Sahir Ludhianvi’s “Parchhaiyan” is a powerful and unsettling reflection on the divided self and the haunting presence of memory. The word parchhaiyan (shadows) becomes a central metaphor for the past, guilt, regret, and unfulfilled desires that follow a person silently, just like a shadow that cannot be escaped. Sahir suggests that human beings are never truly alone; they are constantly accompanied by the invisible weight of their own experiences.
The poem portrays a restless mind trapped between what it once was and what it wishes to become. These shadows are not external enemies but parts of the self—fragments of past mistakes, broken relationships, and suppressed emotions. They grow darker when one tries to ignore them, reminding the reader that denial only strengthens inner conflict. Sahir’s language is simple yet emotionally charged, allowing the poem to speak directly to the reader’s conscience.
At a deeper level, “Parchhaiyan” reflects Sahir’s social and existential concerns. It shows how personal suffering is connected to broader realities of loneliness, displacement, and moral uncertainty. The shadow becomes a symbol of the emotional scars left by society and history. Through this haunting imagery, Sahir reminds us that understanding ourselves requires facing our shadows, not fleeing from them.
javān raat ke siine pe dūdhiyā āñchal
machal rahā hai kisī ḳhvāb-e-marmarīñ kī tarah
hasīn phuul hasīñ patiyāñ hasīñ shāḳheñ
lachak rahī haiñ kisī jism-e-nāznīñ kī tarah
fazā meñ ghul se ga.e haiñ ufuq ke narm ḳhutūt
zamīñ hasīn hai ḳhvāboñ kī sarzamīñ kī tarah
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
kabhī gumān kī sūrat kabhī yaqīñ kī tarah
vo peḌ jin ke tale ham panāh lete the
khaḌe haiñ aaj bhī sākit kisī amiiñ kī tarah
unhī ke saa.e meñ phir aaj do dhaḌakte dil
ḳhamosh hoñToñ se kuchh kahne sunñe aa.e haiñ
na jaane kitnī kashākash se kitnī kāvish se
ye sote jāgte lamhe churā ke laa.e haiñ
yahī fazā thī yahī rut yahī zamāna thā
yahīñ se ham ne mohabbat kī ibtidā kī thī
dhaḌakte dil se laraztī huī nigāhoñ se
huzūr-e-ġhaib meñ nannhī sī iltijā kī thī
ki aarzū ke kañval khil ke phuul ho jaa.eñ
dil-o-nazar kī duā.eñ qubūl ho jaa.eñ
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
tum aa rahī ho zamāne kī aañkh se bach kar
nazar jhukā.e hue aur badan churā.e hue
ḳhud apne qadmoñ kī aahaT se jheñptī Dartī
ḳhud apne saa.e kī jumbish se ḳhauf khaa.e hue
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
ravāñ hai chhoTī sī kashtī havāoñ ke ruḳh par
nadī ke saaz pe mallāh giit gaatā hai
tumhārā jism har ik lahr ke jhakole se
mirī khulī huī bāhoñ meñ jhuul jaatā hai
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
maiñ phuul Taañk rahā huuñ tumhāre joḌe meñ
tumhārī aañkh masarrat se jhuktī jaatī hai
na jaane aaj maiñ kyā baat kahne vaalā huuñ
zabān ḳhushk hai āvāz ruktī jaatī hai
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
mire gale meñ tumhārī gudāz bāheñ haiñ
tumhāre hoñToñ pe mere laboñ ke saa.e haiñ
mujhe yaqīñ hai ki ham ab kabhī na bichhḌeñge
tumheñ gumān ki ham mil ke bhī parā.e haiñ
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
mire palang pe bikhrī huī kitāboñ ko
adā-e-ijz-o-karam se uThā rahī ho tum
suhāg-rāt jo Dholak pe gaa.e jaate haiñ
dabe suroñ meñ vahī giit gā rahī ho tum
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
vo lamhe kitne dilkash the vo ghaḌiyāñ kitnī pyārī thiiñ
vo sehre kitne nāzuk the vo laḌiyāñ kitnī pyārī thiiñ
bastī kī har ik shādāb galī ḳhvāboñ kā jazīra thī goyā
har mauj-e-nafas har mauj-e-sabā naġhmoñ kā zaḳhīra thī goyā
nāgāh lahakte khetoñ se Tāpoñ kī sadā.eñ aane lagīñ
bārūd kī bojhal bū le kar pachchhim se havā.eñ aane lagīñ
ta.amīr ke raushan chehre par taḳhrīb kā bādal phail gayā
har gaañv meñ vahshat naach uThī har shahr meñ jangal phail gayā
maġhrib ke mohazzab mulkoñ se kuchh ḳhākī-vardī-posh aa.e
iThlāte hue maġhrūr aa.e lahrāte hue mad.hosh aa.e
ḳhāmosh zamīñ ke siine meñ ḳhemoñ kī tanābeñ gaḌne lagīñ
makkhan sī mulā.em rāhoñ par būToñ kī ḳharāsheñ paḌne lagīñ
faujoñ ke bhayānak band tale charḳhoñ kī sadā.eñ Duub ga.iiñ
jīpoñ kī sulagtī dhuul tale phūloñ kī qabā.eñ Duub ga.iiñ
insān kī qismat girne lagī ajnās ke bhaav chaḌhne lage
chaupāl kī raunaq ghuTne lagī bhartī ke dafātir baḌhne lage
bastī ke sajīle shoḳh javāñ ban ban ke sipāhī jaane lage
jis raah se kam hī lauT sake us raah pe raahī jaane lage
un jaane vaale dastoñ meñ ġhairat bhī ga.ī barnā.ī bhī
maaoñ ke javāñ beTe bhī ga.e bahnoñ ke chahete bhaa.ī bhī
bastī pe udāsī chhāne lagī meloñ kī bahāreñ ḳhatm huiiñ
aamoñ kī lachaktī shāḳhoñ se jhūloñ kī qatāreñ ḳhatm huiiñ
dhuul uḌne lagī bāzāroñ meñ bhuuk ugne lagī khaliyānoñ meñ
har chiiz dukānoñ se uTh kar rū-posh huī tah-ḳhānoñ meñ
bad-hāl gharoñ kī bad-halī baḌhte baḌhte janjāl banī
mahñgā.ī baḌh kar kaal banī saarī bastī kañgāl banī
charvāhiyāñ rasta bhuul ga.iiñ panhāriyāñ panghaT chhoḌ ga.iiñ
kitnī hī kuñvārī ablā.eñ maañ baap kī chaukhaT chhoḌ ga.iiñ
aflās-zada dahqānoñ ke hal bail bike khaliyān bike
jiine kī tamannā ke hāthoñ jiine ke sab sāmān bike
kuchh bhī na rahā jab bikne ko jismoñ kī tijārat hone lagī
ḳhalvat meñ bhī jo mamnūa thī vo jalvat meñ jasārat hone lagī
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
tum aa rahī ho sar-e-shām baal bikhrā.e
hazār-gūna malāmat kā baar uThā.e hue
havas-parast nigāhoñ kī chīra-dastī se
badan kī jheñptī uryāniyāñ chhupā.e hue
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
maiñ shahr jā ke har ik dar pe jhāñk aayā huuñ
kisī jagah mirī mehnat kā mol mil na sakā
sitamgaroñ ke siyāsī qimār-ḳhāne meñ
alam-nasīb farāsat kā mol mil na sakā
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
tumhāre ghar meñ qayāmat kā shor barpā hai
mahāz-e-jang se harkāra taar laayā hai
ki jis kā zikr tumheñ zindagī se pyārā thā
vo bhaa.ī narġha-e-dushman meñ kaam aayā hai
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
har ek gaam pe bad-nāmiyoñ kā jamghaT hai
har ek moḌ pe rusvā.iyoñ ke mele haiñ
na dostī na takalluf na dilbarī na ḳhulūs
kisī kā koī nahīñ aaj sab akele haiñ
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
vo rahguzar jo mire dil kī tarah suunī hai
na jaane tum ko kahāñ le ke jaane vaalī hai
tumheñ ḳharīd rahe haiñ zamīr ke qātil
ufuq pe ḳhūn-e-tamannā-e-dil kī laalī hai
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
sūraj ke lahū meñ lithḌī huī vo shaam hai ab tak yaad mujhe
chāhat ke sunahre ḳhvāboñ kā anjām hai ab tak yaad mujhe
us shaam mujhe mālūm huā khetoñ kī tarah is duniyā meñ
sahmī huī do-shīzāoñ kī muskān bhī bechī jaatī hai
us shaam mujhe mālūm huā is kār-gah-e-zardārī meñ
do bholī-bhālī rūhoñ kī pahchān bhī bechī jaatī hai
us shaam mujhe mālūm huā jab baap kī khetī chhin jaa.e
mamtā ke sunahre ḳhvāboñ kī anmol nishānī biktī hai
us shaam mujhe mālūm huā jab bhaa.ī jang meñ kaam aa.eñ
sarmā.e ke qahba-ḳhāne meñ bahnoñ kī javānī biktī hai
sūraj ke lahū meñ lithḌī huī vo shaam hai ab tak yaad mujhe
chāhat ke sunahre ḳhvāboñ kā anjām hai ab tak yaad mujhe
tum aaj hazāroñ miil yahāñ se duur kahīñ tanhā.ī meñ
yā bazm-e-tarab-ārā.ī meñ
mere sapne buntī hoñgī baiThī āġhosh parā.ī meñ
aur maiñ siine meñ ġham le kar din-rāt mashaqqat kartā huuñ
jiine kī ḳhātir martā huuñ
apne fan ko rusvā kar ke aġhyār kā dāman bhartā huuñ
majbūr huuñ maiñ majbūr ho tum majbūr ye duniyā saarī hai
tan kā dukh man par bhārī hai
is daur meñ jiine kī qīmat yā dār-o-rasan yā ḳhvārī hai
maiñ dār-o-rasan tak jā na sakā tum jehd kī had tak aa na sakīñ
chāhā to magar apnā na sakīñ
ham to do aisī rūheñ haiñ jo manzil-e-taskīñ pā na sakeñ
jiine ko jiye jaate haiñ magar sāñsoñ meñ chitāeñ jaltī haiñ
ḳhāmosh vafā.eñ jaltī haiñ
sangīn haqā.iq-zāroñ meñ ḳhvāboñ kī ridā.eñ jaltī haiñ
aur aaj jab in peḌoñ ke tale phir do saa.e lahrā.e haiñ
phir do dil milne aa.e haiñ
phir maut kī āñdhī uTThī hai phir jañg ke bādal chhā.e haiñ
maiñ soch rahā huuñ in kā bhī apnī hī tarah anjām na ho
in kā bhī junūñ nākām na ho
in ke bhī muqaddar meñ likhī ik ḳhuun meñ lithḌī shaam na ho
sūraj ke lahū meñ lithḌī huī vo shaam hai ab tak yaad mujhe
chāhat ke sunahre ḳhvāboñ kā anjām hai ab tak yaad mujhe
hamārā pyaar havādis kī taab lā na sakā
magar unheñ to murādoñ kī raat mil jaa.e
hameñ to kashmakash-e-marg-e-be-amāñ hī milī
unheñ to jhūmtī gaatī hayāt mil jaa.e
bahut dinoñ se hai ye mashġhala siyāsat kā
ki jab javān hoñ bachche to qatl ho jaa.eñ
bahut dinoñ se ye hai ḳhabt hukmarānoñ kā
ki duur duur ke mulkoñ meñ qaht bo jaa.eñ
bahut dinoñ se javānī ke ḳhvāb vīrāñ haiñ
bahut dinoñ se sitam-dīda shāh-rāhoñ meñ
nigār-e-zīst kī ismat panāh DhūñDhtī hai
chalo ki aaj sabhī pā.emāl rūhoñ se
kaheñ ki apne har ik zaḳhm ko zabāñ kar leñ
hamārā raaz hamārā nahīñ sabhī kā hai
chalo ki saare zamāne ko rāz-dāñ kar leñ
chalo ki chal ke siyāsī muqāmiroñ se kaheñ
ki ham ko jang-o-jadal ke chalan se nafrat hai
jise lahū ke sivā koī rang raas na aa.e
hameñ hayāt ke us pairahan se nafrat hai
kaho ki ab koī qātil agar idhar aayā
to har qadam pe zamīñ tang hotī jā.egī
har ek mauj-e-havā ruḳh badal ke jhapTegī
har ek shāḳh rag-e-sañg hotī jā.egī
uTho ki aaj har ik jang-jū se ye kah deñ
ki ham ko kaam kī ḳhātir kaloñ kī hājat hai
hameñ kisī kī zamīñ chhīnñe kā shauq nahīñ
hameñ to apnī zamīñ par haloñ kī hājat hai
kaho ki ab koī tājir idhar kā ruḳh na kare
ab is jagah koī kuñvārī na bechī jā.egī
ye khet jaag paḌe uTh khaḌī huiiñ fasleñ
ab is jagah koī kyārī na bechī jā.egī
ye sar-zamīn hai gautam kī aur nānak kī
is arz-e-pāk pe vahshī na chal sakeñge kabhī
hamārā ḳhuun amānat hai nasl-e-nau ke liye
hamāre ḳhuun pe lashkar na pal sakeñge kabhī
kaho ki aaj bhī ham sab agar ḳhamosh rahe
to is damakte hue ḳhāk-dāñ kī ḳhair nahīñ
junūñ kī Dhālī huī atomī balāoñ se
zamīñ kī ḳhair nahīñ āsmāñ kī ḳhair nahīñ
guzishta jang meñ ghar hī jale magar is baar
ajab nahīñ ki ye tanhā.iyāñ bhī jal jaa.eñ
guzishta jañg meñ paikar jale magar is baar
ajab nahīñ ki ye parchhā.iyāñ bhī jal jaa.eñ
tasavvurāt kī parchhā.iyāñ ubhartī haiñ
Shadows by Sahir Ludhianvi
Upon the bosom of the young night, a milky-white veil
stirs and quivers like a dream carved from marble.
Beautiful flowers, lovely leaves, graceful branches
sway like the supple body of a delicate beloved.
The soft lines of the horizon dissolve into the air,
and the earth becomes a land as fair as dreams themselves.
The shadows of imagination rise—
sometimes in the shape of doubt, sometimes as certainty.
The trees beneath which we once sought shelter
still stand, silent, like faithful guardians.
Once again, beneath their shade, two beating hearts
have come to speak and listen with unspoken lips.
Through how much struggle, through how much effort,
have we stolen these waking and dreaming moments.
This was the same air, the same season, the same time—
it was here that we first began to love.
With trembling eyes and a throbbing heart,
we whispered a small prayer to the unseen—
that the buds of desire might bloom into flowers,
that the prayers of heart and sight might be granted.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
You are coming, escaping the gaze of the world,
eyes lowered, body drawn close,
startled by the sound of your own footsteps,
afraid even of your own shadow’s movement.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
A small boat drifts with the wind’s direction,
the boatman sings upon the strings of the river.
With every surge of the waves, your body
swings into my open arms.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
I am fastening flowers into your hair,
your eyes bow with quiet joy.
I do not know what I am about to say—
my tongue is dry, my voice falters.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
Your tender arms are around my neck,
the shadow of my lips rests on yours.
I am certain we shall never be parted,
yet you suspect that even together we remain strangers.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
You are gathering the scattered books from my bed
with a gesture of humility and gentle grace.
In a low, veiled voice you are singing
the very songs that are sung on wedding nights.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
How enchanting those moments were,
how dear those hours seemed.
How delicate those garlands were,
how lovely those girls appeared.
Every flourishing lane of the town
was like an island of dreams,
every breath, every passing breeze
seemed a treasure of melody.
Suddenly, from the waving fields,
the thunder of cannons began to sound.
Carrying the heavy stench of gunpowder,
the winds from the west began to blow.
Across the bright face of creation,
the cloud of destruction spread.
In every village, madness began to dance;
in every city, the jungle spread.
From the so-called civilised nations of the West,
men in khaki uniforms arrived—
they came strutting in pride,
they came swaying in a drunken arrogance.
Into the silent breast of the land,
the ropes of military camps were driven.
On roads once soft as butter,
the scars of boots began to fall.
Beneath the dreadful noise of armies,
the hum of spinning wheels was drowned.
Under the burning dust of jeeps,
the petals of flowers were buried.
Human destiny began to fall
as the prices of food began to rise.
The warmth of village councils faded,
while recruitment offices multiplied.
The graceful, lively youth of the town
began to march away as soldiers—
travellers set out upon roads
from which few ever returned.
Among those departing crowds went honour,
and innocence went with them too.
Mothers’ young sons departed,
and sisters’ beloved brothers as well.
Sadness settled over the town;
the joy of fairs came to an end.
From the bending branches of mango trees,
the lines of swings disappeared.
Dust rose in the marketplaces,
hunger sprouted in the granaries.
Everything was lifted from the shops
and hidden behind cellar doors.
The misery of broken homes
grew into an endless snare.
Inflation swelled into famine,
and the whole town was left in ruin.
Shepherd girls lost their paths,
water-carriers abandoned the ghats.
So many young, unmarried girls
were forced to leave their parents’ doorsteps.
The ploughs and oxen of ruined farmers were sold,
their threshing floors were sold.
In the hands of the will to survive,
every means of living was sold.
When nothing remained to be sold,
bodies themselves became merchandise.
What had been forbidden even in secrecy
was now done openly, without shame.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
You are coming at dusk, your hair dishevelled,
bearing the weight of countless accusations.
From the brutal stares of lustful eyes,
you hide the trembling nakedness of your body.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
I went into the city and knocked at every door,
yet nowhere could I find a price for my labour.
In the political gambling-halls of the oppressors,
even the worth of suffering wisdom was denied.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
In your home, the clamour of doom has broken out—
a messenger from the battlefield has brought a telegram:
the brother you loved more than life itself
has fallen within the enemy’s encirclement.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
At every step there is a crowd of disgrace,
at every turning, fairs of humiliation.
No friendship, no courtesy, no love, no sincerity—
no one belongs to anyone; today all stand alone.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
That road, as desolate as my heart,
I know not where it is carrying you.
You are being purchased by the murderers of conscience,
while on the horizon glows the red of a heart’s slaughtered desire.
The shadows of imagination rise again.
That evening, drenched in the sun’s blood,
I still remember.
The fate of love’s golden dreams—
I still remember.
That evening I learned that, like fields,
in this world even the smiles of frightened young girls are sold.
That evening I learned that, in this factory of greed,
even the identity of two innocent souls is sold.
That evening I learned that when a father’s land is taken away,
the priceless legacy of a mother’s golden dreams is sold.
That evening I learned that when brothers fall in war,
in the brothels of capital, the youth of sisters is sold.
That evening, drenched in the sun’s blood,
I still remember.
The fate of love’s golden dreams—
I still remember.
Today you are thousands of miles away from here,
either in solitude
or in some radiant gathering.
You must be weaving my dreams
while resting in another’s embrace.
And I carry sorrow in my chest,
toiling day and night,
dying merely in order to live.
I disgrace my own art
and fill the hands of strangers.
I am helpless, you are helpless,
this whole world is helpless.
The pain of the body weighs upon the soul.
In this age, the price of living
is either the gallows, or disgrace.
I could not reach the gallows,
you could not reach the limits of struggle.
Though we wished, we could not belong to one another.
We are two such souls
who could never attain the destination of peace.
We go on living, merely to survive,
yet funeral pyres burn within our breaths.
Silent loyalties burn.
In the hard deserts of reality,
the cloaks of dreams burn away.
And today, beneath these trees,
once again, two shadows sway.
Once again, two hearts have come together.
Once again the storm of death has risen,
once again the clouds of war have gathered.
I wonder whether their fate, too,
will end like ours—
whether their passion will also be in vain,
whether in their destiny is written
another evening drenched in blood.
That evening, soaked in the sun’s blood,
I still remember.
The fate of love’s golden dreams—
I still remember.
Our love could not endure the weight of catastrophe,
yet may they receive a night of fulfilled desires.
We were given only the agony of an unmerciful death,
may they be granted a life that sings and dances.
For far too long, this has been the occupation of politics:
that when children grow into youth, they must be slaughtered.
For far too long, this has been the obsession of rulers:
to sow famine in distant lands.
For far too long, the dreams of youth have lain in ruins;
for far too long, on the tortured highways,
the honour of life has searched for refuge.
Come, today, let us ask all trampled souls
to give voice to each of their wounds.
Our secret is not ours alone—it belongs to all.
Come, let us make the whole world our confidant.
Come, let us go and tell the political plotters
that we despise the customs of war and conflict.
We loathe the garment of life
that knows no colour but blood.
Say that if any killer comes this way now,
the earth will narrow at every step.
Every wave of wind will turn and strike,
every branch will become a vein of stone.
Rise, and say to every warrior today
that we need tools for labour, not weapons.
We do not desire to seize another’s land;
we need ploughs for our own soil.
Say that no trader shall turn this way again—
no maiden shall be sold here anymore.
These fields will awaken, the crops will stand;
no garden-bed will be sold again.
This is the land of Gautama and Nanak;
on this sacred soil, savagery shall never prevail.
Our blood is a trust for the new generation;
armies shall never thrive upon it.
Say that if even today we remain silent,
this glowing world has no safety.
Against the atomic horrors forged by madness,
neither earth nor sky will be safe.
In the last war, only homes were burned—
but this time, it would not be strange
if even solitude were to burn.
In the last war, bodies were burned—
but this time, it would not be strange
if even the shadows were to burn.
The shadows of imagination rise again.