Here, the master-piece of Iqbal “Jawab E Shiqwa” is pasted in Urdu and English translation. Original poem ” Shiqwa ” was a complaint to God by Iqbal, about why the Muslim nation was subjected to downfall across the world. Hence, Jawab E Shiqwa serves to answer the question that was asked in Shiqwa. Bear in mind, the Shiqwa was subjected to severe critcism by the Mullah-brethen, as some even labelled him a “Kaafir” (Infidel). Jawab E Shiqwa points at what is lacking in Muslims that makes them suffer from Palestine to Kashmir, in Iqbal’s view. Iqbal was a master poet and he used his poetry to stir a revolution in the hearts and minds of Muslims of subcontinent. He yearned to wake them up from sleep of apathy and asked them to look within for faults, errors and mistakes, because only after realising ones incompetence, can one overcome the weakness and progress in these challenging times.
The word springing from the heart surely carries weight,
Though not endowed with wings, it yet can fly in space.
Pure and spiritual in its essence, it pegs its gaze on high,
Rising from the lowly dust, grazes past the skies.
Keen, defiant, and querulous was my passion crazed,
It pierced through the skies, my audacious wail.
“Someone is there,” thus spoke the heaven’s warder old,
the planets said, “From above proceeds this voice so bold.”
“No, no,” the moon said,” “tis someone on the earth below,”
Butted in the milky way: “The voice is hereabouts, I trow.”
Ruzwan alone, if at all, understood aright,
He knew it was the man, from heaven once exiled.
Even the angles wondered who raised this cry,
All the celestial denizens looked about surprised.
Does man possess the might to scale empyreal heights?
Has this mere pinch of dust learnt the knack to fly?
What are these earthly folks? Careless of all respect,
How bold and impudent, the lowly dwellers of the earth!
Extremely rude and insolent, cross even with God,
Is it the same Adam whom angels once did laud?
Steeped in bliss, man is of wisdom’s lore possessed,
Nonetheless, he’s alien to humility’s sterling worth.
Man feels proud of the power of his speech,
But the fool doesn’t know how and what to speak.
You narrate a woeful tale, thus the voice arose,
Your heart is boiling over with tears uncontrolled.
You have delivered your plaint with perfect skill and art,
You have brought the humans in contact with God.
We are inclined to grant, but none deserves our grace,
None treads the righteous path, whom to show the way?
Our school is open to all, but talent there is none,
Where is that soil fertile to breed the human gems?
We reward the deserving folks with splendid mead,
We grant newer worlds to those who strive and seek.
Arms have been drained of strength, hearts have gone astray,
The Muslim race is a blot on the Prophet’s face.
Idol-breakers have left the scene, idol-makers remain,
Aazar has inherited Abraham’s glorious name.
Wine, flask, and drinkers-all are new and changed,
A different Kaaba, different idols now your worship claim.
There was a time when you were respected far and wide,
Once this desert bloom was the season’s wealth and pride.
Every Muslim then was a lover profound of God,
Your sole beloved once was the all-embracing Lord.
Who removed falsehood from the earth’s face?
Who broke the shackles of the human race?
Who reclaimed our Kaaba with their kneeling brows?
Who presses the sacred Quran to their heart and soul?
True, they were your forbears, but what are you, I say?
Idle sitting, statue-like you dream away your days.
What did you say? Muslims are with hopes of houries consoled,
Even if your plaint is false, your words should be controlled.
Justice is the law supreme, operative on this globe,
Muslims can’t expect the houries, if they follow the kafir’s code.
None of you is in fact deserving of the”hoor”,
A Moses is but hard to fin, burneth still the Tur.
Common to the race entire is their gain or loss,
Common is their faith and creed, common too the Rasul of God;
One Kaaba, one Allah, and one Quran inspire their heart,
Why can’t the Muslims then behave like a single lot?
Cast, creed and factions have disjointed this race,
Is this way to forge ahead, to flourish in the present age?
It’s the poor who visit the mosque, join the kneeling rows,
The poor alone observe the fasts, practice self-control.
If someone repeats our name, it’s the poor again,
The devout poor hide your sins, preserve your vaunted name.
Drunk with the wine of wealth, the rich are unconcerned with God,
The Muslim race owes its life to the poor, indigent lot.
“Muslims have vanished from earth,” this is what we hear,
but we ask, ” Were the Muslims ever the Jewish sects.
You are Nisars by your looks, but Hindus by conduct,
Your culture puts to shame even the Jewish sects.
If the son is alien to his learned father’s traits,
How can he then claim his father’s heritage?
All of you love to lead a soft, luxurious life,
Are you a Muslim indeed? Is this the Muslim style?
All of you desire to be invested with the crown,
You should first produce a heart worthy of renown.
The new age is the lighting blast, it will set your barns on fire,
It can’t produce in groves or deserts the Old Sinai’s burning spire.
The new fire consumes for fuel the blood of nations old,
The clothes of the Prophet’s race are incinerated in its folds.
Don’t be depressed, gardener, by the present scene,
The starry buds are about to burst with a brilliant sheen.
The garden will soon be rid of its thorns and weeds,
The martyr’s blood will bring to bloom all the dormant seeds.
Mark how the sky reflects its orange purple hues,
The rising sun will flush the sky with its rays anew.
Islamic tree exemplifies cultivation long and hard,
A fruit of arduous gardening over centuries past.
Your caravan needn’t fear the perils of the path,
But for the call of bells you own no wealth at all.
You are the plant of light, the burning wick that never fails,
With the power of your thought you can incinerate the veil.
We’ll love you as our own, if you follow the Prophet’s ways,
The world is but a paltry thing, you’ll command the pen and page.