. Its enduring strength lies in its honesty: a poetry that does not heal by comforting, but by naming the wound—and keeping vigil beside it.