Remembering Faiz: A Bengali kid’s first lessons in poetry & politics

“What does Loh-e-Azal mean?” I asked as I colored the flowers in my coloring book on a Sunday morning. My Baba was painting another calligraphy piece, and as usual, he was playing Hum Dekhengey, sung by a lady with a frail yet impactful voice—one I would later discover belonged to Iqbal Bano, the woman whose voice fueled Inqilab Zindabad slogans.

وہ دن کہ جس کا وعدہ ہے

جو لوح ازل میں لکھا ہے

“It means ‘Tablet of Eternity,’” my Baba said casually, cleaning his paintbrush. I didn’t understand, so I simply went back to coloring. After a moment of silence, he added, “You know, this singer was banned from performing anywhere in Pakistan after this song.”

Then I turned fifteen and learned that Iqbal Bano had indeed been banned from performing in Pakistan in 1985—for daring to recite Hum Dekhengey, written by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, a revolutionary poet.

This poem, his most famous, had landed both the writer and the singer in trouble.

In 1985, Bano, dressed in a saree—an attire outlawed by Zia-ul-Haq—sang Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s much-loved poem in an auditorium in Lahore. As soon as she began singing, a current ran through the crowd; suddenly, they erupted in chants of “Inqilab Zindabad” (Long live the revolution)..

The lights were abruptly switched off. The microphone stopped working. Yet, she did not stop. Hence, the ban.

News reports later suggested that military police raided the homes of several audience members for days after the event.

When I first heard about this event from my father—whose family’s roots are in Bangladesh, who still religiously cooks fish and feeds us, and who pushed us to read The Communist Manifesto at the mere age of fourteen—I became more curious about the poet who wrote it. After all, his words had inspired a singer to put her entire career at stake.

So, what happened to Faiz, the man whose words could ignite a revolution? And who was this poet whose verses were powerful enough to challenge authority and inspire defiance?

Red Verses: Through communism and compassion 

Faiz was born to Sultan Muhammad Khan, a well-known and well-respected barrister. If we think about it, he was probably not deprived of anything. His was a classic privileged, upper-class, literate family—one that, if placed in the context of today, may or may not have been able to grasp the struggles of the laboring class.

There is a well-known story about Faiz being pulled out of a madrasah (Islamic school) because the children, who came from very poor backgrounds, ridiculed him. He arrived in neat clothes, in a carriage, and sat on straw mats.

Someone this privileged in today’s world might respond to such bullying in a far more aggressive way.

He then attended Government College, Lahore, where he earned a Bachelor of Arts in Arabic. Later, he completed his Master’s in English Literature from the same institution. His master’s thesis focused on Robert Browning, a poet who was not widely recognized during his lifetime but whose reputation grew posthumously. Today, Browning is considered one of the greatest poets of the Victorian era. His poetry often explores psychological and moral themes, offering deep insight into human nature.

“I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.”

― Robert Browning

This is where Faiz’s communism begins to emerge. He meets M.N. Roy, a 20th-century Indian revolutionary, philosopher, radical activist, and political theorist. Roy was the founder of both the Mexican Communist Party and the Communist Party of India. Faiz also meets Muzaffar Ahmed, an Indian-Bengali politician, journalist, and co-founder of the Communist Party of India.

Now, fast forward to 1947, this is when Pakistan came into being.

In 1947, Faiz became the editor of Pakistan Times, and by 1948, he had risen to the position of vice president at the Pakistan Trade Union Federation (PTUF). His influence extended beyond journalism—he actively engaged with labor movements and international delegations, representing Pakistan at the International Labour Organization (ILO) conference in San Francisco in 1950. Around the same time, he led the PTUF delegation in Geneva and became a member of the World Peace Council.

A known leftist, Faiz co-founded the Communist Party of Pakistan in 1947 alongside Marxist intellectuals Sajjad Zaheer and Jalaludin Abdur Rahim. His alignment with socialist ideals wasn’t a sudden shift; he had already been drawn to communism long before Partition, seeing it as an extension of his progressive ideology. His ties with the Soviet Union ran deep, earning him admiration and accolades from Moscow, where he was celebrated as "our poet." However, his popularity in Bangladesh waned after 1971, as his pro-communist stance didn’t align with the new nationalist sentiment in Dhaka.

Despite his ideological leanings, Faiz wasn’t a rigid communist. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, he used his platform to advocate for socialist causes, particularly through his editorship of Pakistan Times, which became a mouthpiece for leftist thought. His sympathies extended even to military circles, including Major General Akbar Khan, whose failed coup attempt ultimately led to Faiz’s imprisonment.

Later in life, when asked whether he was a communist, he responded with his signature calm:

"A communist is someone who holds a party membership card. The party is banned here. So how can I be a communist?"

It was the kind of answer only Faiz could give—subtle yet rebellious, slipping through the cracks of censorship like his poetry.

Young Faiz found his poetic voice in the struggle against poverty and the battle against capitalism. Political and social exploitation became the canvas for his verses, giving them purpose and power. In a time when the Hindu-Muslim divide could have shaped his worldview, Faiz looked beyond communal lines. He stood with poets who saw freedom and social change as the greater cause, rendering religious differences trivial. For him, the fight for justice was a struggle that united, not divided. His spirit can be seen in Raqeeb Se, which is a poem that is very relevant in today’s era, where injustice is an unpaid guest, and everyone who is not privileged to run out of this country is struggling to make ends meet. 

جب کبھی بکتا ہے بازار میں مزدور کا گوشت

شاہراہوں پہ غریبوں کا لہو بہتا ہے

 

آگ سی سینے میں رہ رہ کے ابلتی ہے نہ پوچھ

اپنے دل پر مجھے قابو ہی نہیں رہتا ہے

But how does one explain this to a lover whose world is built around shared verses of love and longing? How does Faiz articulate that his affection remains, but his words now belong to a struggle larger than them both? Perhaps that is why the poem carries a trace of melancholy; it is not just a farewell to a style of poetry but also an attempt to bridge the gap between personal love and public duty. His plea, "Mujhse pehli si mohabbat mere mehboob na maang," is not just a request—it is an apology, a confession that his heart is no longer solely his to give.

Mourning a ‘broken’ homeland 

The fall of Dhaka shattered Faiz Ahmed Faiz. It wasn’t just the birth of a new nation; it was the tearing apart of his own soul. In his haunting poem "Hum Ke Thehre Ajnabi," Faiz poured his grief over the brutal separation of East and West Pakistan, capturing the raw ache of lost bonds and fractured identities. His words were heavy with sorrow, reflecting not just political upheaval but a deeply personal heartbreak.

For Faiz, it wasn’t merely a political event—it was a rupture of friendships, memories, and a shared past. He felt the pain of betrayal and abandonment, mourning a loss that went beyond borders. Though he never directly blamed the Pakistani government, his verses echoed disillusionment with the injustices that led to this tragedy.

Through the metaphor of a broken love affair, Faiz voiced his longing for healing and reconciliation. His poetry became a lament for what once was—a bond severed, a love lost. The wounds of Dhaka ran deep in Faiz, and his words immortalized that grief, resonating with all who felt the pain of separation.

The pain Faiz Ahmed Faiz felt bled through his poetry. While literary critics like Gauhar Raza call his work ‘anti-fascist’ and wrap it in intellectual jargon, for the ordinary person who lived through the heartbreak of a divided homeland, his verses were soaked in empathy.

“I have been consuming his words since I first learned to read. When our country was ripped in two, I clung to ‘Hum Ke Thehre Ajnabi.’ I read it so many times that, even now, every line is etched in my memory. His poetry, especially the ones he wrote for us, held a power that went beyond words. I would sit and cry for hours, mourning my brother, who was killed by the military during the partition,” said 70-year-old Jamila Hashmi, her frail fingers gently tracing the pages of ‘Nuskha Haye Wafa.’

Her eyes gleamed with a devotion that was almost sacred, a love for a poet who gave voice to her pain. In that moment, I understood the true depth of Faiz’s empathy—not through my father’s stories, but through the tears of a woman who found her grief mirrored in his words.

“My family migrated from Bangladesh to Pakistan in 1971. My mother carried my three-month-old sister in her arms, and we clung to each other on the train. I was merely 12 years old, but those scenes are imprinted in my mind to this day. Every time I read Faiz, I feel like my pain is understood. I can sense his sensitivity toward his people, which is why I feel so connected to him,” said 68-year-old Atta Ullah*.

ہم کہ ٹھہرے اجنبی اتنی مداراتوں کے بعد

پھر بنیں گے آشنا کتنی ملاقاتوں کے بعد

 

کب نظر میں آئے گی بے داغ سبزے کی بہار

خون کے دھبے دھلیں گے کتنی برساتوں کے بعد

 

تھے بہت بے درد لمحے ختم درد عشق کے

تھیں بہت بے مہر صبحیں مہرباں راتوں کے بعد

 

دل تو چاہا پر شکست دل نے مہلت ہی نہ دی

کچھ گلے شکوے بھی کر لیتے مناجاتوں کے بعد

 

ان سے جو کہنے گئے تھے فیضؔ جاں صدقہ کیے

ان کہی ہی رہ گئی وہ بات سب باتوں کے بعد

(Written on his return from Dhaka in 1974) 

In 1951, Faiz Ahmed Faiz found himself behind bars, accused in the Rawalpindi Conspiracy Case—a controversial coup attempt allegedly aimed at overthrowing Prime Minister Liaquat Ali Khan's government. The plot, led by Major General Akbar Khan, involved a group of military officers and civilians, including Faiz, who was accused of sympathizing with leftist ideologies. It was a turbulent time, marked by political unrest and suspicion, and Faiz became an easy target for his outspoken views and revolutionary poetry.

His imprisonment was not just a physical confinement but an emotional exile. Faiz was cut off from the world he loved—the bustling streets, the familiar faces, the vibrant conversations. Yet, within the cold, isolated walls of Montgomery Central Jail, his pen never stopped moving. His grief, longing, and disillusionment found solace in words, giving birth to some of his most poignant poetry.

During these years, he wrote Dast-e-Saba (The Breeze's Hand) and Zindan-Nama (Prison Journal). These weren’t just collections of poetry—they were his heart laid bare. In verses like “Aaye Kuch Abr” (Let Clouds Gather), he painted vivid images of yearning and hope, the kind that only someone separated from their homeland could understand. The rain, the clouds, the changing seasons—they became metaphors for freedom, for reunion, for dreams that felt distant yet alive.

In a 1984 interview with Herald, Dawn, Faiz reflected on his imprisonment with a mix of resignation and melancholy. “By the time the jail phase ended, the dream of Pakistan was in shambles,” he confessed. He spoke of a country he no longer recognized, a nation lost to imperialist powers and broken promises. The world outside had changed, and so had he. Yet, despite the pain and disillusionment, his poetry never lost its tenderness. It remained hopeful, echoing the resilience of a man who had known loss but refused to let it define him.

As a kid growing up in a Bengali family with communist roots, “Aaj Bazaar Mein Pa Ba Jolaaan Chalo” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz was one of my favorite poems. There was something hauntingly beautiful about its rhythm, a sorrowful elegance that echoed through its verses. Back then, I didn’t fully understand the weight of its words. But when I later learned the story behind it, I couldn’t help but marvel at the power poets hold—the power to influence minds, to stir emotions, to move societies. Faiz wasn’t just writing poetry; he was documenting pain, resistance, and an undying spirit. Later, it was also sung by one of my favourite bands, Bayaan. 

Every day, Faiz was escorted in a prison vehicle to the clinic. But one day, the jail authorities ran out of vehicles. The warden decided to send him in a horse-drawn carriage (tonga) instead. However, it was mandatory for prisoners to be handcuffed in such cases. Faiz agreed, and with shackles around his wrists, he sat on the back seat of the tonga, flanked by armed policemen.

As the tonga made its way through the bustling streets of Lahore, he felt the cool breeze brush against his face. Familiar alleyways and lively markets passed him by—vendors, rickshaws, bullock carts—all drifted past like long-lost friends. The city he once roamed freely now looked at him as a spectacle. A crowd began to gather—shopkeepers, passersby, journalists—all recognizing the great poet being paraded in chains.

It was a surreal scene—a man who had once inspired millions now being paraded through the streets in handcuffs. Yet, Faiz felt a strange sense of liberation. He would later recall that he had never witnessed a procession so beautiful.

Moved by this profound experience, he penned the iconic poem “Aaj Bazaar Mein Pa Ba Jolaaan Chalo” (Come, Let Us Walk in the Market with Shackles on Our Feet). It wasn’t just a cry of anguish; it was a defiant march of resilience, a powerful symbol of standing tall in the face of oppression. His words weren’t merely poetic—they were revolutionary. And as I grew older, understanding the pain and power behind them, I realized how poets like Faiz don’t just write verses—they carve histories.
 

چشم نم جان شوریدہ کافی نہیں

تہمت عشق پوشیدہ کافی نہیں

 

آج بازار میں پا بہ جولاں چلو

دست افشاں چلو مست و رقصاں چلو

 

خاک بر سر چلو خوں بداماں چلو

راہ تکتا ہے سب شہر جاناں چلو

 

حاکم شہر بھی مجمع عام بھی

تیر الزام بھی سنگ دشنام بھی

 

صبح ناشاد بھی روز ناکام بھی

ان کا دم ساز اپنے سوا کون ہے

 

شہر جاناں میں اب با صفا کون ہے

دست قاتل کے شایاں رہا کون ہے

 

رخت دل باندھ لو دل فگارو چلو

پھر ہمیں قتل ہو آئیں یارو چلو

Faiz, the ultimate lover boy 

Growing up, everything I knew about love came either from the beautiful bonds of womanhood or through poetry. I would read anything tinged with love, especially those that echoed unrequited affection—something Faiz’s poetry often carried. I was also drawn to poems that spoke of ‘communal love,’ a love that inspires you to do great things beyond the confines of romance. It’s the kind of love that, even after heartbreak, doesn’t leave you glued to your bed but propels you into the world—grieving, yes, but still accomplishing big things.

A glimpse of communal love in his poetry can be found in ‘Mujhse Pehli Mohabbat Mere Mehboob Na Maang,’ where he is clearly in love but also recognizes that there is a world beyond the typical boy-meets-girl love story.

اور بھی دکھ ہیں زمانے میں محبت کے سوا

راحتیں اور بھی ہیں وصل کی راحت کے سوا

دنیا نے تیری یاد سے بیگانہ کر دیا

تجھ سے بھی دل فریب ہیں غم روزگار کے

When he sings, "عہد وفا یا ترک محبت، جو چاہو سو آپ کرو، اپنے بس کی بات ہی کیا ہے," it reminds us of the selfless nature of love—the kind of love where you don’t need the other person to be physically present. It’s like that old friend you don’t talk to very often, but the love is still there. The affection remains. It doesn’t vanish because it doesn’t require constant contact to stay alive.

When he sings, "بیتا دید امید کا موسم، خاک اُڑتی ہے آنکھوں میں، کب بھیجو گے درد کا بادل، کب برکھا برساؤ گے," it reminds me of the unsaid pain that sometimes hits you when you are alone. It strikes you that you never truly cried over it. There’s a desperation to walk back, an urge to run back to that peace. In those few moments, you find yourself calculating the consequences. It dawns on you that it was a heartbreak, and you never realized it, and right now, you are existing in two worlds at the same time.

It’s like teaching you that not all heartbreaks are excruciatingly painful and visible. Some are just hidden. Some are just empty. They make you happy and sad at the same time.

 

Faiz is a story in himself. I have known him through the lens of a Bengali kid who was taught the essence of communism before truly understanding the world, but he is more than just a poet from the past—he is the voice of the masses. He wrote from the depths of his heart, from places most of us are too afraid to explore. Even in an era that silenced dissent, he dared to give words to his beliefs, crafting verses that echoed the pain, hope, and defiance of his time.

His understanding of injustice resonates even now because the struggles he wrote about are the same ones we witness today—the fight against oppression, the courage to speak against power, and the longing for freedom. Whether it's the cries of Palestine echoing across the world or the silent suffering of the marginalized within our own country—be it gender, sect, or poverty—Faiz’s words still carry the weight of truth.

He wasn’t just a poet of his time; he is a poet for all times. His verses refuse to fade, living on as whispers of hope and resistance. But perhaps the real question is—will we ever find another voice as fearless, as timeless, as his? And even if we do, will they be allowed to speak as fearlessly as he did?

رفیق راہ تھی منزل ہر اک تلاش کے بعد،

چھٹا یہ ساتھ تو رہ کی تلاش بھی نہ رہی،

ملول تھا دل آیئنہ ہر خراش کے بعد،

جو پاش پاش ہوا اک خراش بھی نہ رہی۔

فیض احمد فیض کا آخری قطعہ۔

 

Birthday Bonus!

Naqsh-e-Fariyadi: collection of Faiz’s poems in an Spotify Playlist