MOSAIC

A tribute to the greatest artistic prodigy of India

The recent Netflix series Heeramandi dropped the absolute banger (with utterly mid choreography nonetheless) that dates centuries ago – Sakal Ban, written by the 13th century Sufi poet and musician dubbed “the voice of India”, our one and only – Amir Khusro, who is greatly celebrated for his profound contributions to Persian and Hindavi literature in medieval India. Sakal Ban is an innocent song about the arrival of spring, yes. It’s about mango trees and flowers that blossom in the spring, all being brought to Nizamuddin Auliya’s court. Nizamuddin Auliya, a 14th-century Sufi saint in Delhi, profoundly influenced Amir Khusro, shaping Khusro's poetic and musical expressions with emotional depth and devotion. Khusro never fails to mention Nizam in his poetry. A consistent theme of his poems is his great love for Khwaja Nizamuddin Auliya. Have a look at these lines from Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s version of Sakal Ban:

mere Nizāmuddīn ke darwāze par

o, mohe āwan kah gaye āshiq raṅg

aur bīt gaye barsoṅ, sakal ban

(everyone came bearing flowers) at my Nizamuddin’s door

but aashiq-rung (lover), who had promised to come

hasn’t turned up – it’s been years

Gay or nay? Who is this secret lover? And why does Khusro talk about him when he has his beloved guru, Nizamuddin Auliya? Sakal Ban made me revisit Coke Studio’s Chaap Tilak, sung in the mesmerizing voices of Abida Parveen and Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. The clueless heterosexuals would tell you that it’s a bhajan, a devotional song. But the title line will destroy your gay little heart.

cẖaāp tilak sab cẖīn lī re mose nainā milāike

you have snatched away my trace, my identity with one glance of your enchanting eyes

Who is the ‘you’ here? I’m guessing our very own Nizamuddin Auliya.

tan man dhan bājī lāgī re

I’ve staked all I have—my wealth, my body, my very soul

mose bol nā bol

merī sun yā nā sun

maiṅ to tohe nā cẖādduṅgī ai sāṅware

Whether you speak to me or not, whether you listen to me or not

I will not leave your side, oh beloved

It sounds like a lovers’ spat to me. Khusro has been known to make grand gestures to cheer up Nizam. Once, when Nizam had taken ill, Khusro narrated to him a series of stories–a dastaan in the style of Arabian Nights, to keep him hopeful and happy. This series was later penned as The Tale of Four Dervishes (Qissa-ye Chahar Darvesh). The story revolves around a depressed king who comes across four dervishes at the cemetery who tell him stories of their loving relationships from each of their past lives. Inspired by their stories, he decides to marry all the separated lovers in his kingdom regardless of class or rank. Another such incident would be when Nizam was depressed as he was grieving his nephew’s death, and a desperate Khusro couldn’t think of ways to cheer him up when suddenly he came across a group of women dressed in yellow singing, celebrating Basant–the arrival of spring. He dressed up a courtier as a woman in pretty yellow clothes that made Nizam smile.

I’m still not done with Chaap Tilak. Take a look at the following verses:

ḳhusro nijām ke bal bal jāye

mohe suhāgan kīnī re mose nainā milāīke

Khusro forfeits his life in Nizam’s love

who made him a radiant bride with the glance of his enchanting eyes

ḳhusro bājī prem kī, jo maīṅ khelī pi ke saṅg

jīt gayī to piyā more, jo maiṅ hāri pi ke saṅg

Khusro plays a game of love with her dear one

if I win, sweetheart is mine

even if I lose, my beloved is still with me

The female voice used here is a characteristic of Bhakta poetry written from the point of view of women in their domestic lives. This is consistent with the devotional-adjacent translation Coke Studio provides us. However, the following lines are excerpted from a queer translation (by Saleem Kidwai) of the same poem:

“Khusro, I spent the wedding night with my beloved—

My body is still mine, my heart is his, both dyed in the same colour.”

“When our eyes met, you took away my tilak (status, identity)

When our eyes met, you gave me a love potion

When our eyes met, you intoxicated me,

When our eyes met, you seized my arms.”

“I exchanged amorous glances with my beloved

His beautiful face, his charming form,

I absorbed into my innermost heart,

Khusro has given himself to Nizam.”

The poem gets more passionate up next:

“My blossoming youth is red with passion

How can I spend this time alone?

Will someone persuade Nizam?

For the more I coax him, the more he acts coy.”

Sadly, none of the popular qawwals sing the poem in its entirety.

“I’ll break my bangles and throw them on the bed,

I’ll set fire to this bodice of mine,

The empty bed frightens me,

The fire of separation scorches me.”

Our initial speculation of lovers’ spat might be wrong. This is separation, and more so, of death. The following is a famous couplet written by Khusro when he learnt that Nizam had passed away:

“The beauty sleeps on the bridal bed, her tresses all over her face;

Come, Khusro, let’s go home, for darkness settles all around.”

Notice how Nizam is gendered female here—indeed, a rare occasion. This extended version and queer translation forever changed my heart. Chaap Tilak went from being a devotional song to a passionate romantic song and now to a song of grief from separation across worlds. Khusro died six months later and was reunited with his beloved Nizam. This is not the end but a mere intermission to my article. Because all this while I had thought that only Khusro was gay for Nizam, that it was one-sided. Nizamuddin Auliya’s Wikipedia page proved me wrong. Khusro was his favourite and most loved disciple, so much so that Nizam wanted to be buried with him in the same grave. Khusro was actually buried at the feet of his guru. It is said that one must visit Khusro’s grave before Nizamuddin Auliya’s. Too much gay panic happened to me in a single night, and I decided toskim over Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya’s biography, Song of the Dervish, by Meher Murshed.

Nizamuddin cradled him like a child, never let go of his hand. Nizamuddin fondly called him Turk Allah. “I get weary of everyone, even weary of myself, but never weary of you”, the master would say.

Nizamuddin was known to be averse to kings and politics. Once, the sultan wanted to visit his khanqah (Sufi lodge), but he declined. As a loyal disciple, Khusro warned Nizam and advised him to leave the city when the sultan was about to visit. He betrayed the sultan even when he was under the court’s employ and consequently faced sanctions. “In disobeying the sultan, I stand to lose my life, but being false to my master, I stood in the losing of my faith,” Khusro said. Soon after, he seeked refuge at Nizam’s khanqah.

At night, no one would be allowed in Nizamuddin’s chambers except Khusro. He would narrate to Nizam the awful events of the day and leave the chambers. Nizam would pray all night and wake up with a glow that assumably made Khusro wonder whose embrace Nizam spent the night in. He would often run away from Nizam’s room (out of gay panic, I’m assuming? jk).

All this reads like the loyal and respectful devotee Khusro was. But up next, we have a highly erotic Persian poem to attribute to Khusro’s homosexual tendencies back to his teenage days. Here’s an excerpt:

“The language of my beloved is Turkish, and Turkish I do not know

Would it not be wonderful if his tongue was in my mouth.”

Let’s give the cishets the benefit of the doubt and say that “tongue” here means language, not the muscular organ of the mouth. The next lines are:

“Beloved, if at night I put my lips to yours,

Pretend to be asleep—don’t ask whose mouth this is.

Oh lord, is this me with my shoulder next to my beloved?

Have I been in bed sleeping by his side?”

This is a young Khusro coming to Delhi “desolate and intoxicated” at the sight of sun-worshipper Hindu lads. He is mesmerized by their locks; he is “like a dog with a collar”. This poem is presumably dedicated to a particular Hindu man he is infatuated with, to whom he says:

“Don’t tie a band around your waist,

Let me wrap my hands around instead.”

I was never more motivated to learn Persian until I came across this beautiful poem, wanting to translate all of Khusro’s boyhood and teenage divans (poetry collections). Khusro started writing more in the Hindavi language after the influence of Nizam, as he preferred it. He wanted to impress Nizam so much that he ended up laying the foundation for the Urdu language and Urdu literature. Khusro and Nizam’s epic love extends beyond their relationship of master and disciple. Nizamuddin probably knew Khusro’s family even before he became a dervish, much after the age of twenty. At the age of sixteen, a poor Nizamuddin and his sister came to Delhi for higher education. Khusro’s grandfather, Imad-ul-Mulk, gave him shelter in one of his houses. Khusro lived in the same house. It is as if Khusro was connected to Nizam throughout his life, even as a stranger. I find it hauntingly beautiful. I am obsessed with their queer spirituo-romantic relationship that defies cis-hetero-allo-normativity. I wish I could provide a review and translation–a queer translation of the rest of Khusro’s poetry, his divans, masnavis containing love stories, as well as Nizamuddin Auliya’s works. Alas, a mere literary article won’t contain that kind of enormity. Khusro, who “forfeited his life to Nizam”, who stood up to the sultan for Nizam, who wrote love stories to cheer up Nizam, who constructed a glossary of words for an entirely new language to impress Nizam, who erected mountains of grief out of separation from Nizam, is as gay as the moon. I am now content with the Pride Month I had. I am PROUD that the “voice of India” is extremely gay.

Sources:

The Song of the Dervish by Meher Murshid

Same-Sex Love in India by Ruth Vanita and Saleem Kidwai