A pretty tale of Pakistan: I. The First Shot - N.V. Thadani

When comets trail across the sky.
Great men are born — some day to die:
Portents of a mighty fate,
To raise a man or ruin a state!

Such, Hanji Manji, was the hour
Thou wor’st a gown to rise to power —
To mount upon a pleasant throne —
A Moghul of the sea and lawns thou call'st thy own.

He rises in his seat — behold
A great Assembly — wise and old!
The mighty tremble: Who so bold
But shrinks before his icy gaze!
He frowns, he speaks, and now doth raise
A little finger of his hand,
And lifts his head; his eyes expand,
And words of fire, defiance, scorn,
Leap up to wean, to win, to warn;
And bureaucrats, both white and brown.
Tremble before his slightest frown;
And wonder all his friends and foes
At what he says, at what he knows —
So slim, so graceful, and so tall —
Their pride — a puzzle to them all.

Now see him in another place,
A broad smile beaming on his face;
Can easily write — but will dictate.
And journalists in patience wait
To publish news of more import
Than peace or war, or strike or sport.
It's not his own biography
He wishes now to do and die;
He leaves to Pundit and the Sage
To humour youth or passing age —
The pastime of a puerile page.
His is a mission more divine.
To rouse his people to combine;
And in English language free and fine,
A statement of his public views,
In broadest headlines in the news,
To publish from all colleges,
And schools and halls and palaces,
With reasons and with arguments,
And purposes and precedents —
Explaining how the land entire
Should governed be to his desire.

When he repeats his argument,
He’s at his best — to circumvent
All opposition by his skill
Of phrase or fancy as he will.

‘‘Democracy is but a name—
’Tis power that matters all the same,”
Says Hanji Manji. ‘‘In a state
You rule but as the laws dictate,
And laws are made by men who take
This power to make them or unmake;
And if by people whom you choose.
They’ve power to use it or abuse.
Helpless is a minority,
And must for ever hopeless be.
Such is the case with Mussalmans;
They cannot have the slightest chance
Against the Hindus in one state;
And so from them must separate.
They never were a single nation,
Nor will in many a generation.
On any modest calculation.
You cannot by a stroke of pen
Create a race of common men;
So if they in one state unite,
The Muslims lose their very right
To live in honour as they will.
To me ’tis clear as daylight still—
An indisputable principle.
So for our peace we must divide
The land in two or three: — ’Tis wide
Enough for all. The North and West
And East let Muslims take; the best
To Hindus in the South we give —
And Centre — so in peace we live.

“This is, I think, a fair solution;
Or else a mighty revolution
Will shake us, heaping ill on ill:
Take it or leave it as you will.

“And we will call it Pakistan —
Where Muslims live — a land of Dawn —
A Poet's dream of heaven on earth —
Our native home — our nearest, dearest place of birth.”

Thus said he, and then paused awhile,
And listened for applause; a smile
Played on his lips; his eyes were bright;
He knew his power — his cause was right.

Then Worthal cried with joy and pride—
“Let us divide, let us divide!”

But Alexander looked around,
And alternately smiled and frowned;
And Truman whispered half aside —
“You know the people; Will this do?”
The other cautiously replied —
“What he has said, I think, is true;
But 'twas not meant for me or you.”

This Worthal was a mighty man.
And blood of nobles in him ran;
Of fine physique, and strong and tall;
Could speak in any house or hall;
Nor feared his purpose to unfold
In calm debate or counsel bold;
With accent clear and quiet tone
And ease, incision all his own;
And still a pleasant smile he wore:
He knew his mind and cared no more.

Sir Alexander was a Knight —
A graceful form of guileless power;
Could fly in air, on land could fight,
As was the need each passing hour.
And yet he was a man of peace;
Would make no war, but on disease.
Or with the enemies abroad,
Of his great country, King, and God.
And of his name-sake he had heard.
Who left the land of far-off Greece,
His fame and glory to increase —
As by historians is averred;
And came to the land of Punjab fair.
Its golden fields, so rich and rare,
And flowing rivers everywhere;
But went away, nor left a trace
To mark the triumph of his race.

Such was the land of Punjab then,
And such today its martial men—
So thought Sir Alexander when
He took his paper and his pen,
To call them to the field again.
Or welcome home from battle plain;
And he was of this justly proud,
And would declare it even aloud.
Although he was a modest man.
And spoke but little and to plan;
And he will leave behind a name,
As one who sought nor praise nor blame.
But gained his purpose all the same.

And Truman hailed from great Bengal,
Where tigers roam, as we are told;
But he was not so fierce at all:
His speech was short, but stout and bold*
And he was quick to make reply.
And brooked nor cant nor casuistry;
Had planned to rise, was proud to rule.
And yet to fall was not afraid;
Had seen of life the sternest school —
The promise high, the hope delayed,
And change of fortune, light and shade:
And so was Truman stoutly made.

Hanji Manji for a while
Listened with a beaming smile;
There was a shuffle, then a pause —
A silence following applause,
That chilleth you with never a cause;
And then a little murmur rose,
Like rustling wind that no one knows —
   Indeed, you call it Pakistan — 
       The land of purest light; 
   But know it is your Pakistan — 
       The land of fear and fright; 
   And soon will change to Khakistan — 
       The land of dust and blight.

---

N.V. Thadani (20th century) Pakistan
Source: A pretty tale of Pakistan, N.V. Thadani, Bharat Publishing House, 1946
* In the original the word is printed as bol but I'm guessing this is a typo
The first part (preface) of this poem is here