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Tanvir Bokhari and Public Opinion

"Many writers and poets in life have written about Tanvir Bokhari."

Rauf Sheikh:

Rauf Sheikh was the Chairman of the Punjab Rang organization in Lahore. He wrote an article titled "Basic Pain", published on March 1, 1980, in "Mast Faqeer Tanveer Bukhari". He said:

Tanveer Bukhari's poetry is full of deep feelings. He is like a traveler through the lonely valleys of experience and the forests of observation. He expresses the pain of loneliness, broken relationships, and how a person feels trapped within himself. His poetry reflects the deep pain of life.

He doesn’t try to confuse readers with complex ideas. Instead, he simply writes what he sees and feels. The modern world has made people more isolated—even in villages, not just cities. Tanveer Bukhari brings these feelings to life with his pen.

He is not only a poet who writes with historical importance, but also a skilled critic. In the future, people will recognize the value of his poetry as well as his thoughtful writings.

Professor Syed Azhar Kazmi:

Professor Kazmi wrote about Tanveer Bukhari in 1966 in the article "Reflection of Impression", included in the book "Mast Faqeer Tanveer Bukhari":

The Punjabi language is no longer just a regional language; it is growing and improving. It seems that Punjabi has a bright and everlasting future.

Writers today are focusing on giving proper importance to regional languages like Punjabi. Creating good literature is difficult, but not impossible. Literature plays an important role in shaping society.

True and meaningful literature comes only when a writer fully understands the language and writes with sincerity. Literature only becomes universal when it deeply connects with life and its problems.

Even though Tanveer Bukhari was young at that time, he wrote like a mature and experienced poet. He had a deep understanding of the Punjabi language and its expressions, which made his poetry beautiful.

His poetry reflects the beauty, values, and fragrance of Punjab’s land. When we read his poems, we feel connected, not like strangers.

His poetry collection “Sheesha” (Mirror) is a valuable gift to Punjabi literature. It is a mirror that reflects the true beauty of the language. Tanveer Bukhari achieved this through hard work and creative thinking. His work will add great value to the heritage of Punjabi literature.

"I am Tanveer, who walks holding the finger of the world,
Made my own path with my own courage."

جَگ دی اُنگلی پھڑ کے ٹُردا، میں تنویر کوئی انھاں ساں

اپنی ہمت سیتی اپنے رستے آپ پنائے نیں

Zigham:

Zigham wrote about Tanveer Bukhari in an article titled "At Least – Tanveer Bukhari", published on May 29, 1973, in Roznama Musawat and later included in the book "Mast Faqeer Tanveer Bukhari":

Tanveer Bukhari is one of those thoughtful young poets and writers who have worked hard to move forward and reach the height of literary excellence. And Tanveer has truly succeeded.

This success isn’t just because Punjabi literature has few people in it. In poetry, especially, competition and creativity are strong. Tanveer Bukhari earned his place through dedication and effort.

There are many poets in Punjab who write stories, but modern poetry offers fewer opportunities. Sometimes poets have to spend their own money to publish their work. Tanveer Bukhari also did this. He published more than 25 small poetry books and dictionaries himself.

He’s also a good calligrapher and artist. So he writes and designs his books himself, which saves money. This shows not only his creativity but also his dedication and skill.

From the Pen of Nazd:

In 1970, Nazd wrote an article called "Some Stones" for the book Sheesha (Mirror). He said:

Every century gives birth to sensitive people. Tanveer Bukhari is one of them—a poet full of feelings, burning in the fire of his thoughts. Many storms have surrounded him, and that’s why when the sun sets and covers the earth with the night’s blanket, Tanveer Bukhari’s heart knocks on the doors of apathy.

He watches this society from the main roads to the poorest alleys, seeing the growing corruption that bites the new generation like a snake. Tanveer does not want to carry the coffin of dying morals. He wishes to extend the life of ethics.

This society, where every evening many honors and reputations are weighed against money, where workers and farmers starve while money fills the pockets of capitalists, where lovers’ hopes are crushed by old customs—there has been a long-standing need for poets like Tanveer.

Since the partition, the soil of my country cries out with its wounded lips, asking for its bare parts to be covered with pure thoughts. This is the greatest demand of our time.

A poet forgets his own pain to feel the pain of strangers, and his sensitivity always points to places needing attention.

I wish our governments would include the sharp angles of poets’ thoughts in their plans—these angles could build a strong society like a triangular tower.

Tanveer—everyone’s poet, my friend. I wonder how he was born in this era. Seeing Tanveer and Munir Niazi often reminds me of Manto, who was born at the wrong time. These people, beautiful yet naked, ugly and deceitful, how could they fit in the ring of their times? I wish they could have delayed their birth to a better time.

Even Anand Bakshi, who used to sit in hotels and curse film villains, has now opened doors to the film industry. Don’t ask me how! Even today, some people act like snakes, sitting on real poets’ livelihoods.

Only their death can open the doors for rightful people. But I can’t wish this bad fate because I too am a poet who prays for long life even for his enemies.

Today’s journalism is a heap of dirt, buzzing with lies. Our columnists are so lazy they can only write stories for tea houses. They think readers buy newspapers for laughs and gossip, but readers want to face the harsh realities of life closely.

Today’s journalism is limited to traffic accidents and kidnappings. Prostitutes and eunuchs are shown as heroes, while poor and suffering people are ignored.

The radio is no better—it plays obscene songs from noon to four, making our eleven-year-old daughters grow up too soon.

Is this what Jinnah wanted? That sexual promotion be given such priority and that wolves be put in charge of the media?

Television is the same. If bitter truths are shown anywhere, they are only in rebellious poets’ collections—collections publishers hesitate to print.

But poets sacrifice even their household utensils for their message—like Khalil Atish selling his wife’s jewelry to publish his collection Bhanbar, or Parvez Alam Noshahi planning to sell his medical shop to spread his message.

We should not forget that the polluted society we create today will raise our daughters tomorrow—and daughters are also in the homes of radio and TV officials who sponsor cruel films just for profit.

We must keep an eye on tomorrow. Today’s face is very deceitful. That’s why cries of poets like Sahir, Faiz, Mohsin Bhupali, Sheikh Ayaz, Ram Lal, and Tanveer Bukhari echo all around but find no response.

I wish the public and government would also support poets who carve the minds of people with their sharp thoughts. I wish the Information Minister would remove the filthy covers from journalism, TV, and Radio Pakistan hiding ugly faces.

I wish the Crime Branch’s eyes could peek into the closed rooms of TV and radio, where artists and women enter young and return empty-handed.

These highways of immorality keep spreading—modern brothels whose numbers increase every day.

I hope the government will not let this disgusting future grow and will block all paths that nurture corruption.

If this filth is removed, if radio and TV are given to patriots, if society is cleansed of obscenity, then our poets will sing songs of patriotism and humanity instead of mourning dying morals.

But as long as poets are kept busy with mourning, this country will stay deprived of constructive ideas that could build strong foundations for Pakistan.

Poetry by Tanveer Bukhari and Others (translated simply):

“The winds blow, the people find shelter and tea on the cot,
Truth is torn in pieces, but no one brings it back.”

لتاں باہواں بھَن کے لوکاں منجی تے چا پایا

سچ نخصمے دے پھَٹاں تے پھا ہیا کِسے نہ لایا

Amrita Pritam:

Amrita Pritam wrote in the introduction to Tanveer Bukhari’s book Ashtray (June 6, 1978):

Tanveer Bukhari’s poetry is like a young tree—life is nothing else but this tree.
Watering and nurturing this tree is a difficult job, but only such a tree blooms into poetry’s flower.
Only the poet sees the unseen—the pain of strangers turns into his own pain.

Tanveer’s poem:
On the faces of the world are written thoughts,
I quietly read newspapers all day long.

جگ دے مکھڑے اتے لکھیاں ہوئیاں سوچ وچاراں

چپ چپیتا پڑھدا رہناں سارا دن اخباراں

The poet is both the bearer of sad news and the one who feels it deeply.

God’s grace and anger make the poet’s vision strong. He does not only criticize the world but also himself and his loved ones.

More of Tanveer’s poetry:

Love is gone, I don’t know what to say,
Everyone is addicted to this Coca-Cola era.

Those delicate feet get pricked by the carpet,
I sit under the Kikkar tree, writing ghazals.

پیار تریہہ نہ رہ گئی ڈانجھ نئیں بُجھدی دساں کیہ

”کوکا کولا“ دے اس دور دا ہر بندہ تِرھَایا اے

اُس درے نازک پیراں نوں قالین دی چبھ چبھ جاندی

میں کِکری دے تھلے بہہ کے غزل کیہدے لئی جوڑی

The poet calls the ghazal a dying grave and the wind a rough road shaking the cart.

Tanveer’s style:

He died, but no one knew,
The radio kept playing in the crying room.

مرگیا تنویر ہوئی نہ کسے نوں وی خبر

نالدے کمرے چ اونویں ریڈیو وجدا رہیا

پر اوہدا اپنا وطیرہ دنیا لئی اوسے طرح حساس دل رکھدا اے:

The fearful poet doesn’t fall, afraid that the insects might bite him again.
At every step, I have received hundreds of wounds.

ڈر دا مارا ڈگدا نئیں مُت آٹا ڈلھ پئے کیڑی دا

نئیں تے قدم قدم تے مینوں سَو سَو ٹھیڈا آیا اے

This unfortunate poet, who keeps getting hurt but doesn’t fall just because he’s scared the insects will bite him again, his fear is not his own, but of a world where even though poets have feelings, the sounds of guns and bullets fill the air.

This is the same world that gives us poets like Tanveer Bukhari—poets who may lose everything, but never lose their heart.

Tanveer wrote a verse:

If it is not a crime for swords to breathe,
then we artists should give tongues to stones.

تلواراں نوں سان چڑھانا جے کوئی جرم نہ ہُندا

پتھراں نوں جیبھاں دینیاں سن اساں فنکاراں

Clearly, in a world where iron swords sharping, it is considered a crime for the sword of love to sharping.
But the dreams of artists who give voice to stones keep living on.
It is they who give meaning to the struggle of the land.

Allama Ghulam Yaqub Anwar:

Allama Yaqub Anwar wrote an essay called “The Fierce Son of Mother Punjabi” which is included in the book Mast Faqeer Tanveer Bukhari.

He writes that a French scholar and great writer, Joachim Du Bellay (1520-1560), once praised his mother tongue, French. Although French was his mother tongue, he also learned Greek and Latin, and wrote in those languages too. At that time, it was common that French was considered lower compared to Latin or Greek.

Joachim Du Bellay wrote a book in 1549 supporting French language and raising its status. He was one of the first writers to do so.

Similarly, the Italian poet Dante (1265-1361) had raised the status of his mother tongue, Italian, by writing his famous work Divine Comedy in Italian, making it forever respected.

Today, this is the same respect that our young poet Tanveer Bukhari is trying to give to his mother tongue—Punjabi. He is working to give Punjabi its true place.

Currently, Punjabi faces two main criticisms:

People say it cannot express high or noble ideas.
Tanveer Bukhari responds by repeating the idea of Joachim Du Bellay to poets:
“At the birth of our mother tongue, there was no curse from gods or stars that this language cannot express high ideas or reply to such criticism.”
People say Punjabi words are only good for low-level or dirty talks.
Tanveer replies to this by referring to Saint Augustine and other pure poets:
“Letters (words) are pure vessels. People have ruined their reputation by pouring dirty wine into them.”
He also says,
“If the subject of religious writing and poetry is the same, then both become one.”
Aristotle once said,
“The first writers of religion were poets.”

Tanveer Bukhari treats his mother tongue with respect and gives it life filled with thoughts and high expressions. He is a fierce son of Punjabi who has given his everything for the language. His love is so strong it seems like he has no other life interest.

His use of words is unique and honest, and his Punjabi poetry has its own special style. His poetry explores new ways and styles.

Here are some of Tanveer Bukhari’s poems:
“Don’t hide your own dirt and blame others,
Like a weak fire burning with lies and mud.”

“Swearing allegiance to the rebellious hands,
Taking a vow of silence in young age,
Drinking poison, sucking it in, then returning to sting.”

اپنا کُوڑ لکاون واہتے بھَنڈ نہ انج اکھراں نُوں

کچدی شو بھا ہار بخاری تگسی کِچر ججھُٹھیواں

الھڑ رُوپ دے ہتھاں تے بیعت کر کے، کچی عمرے لے سنیاس بیٹھے

زہر چڑھنا، چوسنا،فیر مُڑ کے ڈنگ کھان دی لے کے آس بیٹھے

اوہدیاں بھخدیاں گلھاں اُتے سیک کے غزل بخاری

اُدریویں دے پوہ ماہ اندر دلدا سیت بجھاواں

مِریاں اکھیاں وچوں کوئی نام نہ اوہدا پڑھ لَے

چِٹے دِن جہے، بھیت نوں، کالی عینک ہیٹھ لُکاواں

اوس کبوتر ورگی اکھ دی جد وی کسے نے بات ہلائی

دل دے کاغذ اُتے چیتے گھگھیاں جہیاں پاون لگے

لہراں تے رشماں نے آپو وِچ گلوکڑی پائی

نئیں دھرتی تے، چَن اَسمانیں ہَسّی ہَسّی جائے

جلوے دے دریا چوں اِک دو تُبکے ہتھیں آئے

یعنی اسیں جھنں دے واسی رہے ہمیش تہائے

روسنیاں دے شہر دے وچوں لنگھیا تے ساں میں وی خورے!

کِس دیوے دی لاٹ دے اُتے سڑ بجھیا پروانہ دِلدا

اوہ وی حالاں اٹھے ای سن تازہ تازہ نظراں لَے کے

میں وی پہلی پہلی اوری لکھیا سی افسانہ دل دا

اِنج کسے دیاں یاداں آ کے دل نوں دوہریاں کیتا

باغ اندرجیوں پھل دے بھاروں لِف گئی الھڑ ڈالی

پَیریں پینڈا رُوپ دا، سرِ جوبن دی پنڈ

مِنتاں کردیاں سدھراں آء ونڈائیے بھار

"Six hundred years before Prophet Jesus (peace be upon him), a Chinese writer wrote a poem:"

”بیلے اندر اک ہرنی موئی پئی اے

بگیاں سُروٹاں نال کجی ہوئی، اوہ انج جاپدی اے

جیویں کوئی مٹیار چیتر رُت دیاں سوچاں سوچے

ہرنی سنگھنے بیلے، مارُوجھلّ اندر پئی اے

بگیاں سُروٹاں ہیٹھ ہیریاں ورگی سوہنی مٹیار

ویکھیں، مینوں ہتھ نہ لاویں

ویکھیں میرا رومال نہ کھچیں

میرا کُتّا بھونک پوی گا“

Professor Meleash Archbald, a teacher of eloquence and rhetoric at Harvard University, presented this Chinese poem and wrote an article titled “The Use of Subtle Imagery.” In it, he writes:

"Poetry gives life to images, but it doesn't work like magic. Instead, it works through analogy.
Analogy is the miracle of bringing two similar things together in the mind.

The Chinese poet didn’t express his meaning by simply showing us a picture — he revealed it through comparison.

He doesn’t show sorrow over a dead deer, nor does he get carried away by the shy smile of a village girl.

Instead, he creates a space between love and death — a human drama — a contrast between romantic emotion and cruel fate.

It's like a writer, while composing a sentence, suddenly sees a sign and joins two words in such a way that no single word could express that meaning on its own."

The article continues:

"This same magic of analogy can be seen in the poetry of Tanvir Bokhari. To witness it in full bloom, just listen to some of his verses..."

تیرے چیتے دی چیجی جے نہ لبھُسو غزل بالکا ہار چیخدی نہیں

حُسن پورنے پاکے نہ دیوے پھَٹی عشق دی کدی لکھیجدی نہیں

اَتّ خدا دا ویر بخاری! حد نوں ہتھ نہ لا دیں

آخر اوس نتھانویں باہجوں تیریاں کیہڑیاں تھانواں

منیا تنویر توں انجھک ایں ڈا ہڈا ای کُجھ!

لُکیا بیٹھا اِی جو اندر اوس بندے توں ڈرِیں!

کیہ ہویا جے پیار تیرے نے ویری کر لئی نیا

بیری والے گھر وِچ مُڈھوں پیندیاں آئیاں اِٹّاں

نمھِّو جھاناں ہو کے شامیں پَرت آؤناں دفتروں

خالی تانگہ لیکے جِسراں مۃڑ دا اَے کوئی کوچوان

پالدے رہے آں دِلدے اندر جیون دیاں سدھراں نوں

جیوں لنڈے دی کوئی پا کے پوہ دا سیت ہنڈایا اے

پرتیا سورج نے پاسا، مَر کے گھٹیا سی سفر

ڈر دی ماری چھاں نے جپھی پا لئی دیوار نُوں

ڈر دا مارا ڈِگدا نہیں مَت آٹا ڈلھ پے کیڑی دا

نہیں تے قدم قدم تے مینوں سَو سَو ٹھیڈا آیا اے

اوہدے نازک پیراں نوں قالین وی چُبھ چُبھ جاندی

میں کِکری دے ہیٹھاں بہہ کے غزل کیہدے لئی جوڑٰی

قہوے دی ایہہ ٹھُوٹھی تیرے گورے پَن توں چنگی

انگاں وچ اُتار کے جنہوں دِل گُٹوں ہو جاندا

سَینتر ساقی نے جس نوں سی ماری، اوہ مئیوں ساں، میں منناواں

اِکے ڈیک جو پی گیا جگ دونویں، خورے! کون میخوار سی، میں نئیں ساں

اَنھّے مُورے نھیر نوں پا چانن دی خیر

رہ نہ جاون سکھنے، اکھیاں دے کشکول

ہجراں دی چِق تان کے بیٹھا چوہل کرے

نہ اوہ میتھوں دور اے، نہ اوہ میرے کول

بجھ گئی تنویر آخر اگ پَیون دی تریہہ

وِک گیا یوسف تے ٹھنڈا پے گیا سارا بازار

لوک اجے تک جُثیاں والی ولگن چوں نہ نکلے

کون ہنگارا دیندا، جے میں روح دیاں باتاں پاندا

بالکل، نیچے اس اقتباس کا آسان اور صاف انگریزی ترجمہ پیش ہے تاکہ مفہوم ہر قاری کے لیے واضح ہو جائے:

One of the most unique things about Tanvir Bokhari’s poetry is that it reflects experiences so rare and deep, you don’t usually see them expressed elsewhere.

Wise people say that true experience is like this:

Imagine a young man, casually stepping off a familiar floor, and as he places his hand on the metal handle of a door, he suddenly gets a small electric shock. That tiny jolt does two things at once:

First, he doesn’t just "know" electricity like something he read in a book — he feels it for real, like a living force that knows no boundaries or definitions.
Second, in that very moment, three completely unrelated things — the man, the door handle, and the electricity — all become connected in a shared powerful experience.

When such deep, invisible connections occur, the only way to express them is through poetry or art. And this kind of art goes beyond what science can explain — it reaches into the emotional and spiritual side of human life.

You can see glimpses of this powerful artistic approach in some of Tanvir Bokhari’s selected verses.

ڈر دا مارا اہدے ہتھاں نال میں ہتھ ملاؤندا نئیں

میں اک سُکا ککھ آں، اوہدے ہَتھّ جویں انگیارے نیں

میرے شعرِیں، میرا آل دوالا انج دسیاوے

جسراں کسے ڈریور کولوں ڈیزل دی بو آوے

میک اَپ دھو کے سامنے آؤ، چانن ہووے دنیاں نوں

پیٹھا دارُو، مُنیا جوگی کدوں پچھاتا جاندا اے

جو بن دی دُھپ اوہناں خبرے! کنج نوائی اے

مَیں تے میرا توں ایہہ آفت مَر کے ٹالی جے!

جیونا واں تے یار بخاری! کوئی نئیں ڈُھکدا

مر جاواں تے ہُنے اِی سارا پِنڈ اکٹھا ہووے

میری واج اوہدے تک پُجن توں پہلاں سَو جاندی رہی

پنسل تھیں لکھی ہوئی چِٹھی کد تک گُوہڑ جتاندی اے؟

گھڑی مُڑی نہ کھولو یار! بُوہا دل دی ولگن دا

کچّی جِلد کتاب دی اِسراں پڑھیاں اُکھڑ جاندی اے

ہور تے کُجھ نہیں بس ایویں اک تیری یاد ستاندی اے

انج جاپے جِیوں اگ جہی کوئی اندر لُوہی جاندی اے

بھُلّ دی جاندی اے میری اکھ نوں میری پچھان

سفر چوں آیا جِویں ہو جاندا اے کجھ بے سِہان

دُھر اَپڑن توں پہلاں دُکھڑے لُکّن دی گل جھوٹھی جے!

ساہ ایہہ کیہ نیں؟ کچی سڑک تے لاری دے ہچکولے نیں

راتیں جھکھڑ جھُلیّا اے تے میرے ای ویہڑے جھُلیّا اے

سارے پِنڈ چ جسراں میری کُلّی تے اِی تیلے سن

گورے گورے رنگاں وچ اِیوں کالکاں لُک رہندیاں

بُوٹ وِچ لُک جاندی اے جیوں بابو دی پاٹی جراب

If poetry only means writing pretty and sweet-sounding words, then yes — that may look like poetry, but it’s not real poetry.

This idea can never be fully explained in a long or detailed way.

"Poetry is a continuous emotional introduction to one’s own self."

As Tanvir Bokhari himself says:

میریاں نظماں غزلاں اندر کیہ اے یار بخاری

کُجھ اپنی کُجھ آل دوالے دی عکاّسی

تے:-

کر ماں والیو! میرے ایہہ شعر جیہے

میرے عیب ثواب نیں، پھولنا نہ!!

What truly matters in writing is this: just dancing and jumping thoughts alone can’t make a poet — scattered ideas can’t lead poetry like a flock of birds.

Even the highest kind of poetry is built upon simple, everyday truths. Its foundation is usually something like:

“Life is short, love is either sweet or painful, and in the end, everything fades away.”

An English writer, George Moore, once said:

“Words only have meaning if they stand as symbols for something deeper.”

And the French writer Mallarmé wrote:

“The meaning of poetry grows out of words turning into sounds.”

Some writers, standing between these two views, say:

“Words are a mix of symbols and sound.”

Tanvir Bokhari, by continuously introducing his emotional self through his poetry, has discovered a path between all these views. He doesn’t treat words only as symbols, or chase after their echo or musical ring. Instead, he goes beyond all that, staying true to something deeper.

Just like...

گُونگے بُتاں وانگوں اکھر پالو پال کھلوتے

معنیاں دے سنگھاسن اُتے کون چڑھایا جاسی

معنیاں دی باغیچی توں وی پُجیا کجھ اگیرے

اکھراں دی خوشبوئی میں ایناں چا نشیایا

سجری تے چسکوری رُت دے سنگھوں کیکن لتھّاں

جیون دی چنگیر چ دھریا میں اک ٹُکّر باسی

باریاں رکھدے نیں لوکی کمریاں وچ وا لئی

کیہڑی گل اے، میں ذرا جے کندھ وچلی ڈھا لئی

آؤن ایں تے جی پینا واں، جانا ایں مر جاناں

موت حیاتی دونویں پیڑاں، دوہاں نوں جَر جاناں

لے پُجدی جے قسمت مینوں، خیر سی بر سر پیناں

چَن دے میحل پچھوکڑ مینوں ڈھاہ لیا کالیاں دَیناں

سُو دا پٹّن ٹُریا ساں پر سیڑھ نے پھاہ لیا مینوں

لک لک جانن والیو! پانی ہندا جے سِر توڑی

اپنی اکھ دے ڈنگ توں جے کر بچ گیا یار بخاری

بیشک پالیّں، زلفے! پالیّں، توئیوں پالیّں پھاہی

٭پنڈا کھوٹا ہون دا جیکر فکر نہ ہُندا مینوں

میں وی تیری زلف دی چانویں پہہ لیندا دو گھڑیاں

منزل کولوں واٹاں مِریاں انج ترہندیاں جاون

جِسراں کوئی بے ٹکٹ مسافر بابو توں گھبراوے

ڈر دا مارا سُرتاں دیاں مڑھیاں چوں نہ لنگھاں

دل کملا کتے چڑھ نہ جاوے کسے چڑیل دی ڈھاکے

بجلی ورگے نیناں نُوں میں کسراں سانواں ہُندا

میں تے اپنی بھِجی اکھ دا سیک وی سہہ نہ سکیا

نَیناں دی نیں اندر ٹھِن دا دیہہ اِذن اسانوں

اگوں ساڈی قسمت، بھانویں ڈبئیے، بھانویں ترئیے

رَکّڑ، رینٹر، نِیائیں دا اے وَتّرآپو اپنا

کاچھی تے کلر اٹھی اِکّو نئیں نی کدّھی پلئیے!

تلواراں نوں سان چڑھاؤنا، جرم جے کوئی ہُندا

پتھراں نوں جیبھاں دے دینیاں سَن اساں فنکاراں

تنویر بخاری دیاں علامتاں دی کجھ وننگی ویکھ:-

دِل نگری وچ اَنّا چائی پھردے نین ہلاکو

سدھراں دی دُنیا وی کس چنگیزؔ دی پھَنڈی کُٹی

چڑھیا چن بخاری تے اساں جاتا کِرن ساڈے وی ٹھوٹے وچ پے گئی کوئی

دِیوا آس دا بَل کے اِنج بُجھیا کوئی لک گیا جِسراں ”جھا“ کر کے

کیہ کیہ ”میوز“ بنے پے کیہ کیہ تاج محل پے اُسرے

اکھ اُگھڑی تے کھورد نکلیا سُفنا رنگ برنگا

لے لیا کیوں سدھراں نے جوگ کچی عُمرے

رُت دا سندھور وی تے نِری اِی وسار سی

ذہن دے ٹیلی ویژن اپتے نچ اٹھیا اِک سایا

چھائیں مائیں ہوون والا فیر نہ نظری آیا

سبھو یاد شہ، بیگیاں، گولے، رنگ والے دے گولے

دُکی موئی دا کیہ بنسی وَجیا جس دم یَکّا

میں پریرے بیٹھ کے پیا ویکھدا ساں دِل لگی

برف آخر برف سی تے دُھپّ آخر دھپّ سی

چفیرے لووے اُسّر گیا اے شیشے دا بے در گُنبد

ہے رنگلا پر گلوب اُتے کیہ آوے کوئی پروانہ

کمرے نُوں دھواکھ کے چھڈے گی

اُس اگ جو اندر بالی اے

کِدّ آوے سدھراں دی بھرجائی دا مکلاوا

راہ تکیندیاں رہندیاں دِلدے وِیر دیاں دو بھَیناں

دل تے دُکھدی دُھپ پئی لِشکے، اکھوں ورھدیاں کنیاں

گِدڑ گدڑی دا ویاہ خورے! کِدّن مُکنائئیں حالی

ہُن تے مِینّہ ورھدے توں ربا، واہ دا چِر ہو چلیا اے

کڈھ چا دُھپ ذرا کو گلِیاں اکھیاں سُکنے پالاں میں

خورے! کیہڑی گلّوں اوہدا نکلا ڈِنگا ہویا

اج توڑی نئیں میری ایسے سوچ دی تَند تُرٹی

اوہدے مچدے ہونٹھاں اُتوں سگرٹ بالیا جا سکدا سی

اوہدے روپ دی بھٹھی وچ ہر سکّہ ڈھالیا جا سکدا سی

روپ دے بھانبڑ مِریاں نظراں نُو اِی نِگھ نئیں دِتا

سَونہہ کھاوے اُس چن توں جنہے اکھیاں نئیں اُشنائیاں

جگ دے مُکھاں اُتے لکھیاں ہوئیاں سوچ وچاراں

چپ چپیتا پڑھدا رہناں سارا دن اخباراں

In our land, Punjabi poetry also follows a tradition — where the sorrows of love are expressed through long poems that aren't just stories, but feel like the journey of an entire life.

These poems are written in such a connected and continuous way that no part can be separated or placed out of order, because doing so could ruin the flow and spirit of the whole piece. This is why poems like long narrative poems (like mathnawi) need to be treated as complete, living works.

From poets like Muhammad Bakhsh, Syed Waris Shah, and Molvi Ghulam Rasool, I have unearthed this deep-rooted tradition from the "graveyards" of today — and many smaller and lesser-known writers have also kept this tradition alive in their own ways.

Tanvir Bokhari, though, has not let this tradition die. His style follows the path of a neorealist writer — one who pulls the reader so close that they begin to feel like the writer themselves.

The writer Marc Sporta once followed this method: he wrote pieces of broken stories on a few pages, without any clear order or book cover — and simply handed them over to readers. Each reader could piece them together however they liked, creating their own story from the fragments. Some pages even had nothing written on them — just space for imagination.

In the same way, we read Tanvir Bokhari’s poetry not as distant observers but as co-creators, actively shaping meaning and feeling. His poems are like playing cards — every piece has its own color and power. One may be a queen, one a king, another an ace — yet each holds value in its own way.

Still, even as we play with these poetic cards, we often try to finish the game in just a few clever moves — but Tanvir Bokhari always has one more surprise to play.

As he says...

دَڈّے ویلے نُہا کے اکھیاں نُوں، باناں سوچ دا پہن کے نِکل پَیناں

شام پئی میخانے دے وچ جا کے کر چھڈ دا لِیر کتیر ہاں میں!

اَج تے اک ویہڑے والے نوں وی نئیں میری پچھان

جھکھڑاں توں پہلے سارا پِنڈ سی جانُو مِرا

دُھپّوں سہمے پنچھی نوں کوئی رُکھ نئیں جھَلیا حالے

اوہ تتّا وی رد دے گا، جے مَیں ایہہ چھِٹی پائی

غم جد دِل میرے دی حالت لِکھ دیندے مُکھ اُتے

دھو چھڈدے نیں اتھُرو، ناں جے بھیت نہ کھُلن تیرے

چِلکدی سی مُکھڑے تے وارنش جہی رُوپ دی

کھو رُد کیوں سی؟ جے اوہ آءِل کلمہ دی تصویر سی

مالی کیڈ رکھے رکھوالی، پاہرے لکھ بٹھاوے

اُچیاں اُچیاں کندھا چوں وی خوشبو اُدھّل جاوے

سوچنا واں زندگی اے یا کرائے دا مکان

جیہڑے ویلے جی کرے مالک کہوئے ”جانکل جا“

چھیک نیں تے چِکن دے جھَگّے وچ جیوں موریاں

کون پُورےَ کھّپے ا۔نھّے کھُوہ نیں بہوں ڈونگھے جناب!

میں سمجھاں پئی جو کجھ لبھیا جُڑیا پیش کراں گا

لوکی آکھن مُنج دی رَسّی وِچ نہ لعل پروویں

بوہے باریاں ڈھوکے ایویں اندر تڑیا بیٹھائے

میلا اُجڑن والا اے، کوئی خبر اوہنوں اپڑائے

مر گیا تنویر تے ہوئی نہ کِسے نوں وی خبر

نالدے کمرے چ اونویں ریڈیو وَجدا رہیا

Allama Ghulam Yaqub Anwar:

This passage is written by Allama Ghulam Yaqoob Anwar, who describes poet Tanveer Bukhari as a “Poet of Words and Thoughts.” He recalls the first time he heard Tanveer Bukhari recite a Punjabi ghazal and instantly realized, “This man is truly a poet of words.”

He praises how Bukhari uses simple yet rich words like:

Beauty, imagination, heart, beloved, longing, laughter, sadness, dreams, pain, desire, love, and separation...

صورت، حسن، جمال، تaصور، دل، دلبر، دلداری

کھیڈن ملھّن، ہّسن، روون سنگ دِلاں سنگ یاری

ریجھاں، سدھراں، سِکّاں، سَوڑاں، لوڑاں، تھوڑاں حیلے

پھسنا، اُدنا، اُڈنا، پھسنا، جال، شکار، شکاری

درد کہانی، وخت، قضیئے، ناز، نیاز، نہورے

جوبن، رتّاں، نین، کٹاری، زلفاں، سپ، پٹاری

These words are used in such an artistic way that they capture the essence of life — from happiness to heartbreak, from love to sorrow.

Allama Yaqoob then compares this mastery over words with a famous English poet, Edward Thomas (1878–1917), who in one of his poems addresses words as if they are alive. He says:

"O words, floating on the sea, someday may you pick up the pearls of my mother tongue... whispering gently like the wind through broken walls, carrying my joys and sorrows."

بحراں وچ پُرتّے جاون والیوا اکھّرو! سُنا

کدی کدائیں تُسیں مِری ”ماں بولیوں“ موتی چنناں

ایس طرح جیوں سیٹیاں مارن والیاں وگدیاں واواں!

ٹٹیاں کندھاں دی جھِتیاں توں دُکھ سُکھ اپنا پُنناں

Thomas treats words as delicate, soulful things — more precious than dreams. He wants the birds in his country’s gardens to be careful when they fly near roses so they don’t break them, just like how a poet like Tanveer Bukhari handles words with care and love. He imagines words dancing with him like poetry itself.

”کدی کدائیں مینوں اکھّرو! اپنے نال نچاوّ

کدی کدائیں شاعر وانگوں ایس طرح کر جاوّ

جے میں تاڑی لا کے کدھرے چڑھ اسمانیں جاواں

یا مُڑ کھلا کھلوتا تھاں تے پیا ہلارے کھاواں

Yaqoob compares this handling of words to a classical music master — like Ustad Ashiq Ali Khan — who sings complex ragas (melodies), separating each note skillfully, making listeners lose themselves in the music.

He says that expressing feelings with words is not easy. You can learn grammar and pronunciation, but capturing deep emotions in a single perfect word — that is a gift only true poets have.

Yaqoob explains that even the English language, which is rich and subtle, sometimes struggles to describe certain sounds and feelings — like the soft whisper of the sea, or the barely-heard wind. These need special words like:

soft, gentle, sweet, heavy, hushed, or floating.

Still, common people often can’t say exactly which word they want — they only know what feels right when they hear it. But a poet like Tanveer Bukhari knows exactly which word to use — as if it's instinctive.

Then he quotes another English poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822), from his poem “Lines Written in Dejection”. Shelley writes:

“I wish I could lie down like a tired child, sleep and cry over my painful life... but even death refuses to take me in, and I feel the cold wind passing through my dead thoughts like a final song.”

رب کرے میں اک تھکے ایانے بال وانگوں

لماں پے کے، اپنی ایس دُکھی حیاتی تے روندا روندا سُوں جاواں

جیہڑی میں ہن توڑی جھلّی آؤناں، تے اگوں

جھلّن تے مجبور آں، جد توڑی موت دی نیندر

مینوں اپنی جھولی وچ نئیں لے لیندی

تے میں موت دی نِگھّی ہوا وچ

اپنیاں گلھّاں ٹھنڈیاں، سُکھی ہندیاں ویہنداں

تے اپنے مردے ہوئے دماغ اُتّے

سمندر نوں اخیری راگ دی پھوک ماردیاں محسوس کرداں

This, Yaqoob says, is the power of a real poet — to find the exact right word, the perfect sound, to express a deep feeling. While others guess and fumble with words, the poet chooses the one word that truly fits. That's the miracle of poetry.

Lastly, he quotes one of Tanveer Bukhari’s own lines to show this power:

“The grinding stone of the heart, the bowl of sorrow, and the bundle of years —
Tears sift slowly in the sieve of eyes.”

This is poetry that hits home. Just like Coleridge, who said that lifting a single stone from the pyramids with bare hands is as hard as changing a word in a line of Shakespeare or Milton. That’s how sacred and perfect great poetry can be.

دِل دی اُکھّلی، غم دی موہلی تے عمراں دا جھوناں

اکھیاں دے چھجاں وچ اتھرو پھٹک پھٹک کے چھاتے

Chaudhry Muhammad Afzal Khan:

Chaudhry Muhammad Afzal Khan, the editor of Panj Darya (a magazine from Lahore), writes about Tanveer Bukhari in his article Tanveer and Tanveer Bukhari:

“Tanveer's body is full of the light (meaning: spirit) of Punjabi love and a deep passion for the Punjabi language.
Tanveer Bukhari is a young Punjabi poet. He expresses the pain of troubled people and the harshness of the world through poetry. He brings their emotions onto paper in such a way that the paper becomes a masterpiece of his art.”

Professor Sarfraz Hussain Qazi:

Professor Sarfraz Hussain Qazi, in his article Kala Shair (The Artful Poet), writes about Tanveer Bukhari’s poetry like this:

“In modern poetry, artist Tanveer Bukhari holds a good and high position.
He tries to untangle the unseen and complex parts of life through his poetry. Like Kanwal Mushtaq, he writes short poems, but his thoughts are deeper.
He doesn’t use poetry just for pleasure — for him, poetry is a serious reflection of life.
He doesn’t talk too openly or directly but prefers a short and sharp style.
This gives his poetry a unique quality: through simple yet strong imagery and metaphors, he conveys powerful messages.”

He gives this example:

"Pen-friendship is enough —
When we meet in person, the charm fades."

”قلمی دوستی ای ٹھیک اے

ملیاں خلاصے کھل جاندے نیں“

Such a small poem, yet such a big theme.
He doesn’t express hatred directly, but shows how too much closeness can spoil relationships.
He believes that people’s true selves can become clear through written words rather than face-to-face interactions.
Meeting someone often can spoil the whole image of them.

His thoughts move fast and far — like nonstop traffic on GT Road — but they never crash.
Even in his two-line poems, there’s no contradiction; they are well-balanced.
In the first line, he hides the idea, and in the second, he reveals it completely.
For example:

“The king of cards is gone...”

میں جویں:---------

تاش دا ترنجواں پَتا

This isn’t just about a card game — it’s a symbol of life itself.
Once the game is over, nothing remains.
Even if life lasts a thousand years or just twenty, in the end, it all fades away — as if it never even existed.

Many poets use philosophical or emotional language to talk about life.
But Tanveer Bukhari summarizes life from beginning to end in just two lines.
Why? Because his mind is always burning and searching.
He’s constantly deep in thought, and his mind keeps producing strong results like:

“Sparks are flying from inside the body
And I’m sitting like the sun...”

پنڈے وچوں چنگاں پھٹدیاں نیں پئیاں

سورج پی بیٹھا واں

If I say that Tanveer is one of the best poets writing two-line poems today, I wouldn’t be lying.
Yes, ideas and philosophy can be expressed in two lines — but it’s extremely hard to contain deep feelings in such a small space.
That’s why his emotional tone seems quiet or hidden.
The world of emotions in his poetry feels pressed down by the weight of consciousness.

He ends with a powerful image:

If a thorn pricks a lover while walking the path of love,
And they let out a cry — it will be a note of music. I’ll be that cry...

پیار دے راہیں کِسے پریمی نُوں کنڈا چُبھ جاون تے

نِکلے گی ”سی“ جسدے مُونہوں، اوہ مئیوں ای ہواں گا

Khalil Atish:

Khalil Atish wrote an article in 1962 about Tanveer Bukhari. The title he gave was:
"A Traveller on New Paths."

He writes about Tanveer Bukhari's poetry, saying his poems show new thinking and fresh direction. His collection of poems is in front of me. The deep, pure Punjabi words pull my imagination and ask:

"How do you see me?"

When I dive into his poetry, I see this:

نہ کر ساڈ پکھ توں زُلفے رج کے پالے گُنجھلاں
اسیں تے اگے ای چاہنے آں پئی واٹ نہ چھیتی مُکّے

"Don't make us hungrier with your beautiful curls,
We already love you; just don’t block our path too early."

The writer says Bukhari writes in a special way about life’s pain—the pain hidden deep down. His poetry talks about the struggles of life, hopes, and dreams. When darkness surrounds people, Bukhari’s poetry becomes like Ghalib’s famous verse:

مشکلیں اتنی پڑیں مجھ پر کہ آسان ہو گئیں

"So many difficulties came over me that they became easy."

Sometimes, the sorrow inside Tanveer Bukhari rises so deeply that I start to feel like this too:

منزل دور ہو گئی آتشؔ! انج لگا جویں فاصلے سارے ای مُک گئے نیں

"The destination feels far away, Atish! As if all distance has disappeared."

When common people are sad, they talk to feel better. But a poet paints this sadness into a picture through poetry. The artist draws with blood, and from it, a statue is born. The one who sings looks for support in musical instruments. The fire inside is strong. If this fire is kept within college walls, it can burn a person completely. That fire must come out.

In Tanveer’s poetry, you will often find sweet moments of love. But sometimes, he also tells us the truth of the world around us:

سب پرات دے نین پراہونے، سب حرصاں دی جھاک

"All the eyes are unfamiliar, full of greed."

This line shows us the world around us—full of selfishness, lies, and trickery.

Tanveer is not someone who hides in mystery. He says clearly what he sees. I’ve seen many sides of him. Sometimes, I saw him mourning life in dark lanes. Sometimes, the lines on his clothes showed the structure of his face. But no matter what, his sincerity stays the same. He does not believe in fake beauty or pride. That’s how he lives too.

Tanveer Bukhari is a young poet in his mid-twenties, but what he has written in Punjabi is a great gift. His writing is full of emotions, the beauty of language, and an easy style that takes the reader into a world where:

There is the joy of love,
The light of beauty,
The fire of passion dancing.

In that world, you find everything that seemed lost. There is no loneliness of “me and you.” It’s a place where even great poets like Amir Khusro would say:

نمی دانم چہ منزل بُود شب جائیکہ من بُودم

"I don’t know what kind of place it was, where I stayed that night."

When a writer goes so deep into these emotions, his words become permanent, something time can’t erase. When people read his words and see:

کیہ ہویا جے چار چفیرے بھانبڑ نیں پے بَلدے
شالا! لگی رہوے بخاریؔ انجی توڑا کھوہی

"So what if flames burn all around—
May Bukhari keep burning like this!"

Then it becomes clear that the poet has reached his destination. Pain becomes a shadow of life, and even medicine. When the bride of life wears a red veil made of tears, that is the real wedding night. A night full of dreams and desires—that is the highest level of feeling.

Reading Bukhari’s poems reminds me of Mian Muhammad Bakhsh:

عِشق بناں تن دشمن دِلدا، دل دُشمن ہے تن دا
وَیری دے وس پے گیا، ویری دا سا خار چمن دا

"Without love, the body is the enemy of the heart,
And when love takes over, life becomes a garden of thorns."

I wonder how many homes this fire of love has burned. How many walls are stained with blood? Even today, smoke rises from those ruins. The black smoke darkens the world’s face. The one who burns disappears, but their pain stays in others for centuries.

Love is something that can be felt deeply—but cannot be explained. As Bukhari says:

اَنھی ہو جائیں اکھّے شالا! جے توں غیر نوں تکیں
بولے ہو جاؤ کنّو! جے کر باتاں ہور سُنِیوَن

"May the eyes go blind if they look at someone else,
May the ears go deaf if they hear another’s words."

This is love’s highest level. Bulleh Shah agrees:

He locked his love in a fortress forever. The boat of love can’t reach the shore without struggle. Every wave becomes a wall.

"What the storm gives, those sitting safely on the shore can never understand."

You can feel this pain in every line of Bukhari’s poetry. He shines a light on it with his tears. His poems carry the story of a life full of struggles and sorrows. Sometimes they are colored with love, sometimes with helplessness. But their fragrance touches your mind and brings it to a place where Ghulam Rasool once said:

عشق جنہاں دے ہڈیں رچیا روون کم اُنا ہاں
مِلدے روندے وچھڑے روندے، روندے ٹُردیاں راہاں

"Those whose bones are soaked with love,
They cry when meeting, cry when parting, cry even while walking."

Someone else might say:

بعد مرن تھیں قبرمِری تے جے کر پاویں پھیرا
ہڈیاں مِریاں اُٹھ قبر تھیں کر سن مُجرا تیرا

"If you visit my grave after I die,
My bones will rise and salute you."

The real thing is:

جس کنّی پھُل بدّھے ہوون آوے پاس رومالوں
درد منداں دے سخن محمدؔ دیہن گواہی حالوں

"When picking flowers, bring a soft cloth,
The words of the broken-hearted speak the truth."

Unless a writer feels this love, this pain—his words won’t become true poems. Only then do verses and ghazals come to life. Only then do paintings glow with real emotions.

Thoughts become poetry. Thoughts become beautiful strings of writing. These thoughts give birth to colorful pictures that feel real, not fake. Without them, a person is like a body without a soul.

مجھے یہ ڈر ہے دِل زندہ تُو نہ مر جائے
کہ زندگی عبادت ہے تیرے جینے سے

"I fear, dear heart, that you may die,
Because life feels sacred when you live."

کسے اَن کھڑت پتھّر وانگ پیا ہُندا مَیں ہُن تِیکن
نہ کر دا شاعری تے مر گیا ہُندا مَیں ہُن تِیکن

"I would have turned into a rough, cold stone by now,
If I didn’t write poetry, I would’ve died already."

Here is the easy English translation of the second part of your text (Nasir Agha’s article on Tanveer Bukhari), with all original poetry kept exactly as it is, and translated into English right below each verse.

Nasir Agha

Nasir Agha, in his article titled "A Saint in White Clothes," praises Tanveer Bukhari. He says people are like empty vessels, and even those vessels have free time. They judge people only by their appearance and then quickly change their opinions, saying things like:
“He fooled me; he showed me the right but walked left.”

People can’t recognize someone dressed in strange clothes. If someone is living like a saint (faqir), they may not look like one, but still be deeply spiritual inside. He might not wear a turban, or oil his hair, or shine his shoes. Maybe he wears bright clothes with polka dots, but still holds a true saint's soul. This narrow-mindedness, in a way, protects saints—it helps them stay hidden even while living in this world. They don’t need to go live in jungles. Their hidden look becomes a kind of protection.

There are many kinds of saints. Everyone is different. Today, I want to talk about such a saint—someone who looks stylish from the outside, but inside, his clothes are torn and frayed. I haven’t seen him closely, but I’ve gotten to know him deeply through his books. His writings revealed him to me more clearly than real meetings ever could.

In short, I want to say:

چٹے کپڑیاں وچ فقیر
فن دا اُچا سُچا پیر
ایہدی روح دے اندر چانن
ایدا فن اے پُر تنویر

A saint dressed in white,
A high and pure master of art,
There’s light inside his soul,
His art is full of brightness (Tanveer).

I can’t stand equal to his poetry—I’d seem disrespectful if I tried. From saint to Tanveer, his writing feels to me like this: he was born a saint, and maybe out of fear of his own depth, became Tanveer. But true lovers of beauty have sharp vision. If grammar and language don’t limit us, I’m ready to give this “saint” a new name. To me, language serves humans, not the other way around.

If we call Allama Iqbal a philosopher-poet, then I too want to bring such a saint into Punjabi or Urdu form. Iqbal was both a faqir (mystic) and fakir (thinker). And Tanveer, my friend, is also both—a better fakir than many. And thought (fikr) doesn’t have to belong to someone by blood—it can be shared.

When I see Tanveer's pain and sorrow, I feel the weight of Punjabi’s Mir Taqi Mir, and I can’t help but call him that:

حسن عشق دو موٹے بھارو ہتھ قصائیاں آئے
وقت دی ہاندی رِنھی جاندی ریجھل بے براتے

Beauty and love, two heavy burdens—cut by the butcher’s hand.
Time’s strong wind blows away unfulfilled wishes without ceremony.

He sees the whole world crying along with him, just like every broken-hearted person sees the world full of pain:

کون خوشی نال آیا ایتھے دس او یار بخاریؔ
جیہڑے آئے روندے آئے ٹر گئے چپ چپاتے

Who came to this world happily? Tell me, O friend Bukhari,
Whoever came, came crying, and left in silence.

Just like Shah Hussain, he uses the spinning wheel as a symbol of life. Shah Hussain said:

گم چرخریا گھُم
تیری نلیاں وٹن آئی جیوے پونیاں کتن آئی

Spin, spinning wheel!
I came to spin your threads, like daughters spinning yarn.

Tanveer says:

ایہہ عشق دی پھُٹی پونی اک نہ اجے کتیجی
ماہل ڈھلی کدے تکلا ڈنگا وختیں جند پھڑیچی

This broken thread of love isn’t even spun yet.
The moon has set, the spindle is crooked, and time grips life.

Another poet may say, "O beloved, lift your veil," but Tanveer says:

صدقے واری، سوہنیاں، سجناں، ہیریا، مکھناں چناں
کیہ تنویر وگاڑیا تیرا ایدھر وی تے تک

My love, my beautiful one—
What wrong did I do, Tanveer asks, that you won’t even look this way?

At times, he becomes like Mian Muhammad Bakhsh, giving advice:

سداں نہ رنگ تے روپ نے رہنا سدا نہ ٹھاٹھ جوانی
وقت دے جیٹھ نے لُوہ چھڈنی ایں حُسن تیرے دی وَل

Beauty and charm won’t last forever, nor will youth and pride.
Time’s heat will melt even the glow of your beauty.

Even when sharing his pain, Tanveer can’t fully open his heart. Like Hali, he too holds back out of fear. He says:

مینوں ڈر اے کِتے کسے دی اکھ نہ چون لگے
ایسے گلوں اپنے دُکھ وی نئیں سناوندا گل

I’m afraid someone’s eyes might get hurt,
So I don’t share even my own sorrows.

And about pain, Ghalib expressed it like this:

غالب ہمیں نہ چھیڑ کے پھر جوش اشک سے
بیٹھے ہیں ہم تہیہ طوفان کئے ہوئے

Ghalib, don’t provoke me—I’m already sitting prepared for a storm of tears.

Tanveer says:

کھا کھا تیرے غم دیاں ماراں، پی پی لُونے ہنجو
بھریاں ہوئیاں بھانڈے وانگوں نئیں پر دیندا جھل

I’ve taken your sorrows again and again, drinking salty tears—
Like an overflowing pot, I no longer spill anything.

So we cannot say Tanveer is only pushing forward old traditions. He’s a modern, deep poet of a growing language. For example, compare:

Hafeez writes:

ایسا ہو کوئی نامہ بر جو بات پہ کان دھرسکے
سُن کر یقین کر سکے جا کر انہیں سنا سکے

If only there were a messenger who could truly listen,
Believe the words, and then deliver them truthfully.

Another Urdu poet says:

پیام بر نہ میسر ہوا تو خوب ہوا
زبان غیر سے کیا شرعِ آر زو کرتے

It’s better no messenger came,
Why wish your heart’s desires spoken in a stranger’s tongue?

Tanveer says in Punjabi:

چنگا ہندا جے کر آکے آپ ساتھوں سُن دوں
جیو نویں اسیں سُنا سکدے ساں دوجا کِنّویں سناؤُ

It would’ve been better if you had come and heard from me directly—
How could I have explained it to anyone else the way I would’ve to you?

Iqbal says:

فرشتے سے بہتر ہے انسان بننا
مگر اِس میں پڑتی ہے محنت زیادہ

It’s better to be human than an angel—
But it takes more effort.

Tanveer says:

پھُلاں نالوں سَستے تارے بندیوں ملک نے ہولے
اچا نیواں، نیواں اُچا کرن اُدم دیاں پکھّاں

They’ve priced stars cheaper than flowers; this country is strange.
To raise the low and lower the high—that’s the dream of hard workers.

On Iqbal’s lesson of self-respect (khudi):

مِنت کِسے دی کاہنوں کرنی اپنی ہمت ورتیں
ڈگدا ڈھیندا، اُٹھ بہندا کم بناویں اپنا
کِسے دے لارے چنگے نہیوں تِڑ نہ ماریں دا فر
پال وکھاویں لجاں شرماں ساتھ نبھاویں اپنا

Why beg anyone—use your own strength.
Fall, rise, and still keep building your life.
Don’t rely on false hopes—
Respect, modesty, and loyalty are our path.

And then, explaining strong belief, he says:

مَتھّا رگڑ نہ بھَنّیں گوڈے اَیویں باجھ یقینوں
دونی دوارا چھَڈ کے سجن وہم گواویں اپنا!!

Don’t rub your forehead or bend your knees without true belief.
Leaving the right path, don’t lose your loved one to mere doubt!

A few new-style verses:

اوہ وی حالاں اٹھے ای سن تازہ تازہ نظراں لے کے
میں وی پہلی پہلی واری لکھیا سی افسانہ دل دا

They too came with fresh eyes and new feelings—
And I, for the first time, wrote the story of my heart.

کون ایڈا میلیاں لیراں کتیراں ویکھی
جدپھتوہی شرٹ دے تھلے لُکانواں گے اسیں

Who has ever seen rags this dirty,
That we hide under neatly ironed shirts?

رات بھر دے لکھے ہوئے کاغذاں نوں ساڑ کے
فجر دے مُکھ واسطے پوڈر بناواں گے اسیں

We’ll burn the pages we wrote all night,
To make powder for dawn’s fresh face.

ہن انیجے گی بخاری جی! مشیناں تے غزل
ایٹمی ویلے چ دِل دی رت نہاواں گے اسیں

Now it’s Tanveer Bukhari’s turn—ghazals on machines!
In nuclear times, we’ll bathe our hearts in poetry’s blood.

About the new era:

شام پیندی اے تے لوکی مَلّ بہندے نیں کلب

Evening falls, and people now gather in clubs.

نئیں گھراں دے دیویاں وِچ تیل حیسراں رہ گیا

No oil is left in the lamps of homes.

شام پئی تے انار کلی چوں ہو آیا دل کافر
پچھلی راتیں لَا الہٰ دی لا پتاتی پٹی مُڑ چھُٹی

Evening came and my sinful heart wandered Anarkali.
The patch of “La Ilaha” slipped off from last night’s prayer.

پے گیا خصماں نوں کھانا عینکاں دا کیہ رواج
آدمی دے نال اکھّاں میلدا نئیں آدمی

May enemies eat this trend of glasses—
Humans no longer meet eyes with other humans.

Tanveer feels the pressure of censorship. He writes:

پاؤندے رہو تنویرؔ وانگوں ٹیبل اُتے گھُگیاں
قلمان تے پابندی اے لِکھنا کسے گھُگھّو اے جی

Keep placing silent bowls on the table like Tanveer—
Pens are tied up; writing has become a silent scream.

So Tanveer writes about love, both real and spiritual. He points out contradictions, mysticism, truth, and society. Many sides of life are reflected in his poetry. As he himself says:

میریاں نظماں غزلاں اندر کیہ اے یار بخاریؔ
کُجھ اپنی کجھ اپنے آل دوالے دی عکاسی

What’s in my poems and ghazals, O friend Bukhari?
Some are about me, and some reflect the world around me.

He also shows the sad state of poor writers who can’t afford to publish books. He reflects the pain of society’s broken people:

مال اے پندرھاں دیہاں دا پڑچھتی ول پیا تکناں وا
نئیں تے اوہنوں پیکے گھل کے نویں کتاب چھپالاں میں

I’ve been staring at the deposit of fifteen villages—
Otherwise, I’d pawn my in-laws’ gifts and print a new book.

At the end, if I look at Tanveer from a critical lens, I still see:

بڑا ملاپڑا تے ھس مُکھیا سِدھڑ جیہاں تنویر بخاریؔ
انج تے اوھدے وچوں وی سو عیب نکالیا جا سکدا ای

He’s open-hearted, cheerful, and straightforward—
Yes, even he has faults, if you look hard enough.

سی کوئی چیز جتھّوں دی، اسیں اوتھے بھُلا آئے
بگانی شَے تے کیوں ایمان کوئی اپنا کھڑا آئے

We forgot the value of things that were ours—
Why put your faith in what belongs to someone else?

دُکھاں نوں آؤندیاں تک تک کے سوچاں پُچھدیاں میتھوں
ایہہ وَیری آئے نیں تیرے کہ یُوسفؔ دے بھرا آئے

Sorrows keep visiting me—
Are these enemies of yours, or brothers of Yusuf (Joseph)?

کُراہے پَین یا راہے، ہے مرضی اپنی راہیاں دی
اسین ہر واٹ اُتّے بال کے دِیوے ٹکا آئے

Whether the path is right or wrong, it’s up to the traveler—
But we’ve lit lamps on every path we walked.

دھمالاں پاوندا پرتے کہ خالی ڈولدا آوے
فقیراں وانگراں دِل نوں ترِے بُو ہے بٹھا آئے

He dances wildly but walks around empty—
Like a true faqir, he has filled hearts with fragrance.

بخاریؔ دنیا دی کوئی چیز پلّے کا سنُوں بَنھدے
اسیں ہر دست میخانے دے بوُہے تے لُٹا آئے

Bukhari, is there anything in this world that belongs to us?
We’ve given everything away at every tavern’s door.

Professor Akram Saeed:

In his article “Kikkri Chhaan te Qaleen”, Professor Akram Saeed writes about Tanveer Bukhari and says:

He is a “poet of peace,” carrying deep pain, torn by separation, pure in tradition yet drawn toward new values and customs. Tanveer Bukhari feels the sorrows of people, cries with them, and prays for their happiness—his gentle heart is moved by small events, which he presents with great artistry. His poetry mixes the bitterness of life in its very fabric.

One verse is about a sister longing for her brother—something God didn’t fulfill. This sense of missing becomes part of her life:

پر ڈرنی آں اس دنیاں توں
ایہہ دنیا وہمی شکّی اے
ایہہ آکھے گی نا محرم تھیں
بس یاری ایہدی پکّی اے

But I am afraid of this world
This world is doubtful and skeptical
It says: "Don’t trust anyone except a confidant—
That friendship alone is true."

Even so, she keeps that core longing inside her life—and God has not fulfilled it.

He moves on to a daughter’s grief—a deep sorrow only parents fully understand:

دھی دا جمنا، مرنا دویں
ماپیاں واسطے مُہل

The birth and death of a daughter—both are seasons
Of sorrow for parents.

Tanveer becomes very emotional when writing about this. He addresses God without fear:

توں کیہ جانیں دُکھ دھیاں دے
توں تے لا شریک

What do You know of a daughter’s grief?
You—there is no partner with You.

He describes a mother in a marketplace, spotting a girl child—helpless—shouting in pain. Her only crime: existing in that marketplace. The mother is seen as immoral, the father a stranger. Even if she recites the Quran and prays, the world won’t forgive her. She remains “fallen” or “dishonored” in public eye:

اک رب تھیں ناطہ جوڑکے
میں چھڈے ساک تے سَین
میں اجے وی اوہو کنجری
میں اجے وی اوہ ڈَین

After pledging and promising to God,
I left my reputation and honor—
I am still that woman they call “fallen”—
Even now, I am that “dishonored one.”

Professor Saeed says that Tanveer brings the complexities of modern life, influenced by science and machines, into his poetry. Old values are breaking, and new ones have not fully settled. Everyone is going through stress, confusion, anxiety—peace is gone. A sensitive poet like Tanveer screams at clerics, scholars, and writers:

ٹور اوے کوئی ٹولو
چین گواچ گیا
چین کدھر گیا اے تنویر آکھدا اے

Go somewhere, group of people—
Peace has been stolen
Where has peace gone? asks Tanveer.

He paints a picture of a lost, love-filled time gone by:

بِیتیا سماں پیاراں والا
مکا عشق دا دانہ پانی
حرصاں جال وچھایا
امن دا پنچھی اللہ بیلی
جیون بیت دھایا
روحاں وِلکدیاں
کسے گیت نہ پیار دا گایا

The time of love has passed
The seed of love has dried up
A web of greed has spread
God’s bird of peace is lost
Life passes by
Spirits wander
No one sings a song of love.

In this age of science, it's not only the seed of love that has dried up, but all our values. On the outside, we have polished ourselves; inside—pure dust:

گورے گورے رنگاں وچ ایویں کالکاں لُک رہندیاں
بوٹ وچ لُک جانید جیویں بابو دی پاٹی جراب

Under fair complexions, dust settles unseen
Like stains in a gentleman’s sock.

We hide behind makeup and masks:

میک اپ دی تہہ تھلے اپنا اَصلاح انج لکاندے نیں
پنج سو پچونجاں دی ڈبی وچ جویں ”تار“ چاپاندے نیں

Under layers of makeup we show our ideals
Like planting wires inside a 525‑rupee packet.

شیو کرا کے میک اپ کرلاں مَیلا سوٹ دھوالاں میں
دل اوہ چیج تے نئیں ناں جیہڑی مڑ کے پینٹ کرالاں میں

Shave, wear makeup, wash a dirty suit
But not the thing inside—like repainting it.

Tanveer criticizes this mechanical era:

ساری رات مشیناں گھتی رکھیا اے کُرلَٹّا!!!
آندی سی تے، ہو جاندی سی نیندر چھائیں مائیں

Curl-utensils hummed all night!
Sleep would come and then a shade of rest would arrive.

ویلے دی جند اُتے کہیں بنیاں یار بخاریؔ
سائنس وچ جے روح ہوندی تے روندی ڈھائیں ڈھائیں

On the clock of life, say something, friend Bukhari—
If science had a soul, it would cry tears.

He says modern life turns us away from each other—we human-machine ourselves. We lose the feeling for each other. Tanveer mourns this:

ذہن دے ٹیلی ویژن اتے نچ اٹھیا اک سایا
چھائیں مائیں ہوون والا فیر نہ نظری آیا
بیلے وچ کوکیندی مُرلی وی اک جادو اے، پر
اوہنوں ریڈیو دی موسیقی ہوسی آہرے لایا

On the mind’s television a shadow danced—
But no shade ever came again.
A flute playing in a celebration is magic—but
Who brought the music of the radio to it?

He protests this soullessness and brings us back to old‑time, simple truths—sitting under the shade of a kikkri (bushy tree), feeling the ground beneath, touching the life around:

This closeness to nature is freedom, peace, honesty. A carpet is actually a symbol of a forced, artificial environment. In that world, there’s suffocating false delicacy and hollow joy, which Tanveer cannot accept. He prefers the shade of kikkri—here there’s freedom, honesty, comfort—and he stands with a strong gaze toward life and people. That shade, and the natural surroundings, are the foundation of his sincere poetry:

میرے شعریں میرا آل دوالا انج دسیا وے
جسراں کسے ڈریور کولوں ڈیزل دی بُو آوے

In my poetry and presence,
You smell the earth as if from a driver’s diesel fumes.

Ghulam Mustafa Busmil:

In his essay "Ash Tray" (written for the book Ash Tray), Ghulam Mustafa Bismil writes:

Tanveer Bukhari ties his shoes with thorns—he doesn’t light a match in a closed room; he doesn’t throw away simple firecrackers, but ones powerful enough to burn entire villages. He is a brave and daring poet—he even fires grenades to properly light up dark, closed corners. This artist, who soaks himself in the poison of cigarettes, cools the burn of his heart by diving into a broken ashtray.

Ash Tray is a collection of his ghazals. In it, he talks about loneliness, the scientific age, the new generation, and the lost human. His language is native and earthy, idioms precise, his similes are unique, and his metaphors are sharp:

تیریاں گنجھلیاں، زلفاں اندر پھا تھا شوق اَوارا
افریقہ دے جنگلیں کھنجیا پھرے جیوں کوئی وچارا
My wild desire got stuck in your curly hair—
Like a poor soul wandering lost in Africa’s jungles.

میرے شعرایں میرا آل دوالا انج پیا دسیا وے
جسراں کسے ڈرائیور کولوں ڈیزل دی بو آوے
My poetry and my being tell of my condition—
Like smelling diesel near a bus driver.

Reading Ash Tray, we realize that Tanveer Bukhari is a sharp thorn—wherever he pricks, the pain stays for a long time. Behind him lies an ocean of deep studies, experiences, and observations. Wherever he turns his direction, it creates waves. He can write in many tones.

In the ghazals of Ash Tray, he shows multiple styles. Some truths, dipped in Tanveer's ink, make readers feel the bitterness of life’s cuts and wounds. Making readers feel this numbness and pain is the job of such a versatile writer:

مر گیا تنویر تے ہوئی نہ کِسے نوں وی خبر
نالدے کمرے چ اونویں ریڈیو وَجدا رہیا
Tanveer died, and no one even knew—
In the next room, the radio kept playing.

He embraces modern styles too:

چلکدی سی مکھڑے تے وارنش جیہی روپ دی
کھور د کیوں سی جے اوہ آئل کلر دی تصویر سی
Her face shined like varnished beauty—
Why be surprised if she was just an oil painting?

آلے تے جیوں دیوے دے دھوں کیتی نقش نگاری
روح دی لاٹ دے پھُیاں پھٹکی بدن مرے دی لوئی
Around her, like a lamp’s smoke, the design was drawn—
Soul’s flame flickered beneath a dying body’s cloth.

میک آپ دی تہہ تھلّے اپنا اصلا اِنج لکاندے نیں
پنج سو پچونجا دی ڈبی وچ جیوں تار چا پاندے نیں
Under layers of makeup, they hide their truth—
Like slipping a wire into a five-hundred-rupee box.

The book contains many beautiful ghazals with unique themes and ideas that break away from the common path. At some places, Tanveer Bukhari also sets his own literary principles—making him not just a master of this era in Punjabi literature, but a reformer too.

Look at his modern yet masterful style:

ذہن د نکرے لگ کے ستیاں کجھ بے تھویاں سوچاں
ایش ٹرے وچ جسراں سگرٹ دے ان پیتے ٹوٹے
Some incomplete thoughts sleep in the corner of the mind—
Like half-smoked cigarette stubs in an ashtray.

ٹھیک ای کہنا واں کجھ میری جیبھ وی کالی جے!
بھانڈا ٹِینڈا سانبھ لَو لوکو! نھیر آون والی جے
Fine, I admit—even my tongue is a little dark!
Take care of the cracked pot, folks—a storm is coming!

جو بن دی دُھپ اوہناں خبرے کنج نوائی اے
میں تے سرا توں ایہہ آفت مر کے ٹالی جے
They don't know how to manage even the little sunlight—
I’ve dodged this disaster from the very start.

ٹھَر دا سی پنڈا بخاریؔ، کمبّدی سی جنڈڑی
لوچدا سی نِگھّ دل۔ میں عاشقی گل پا لئی
The village stood still, Bukhari; the tree shivered
My gaze bent soft—so I embraced love.

ہن تے مینہہ ورھدے نوں ربّا واہ وا چر ہو چلیا اے
کڈھ چا دُھپ ذرا کو گِلیاں اکھّیاں سکنے پالاں میں
Now, O God, the rain has gone wild—
Let the sun come out, I’ll dry my soaked eyes.

میں چھانواں نوں راہ دیاں کندھاں بن دیاں وی ڈٹھا اے
بہندا نئیں تنویرؔ کسے رُکھ تھلے ڈردا مارا
I’ve seen even shade turned into walls on the path—
Tanveer doesn’t sit under any tree, he’s afraid and hurt.

پہلوں نہیں سی دِسدا لاری مُونْہوں مُونْہہ بھرِیچی اے
ہن کنڈکٹر نال اَیویں سِیٹ دا رَولا پاؤندے او
At first, the bus never seemed full—
Now people fight with the conductor over seats.

From the newspaper “Awaam,” Lyallpur (now Faisalabad):

The essay Ash Tray was published on 6 November 1975 in Roznama Awaam, Lyallpur.

This book, where there are samples of art on every page, begins with about eight pages of short poetic expressions—each a unit of thought. Some are not full ghazals but rather small poetic fragments, which we can call a verse, a line, or a reflective statement. Still, it’s a unique and beautiful experiment of thought. For example:

قلمی دوستی ای ٹھیک اے
ملیاں خلاصے کھل جاندے نیں
Pen-friendship is just fine—
When we meet, the summaries unfold.

سن سنتالی توں مگروں دی
منڈے کڑیاں رل کے کھیڈ دے ویکھ نیں؟
After Partition in 1947,
Have boys and girls played together freely?

زندگی۔۔۔؟
حبہ خوتن دی سّس
Life...?
The sigh of Habba Khatoon.

He writes how peace lies like a corpse before the gates of the UN Security Council, while the temples of civilization are tearing it apart.

After these verses, the full ghazals begin. Almost every ghazal holds a unique taste of experience and bitterness. But some verses stand out as exceptionally expressive and poetic:

اوہدے متھے لگن تیکن سدھراں مر مک گئیاں
جاکے وچ پردیس بخاریؔ مک جائے جیویں کرایہ
Till her forehead could be touched, stars had died—
And in exile, Bukhari too fades away like expired rent.

گل تے ایہہ وے کوئی اپنی واری روند نہ مارے
چُونڈھی دھپھا کھیڈ دیاں ہتھ کیہ ہولا کیہ بھاتا
True words—but no one cries their turn—
When playing with soft puffballs, whose hand is gentle, whose is harsh?

شعر سونا ہون اوہنوں ٹونباں ای گھڑوا دیاں
سوچ جے دولت ہووے تے اوہدے نانویں لادیاں
If the verse is beautiful, the broken drum shapes it—
If thought is wealth, it names the poem.

مال اے پندراں ویہاں دا پڑچھتی ول پیا تکنا واں
نہیں تے اوہنوں پیکے گھل کے نویں کتاب چھپا لاں میں
A 15–20-year-old poem stares from the shelf—
If not good, I’ll send it off to in-laws and print a new one.

جاندے سورج نے چک کھڑیا اُس مٹیار دا سالو
لگدے وَس کدی نہ کدھروں لئیے چیز اُدھاری
The setting sun picked up the shawl of that girl—
Seems like nothing she ever took was borrowed.

گھڑی مُڑی نہ کھولو یارو بوہا دل دی ولگن دا
کچی جلد کتاب دی اِسراں پڑھیاں اُکھڑ جاندی اے
Don’t twist the watch, friends—it opens the door to heart’s fire—
Like a thin book cover that peels off when you read it too hard.

میں تے پنڈ دے وٹاں بَنّیاں توں ای کھوتر لیندا واں
بعضے پاک ٹی ہاوس اندر بیٹھے دا تری داہندے نیں
I take clay for bricks from the village paths—
Some just gossip inside Pak Tea House.

Tanveer Bukhari is a sharp and striking Punjabi writer. He has strong command over writing essays. Being experienced and mature, he’s always thinking about new ideas. All the symbols he uses in this book come from our own soil—not from outside—like bhujjay phullay, bhaajhar, biha takkar, pona, kaatha, and many more.

There’s a famous Urdu couplet:

زیست ہمسائے سے مانگا ہوا زیور تو نہیں
اک کھٹکا سا لگا رہتا ہے چھِن جانے کا

Life is not a borrowed jewel from the neighbor—
Still, we always fear it may be taken away.

Tanveer Bukhari’s line is no less than this:

جیون؟ جیوں گوانڈھن کولوں منگیا ہویا آتا
لگدے وَس کدی نہ کدھروں لئیے چیز اُدھاری
Life? Like flour borrowed from a neighbor—
Feels like something always borrowed, never truly yours.

This book is full of wonderful experiences. Each verse contains something of value. In such a book, vague or unclear poetry should not appear. For example:

توڑنا ای جے ضروری اک پاسے کر کے توڑ
رستے وچ کِرچاں کھلارن ٹھیک نئیں او بیلیا
If you must break it, do so to the side—
Scattering shards on the path is not right, friend.

آلے تے جیوں دیوے دے دھوں کیتی نقش نگاری
روح دی لاٹ دے پٹھیاں ٹھیکی بدن مرے دی لوئی
Like drawing patterns from lamp smoke around—
The flame of the soul flickers beneath a dying body’s cloth.

In summary, this is a beautiful book, a new addition to literature. It deserves a place in libraries.

مَیں ہر لحظہ نویں رنگ دی، نویں شَے ہاں بخاریؔ
جے لبھنی سی توں یک رنگی، مشیناں وچ بڑی سی
I am every moment a new color, a new thing, Bukhari—
If you were seeking uniformity, it’s in the machines, not in me.

From Haft Roz Punjabi Akhbar (25 September – 1 October 1975):

Tanveer Bukhari has written nearly fifteen books. He’s a versatile Punjabi writer in both poetry and prose. Receiving support from literary figures in big cities is as much a blessing as living in his native Gujranwala village. He’s even compiled a Punjabi dictionary—a feat more impressive than a city poet writing a few poems or essays. Without seeking fame or using flashy tactics, Tanveer writes sincerely in service of literature.

“Ash Tray” is his collection of ghazals that bring fresh air into stale literary circles. He has a healthy outlook and the courage to experiment linguistically. He uses many unusual words, idioms, and metaphors that traditional ghazal poets would avoid. Instead of rehashing old words, he breathes life into current speech:

دھرا پڑن توں پہلاں دُکھڑے مکن دی گل جھوٹھی اے
ساپ ایہہ کیہ نیں؟ کچی سڑک تے لاری دے ہچکولے نیں
Before the ground settles, complaining of pain is false—
Are these snakes? They’re just bumps in the dirt road.

سوچنا ں واں زندگی اے یا کرائے دا مکان
جیہڑے ویلے جی کرے مالک کہوے جا نکل جا
I wonder—is life a rented house?
The moment it pleases the landlord, he says, “Leave.”

اوہدے متھے لگن تیکر سدھراں مر مک گئیاں
جا کے وچ پردیس بخاریؔ مک جائے جِویں کرایا
Till it touches her forehead, all the stars perish—
Leaving her to fade away in foreign exile as if rent had expired.

نِمّو جھاناں ہو کے شامیں پرت اَونّاں دفتروں
خالی ٹانگہ لے کے مڑ دا اے جِویں کوئی کوچوان
Becoming moist in evening dew, he turns back toward offices—
Carrying an empty taxi pole, like a careless conductor.

He brings freshness by using living words, similes, and metaphors tied to today's realities. Breaking the dominance of stale, lifeless words is a major need of our time. Tanveer writes not just for this moment, but for future generations too:

آون والی نسل مشیناں اُتے شعر اُنے گی
کچرک کرسیں یار بخاریؔ سائنس دی بد خوئی
Future generations will write poems on machines—
They’ll rhyme engineering, friend Bukhari, with science’s evil.

His refusal to be limited by old literary rules reflects a deeper rebellion against societal authority and exploitation:

بھانویں سارے نگر نوں اوہ مغز اپنے لالوے
میں تے ایجھے دھاڑ دی نوں چوہدری نئیں مندا
Even if the whole town believes his opinions are righteous—
I won’t accept any overlord’s roar, I don’t bow.

Chaudhry Afzal Khan:

Chaudhry Muhammad Afzal Khan wrote an article titled "Wain" in the Waras Number (October–November 1969). This is also the title of a book by Tanveer Bukhari.

Tanveer Bukhari is a young Punjabi poet. He writes about the pain of humanity, the suffering of hearts, and the cries of society. He pours these feelings into poetry, and that paper becomes a masterpiece of his art.

"Wain" is a collection of Tanveer Bukhari’s poems, songs, and folk-style poetry. It is a beautiful contribution to the new wave of Punjabi poetry.

Wain:

This book is Tanveer’s poetry collection, which includes some of his longest poems. If we separate the last part of the book—where there are a few songs, short verses (called thummanā), chomukhiyā, and the delicate ghazals—it becomes clear that the rest of the book strongly combines his social awareness and poetic skill.

He has made a good contribution to new poetry and has successfully presented some old topics in a fresh way. This book will be considered a valuable addition to Punjabi literature. The following poem gives a glimpse into the style and thinking that runs through the entire book:

نیگیٹو (Negative)

کیہ گوایا ای آیدا اڑئیے
کیتا ای کیہ قصور
کیہڑے جرموں کھوہیا گیا اے
اکھ تیری دا نور

O girl, what have you lost today?
What was your fault?
For which crime has the light
of your eye been taken away?

خبرے ربدی نگری اندر
کیہے رسم و رواج
کیہڑی گلے غیراں دی توں
بن گئیوں محتاج

What customs are there
in the kingdom of God?
Whose words have made you
so dependent on strangers?

ایڈی سوہنی دنیا تیتھوں
کیوں رکھی اُس اوہلے
اوہ جو عرشیں بیٹھا سیکے
ٹھنڈی اگ دے شعلے

Why did He hide such a beautiful world from you?
He who sits on the throne above,
warming His hands on cold flames.

اوہ پھل کا ہدا جسدے اندر
ہووے نہ خوشبو
اس دیوے دا آسرا کیہ اے
جس وچ ناہیں لو

What’s the use of a flower
without fragrance?
What’s the use of a lamp
that has no flame?

انج لگدا اے اڑئیے! تیرا
اکھّوں انھیّاں ہونا
نیگٹیو بنا کے اس نوں
یاد نہ آیا دھونا

O girl, it seems you’ve gone blind—
And even after making your negative,
He forgot to develop your photo.

Monthly Punjabi Zaban:

This article titled "Washna" was published in Monthly Punjabi Zaban, April–May 1976:

How can I describe what’s around me?
What is this space I live in?
Am I on Earth or in the sky?
Am I alive or dead?
I can’t say anything clearly.

If you don’t have reins in your hand,
you can’t control the ride.
If you don’t know the speed,
how can you guess the road or the weather ahead?

In such times, predicting the future
is foolishness, ignorance, and stupidity.

What should I say when there’s nothing left to say?
Everything’s tangled.
The whole system is upside down.
Now, everywhere you hear is noise—
cries, shouts, and screams.

Wherever you turn, it’s full of complaints and sighs.
Everything has become empty,
even minds have lost their form.
Everywhere is spinning in confusion.

Why ask about the helpless and hopeless?
If you try to cry, you start laughing.
If you try to laugh, your eyes rain like monsoon.
Like flowers made of stones—
yellow, pale, with no smell,
no hope, no dreams.

What can happen to a poor soul
in such a lifeless time?

No shelter, no place to go,
like an abandoned, wandering cow.
Every moment, there’s only one question:
“Where should I go?”
You ask yourself, and you answer yourself—
but truthfully, there’s neither question nor answer,
only dreams and dreams.

Sometimes it becomes mist and flies,
sometimes it becomes a carpet and spreads,
sometimes like a flood,
it crosses all boundaries.

A raging storm—
without direction, without rhythm.
A whirlpool of wild thoughts.
Every heart feels like a bitter tamarind fruit,
sour and choking,
neither eaten nor thrown away.

I wonder what kind of storm this is.
But when I look at life,
my thoughts freeze in place.
It seems this is how things really are.

Then what’s the fault of Tanveer Bukhari or Aashiq Warak?
Only that they have the courage to see and feel this—and they want to give this courage to others too.

“Washna” is the volcanic face of Tanveer Bukhari’s poetry.
Even in this intense version,
you can see the colors of friendship and love.

Sometimes, the path becomes a cry of pain.

But when life itself derails,
then seeing and enduring all this becomes a natural and necessary thing.

The goal of pointing out the wounds
is not to make life ugly,
but to protect it from future injuries.

If peace and honor do not shine in the winds and the skies,
then erase my name—
because this truth is higher than time and space.

کیہڑا نِت نِت اُگنا، پھُلنا، پھُلنا ایں مسکیناں
پھُلّاں نال اے رونق ساری، پھُل نہ مِدّھ شوقیناں!

How can these poor ones bloom every day?
It’s the flowers that bring beauty to life,
Don’t pluck them, O lovers of beauty!

Khaleel Aatish:

Khaleel Aatish wrote an article in 1968 titled "Maikhana" (Tavern). He said:

About Tanveer’s "Maikhana", I want to focus on these lines:

خش خش جناں قدر نہ میرا صاحب نوں وڈیایاں
میں گلیاں دا رُوڑ ا کُوڑا محل چڑھایا سایاں

Those who didn’t value me, now praise my master.
I was the dust of the streets, now raised to a royal palace.

Just like Muhammad (peace be upon him) said these words,
showing the highest rank comes from the humblest place.
Even the great poet Jaami said:

سگث راکاش جامیؔ نام بوُدے
“If there is any value in Jaami’s name, it is only because of You.”

I want to write an introduction to this Maikhana—
but whose tavern is it?
The tavern of the Master of the Universe (ﷺ).

And the writer is Tanveer Bukhari, from a small village in Gujranwala.

People call Tanveer Naqvi the king of romantic songs,
but I call Tanveer Bukhari the top writer of Punjabi prose poetry.

Not because he’s my friend.
He lives in a small village,
from a small family,
much younger than me.

But this young man has always written great literature.
His thoughts, his ideas, his words—
everything is rare and unique.

When he speaks in the court of the Prophet ﷺ,
it feels like the threads of Bilal’s love are lighting up his soul.

Even now, I don’t fully understand who he is or how high his art reaches.

In his collection, he writes:

”میں کملی تھلّے لُک رہساں“
“I will hide beneath the Prophet’s cloak.”

Other poets say:
"O Prophet ﷺ, give us shelter under your cloak."
But Tanveer says it with such faith that he even titles his naat with this line.

God Himself takes so much pride in calling the Prophet “Mercy for the worlds”—
and Tanveer shows that same love by making this line the title of his poem.

Just like a poor man once said at the Prophet’s grave:
"O Messenger of Allah, feed me with your hands, and I will eat."

He went to sleep and saw the Prophet ﷺ in his dream,
feeding him bread.
He woke up—and found a piece of that same bread next to his pillow.

This is the kind of faith and love that shines in every drop of this Maikhana.

May the one under the cloak (the Prophet ﷺ) accept this offering,
and may mercy even fall on sinners like me.

Nadar Jajoi:

Nadir Jajvi writes an article in the book Meikhana by Tanveer Bukhari and says:

"Writing a dictionary is as difficult as writing its introduction. This is a sacred place where even great lovers like Junaid and Bayazid feel breathless. If even a soft whisper disturbs this delicate and spiritual presence, it's too much.

If you speak with reverence, then how true it is that a humble devotee of the Prophet (ﷺ) is referred to as a dictionary writer!

A lifetime of poetry still cannot match the chain of Hassan ibn Thabit (RA). His true poetry was when he praised the one wrapped in the cloak (ﷺ). No matter the tribe or language, if it expresses such deep love, no word or thought can truly reach its end.

Meikhana is a collection of devotional poems from a free-spirited poet who, out of pure love, has presented himself in many forms before the High Prophet (ﷺ), who is the crowned leader of both worlds. Beyond him, there is no connection or description...

I consider it immense grace of the Prophet (ﷺ) that a humble person like me was chosen to introduce these naats. And I have tried to honor this unmatched love I have for the Prophet of Arabia (ﷺ). As I’ve said before, everyone can only express praise to the extent of their own ability. If even God's praise is never complete, how can the beloved of God (ﷺ) ever be fully praised?

There are beautiful flowers here and there in the book, but in the following verses, all the poetic qualities are found—lines that the poet has carefully and thoughtfully maintained throughout:

Poetry (Original with Translation):

محبت ادب شوق الفت، عقیدت تھیں سر نوں جھکا کے سلام آکھنا واں
With love, respect, passion, and devotion—I bow my head and greet with peace.

تصور چ ڈب کے تیرے پیار دی دل تے رنگن چڑھا کے سلام آکھنا واں
Immersed in the thought of your love, I paint my heart with its color and greet with peace.

بخاری نوں وی اوسے شوق دا بھانبڑ لگایا ای
That same burning love also set fire in Bukhari’s heart...

سی جیہڑا شوق توں حسّانؐ بن ثابت نوں لا چھڈیا
...the kind of passion that once ignited Hassan ibn Thabit (RA).

ہنجو اکھیاں وچ بھیت دل اندر، اگ ککھاں چ کویں چھُپالئے
Tears in the eyes, secrets in the heart—how can one hide fire in dry grass?

جد ہوش چلّتر کردی اے، جد وہم بڈاوے بن دے نیں
When consciousness plays tricks and doubt becomes a barrier...

ایمان نوں تازہ کرن لئی مَیں تینوں ویکھن آ جاناں
...to refresh my faith, I come to see you.

ہر گھٹ سی چشمہ کوثر دا، ہر بوند چ بند سمندر سی
In every heart was the fountain of Kawthar; in every drop, a boundless ocean.

کیہ لورے سن سبحان اللہ! اُس نُور بھرے پیمانے دے
What need was there to say "Subhan Allah" when the cup was filled with divine light?

When, turning from the path of devotion, the poet finds spiritual elevation through the dust of the Beloved’s (ﷺ) path, he says:

اج بھاگ لگے ارماناں نوں تنویرؔ مبارک دے مینوں
Today, my desires found fortune—congratulate me, O Tanveer!

اج میں وی اوہدی محفل وچ دِل اوہدے لیکھے لا آیا
Today, I too brought my heart into his (ﷺ) gathering of love.

Khalil Atish: Gul-e-Nakhustin

In the book Gul-e-Nakhustin, Khaleel Aatish says:

Tanveer Bukhari is a well-known young Punjabi poet. His poetry reflects traditional Punjabi literature and unique romantic sensibility. Every verse speaks directly to the reader.

His Urdu collection of Naats Gul-e-Nakhustin is a pure offering. His poetic flair shines in every line. The beauty of love and devotion to the Prophet ﷺ is evident throughout.

The poet has presented his tribute in the court of the Prophet ﷺ. May it be accepted, for in my view, that is the ultimate success of life.

If Imam Busiri's poem could earn him the Prophet’s blessed cloak, then it’s not far-fetched to hope for a gift from the same court of mercy.

Hakeem Faiq:

عمر کچری، عقل پکیری، علم ادب سنگ یاری
شعر سخن دا سُچا موتی ایہہ تنویر بخاریؔ
Though young in years, he is wise in intellect, and friends with knowledge and literature—Tanveer Bukhari is a true gem of poetry.

Allama Ghulam Yaqoob Anwar:

کچیاں کلیاں اُتے جنہے عمر گذاری ساری
یار بخاری نالوں ہوسی کیہڑا پیڈا پکاّ
He spent his whole life on fragile buds—who could be more seasoned than our friend Bukhari?

Asi Razwi:

جیہدے پاگل پن دے نوحے عقل وی لِکھ لِکھ ہاری
اتوں بھگت تے وچوں سرمد ایہہ تنویر بخاری
His madness left even intellect speechless. Outwardly a mystic, inwardly like Sarmad—this is Tanveer Bukhari.

Ghulam Mustafa Bismal:

نِکّی جنّی جند تے جر کے بے درداں دے آرے
ویکھو کنج یرانے پالے ایہہ تنویر بخاریؔ
A small life, pierced by merciless saws—see how friends raised this Tanveer Bukhari!

Saqib Cheshti:

اوہ کیہ جانے بھولا پنچھی دنیا کدھر وسدی
ساد مرادا، بھولا بھالا ایہہ تنویر بخاریؔ
That innocent bird doesn’t know where the world lives—naive in wishes, simple and pure, that’s Tanveer Bukhari.

Sadiq Kafi:

بجھون کون
پیڑاں کُٹھیّا
ہاسوں رٹھیّا
شعر بنائیں
درد لکائیں
...
ہے تنویر
لاؤندا یاری
یار بخاری
Who understands this one—built of pain, robbed of laughter, turning grief into verse... He is Tanveer, the one who brings friendship—our dear Bukhari.

Nasir Bokhari:

ویلے دا شاہکار بخاری
Masterpiece of time – that’s Bukhari,
پیڑاں دا دربار بخاری
Court of pain – that’s Bukhari,
تیرا میرا یار بخاری
Friend of yours and mine – Bukhari,
رونا تیری کار بخاری
Crying – your work, Bukhari.
سوڑاں تیرے ہار بخاری
Your sorrows – like garlands, Bukhari,
چوبھاں لاندا، ہسدا گاندا
He brings stings, but still sings and smiles,
سجناں دے وچکار بخاری
Among friends – stands Bukhari.
اج منصور دی ریت تبھاون
Today he dares Mansoor’s path*,
(*Refers to Mansur Hallaj – symbol of truth and sacrifice)
چڑھ بیٹھا اے دار بخاری
Climbed the gallows – that’s Bukhari.
پھل کھڑا ندا باغ اُگاندا
He grows fruits, plants gardens too,
لاندا پیار بہار بخاری
Brings love and spring – Bukhari.
پیڑاں بھیڑاں لوڑاں تھوڑاں
Pain and crowd, needs are few,
نریاں ایہو چار بخاری
Only these four – Bukhari lives through.
Khalil Atish:
(By Khaleel Aatish)
کہندے نیں کڑیال کلاں جنڈیالے کول اِک گراں
They say, near Jandiala, there’s a village named Karyal Kalaan,
ایتھے اک تنویر بخاری، آرٹ تے شعر دی اوہ الماری
There lives Tanveer Bukhari – full of art and poetry,
مینوں لگے نِرا مداری
He seems like a street magician to me!
گھڑی مُڑی اوہ اگ دھراوے، بھابی تائیں ناچ نچاوے
He shows off fire tricks every now and then, makes even sister-in-law dance with him!
مینوں اوہدی سمجھ نہ آوے
I just can’t understand this man!
بندہ ہے یا ہے جنور؟، وگڑے وِگڑے ایہدے طَور
Is he human or beast? His ways are so odd!
ربّا! کر ایہدے تے غور
Oh God! Please look into his case!
نہاون دھون تو وی عاری، اُٹھے چاہ دی کر تیاری
He doesn't even bathe, but gets up for tea preparation.
ایہہ جے اوہ تنویر بخاریؔ
Is this really Tanveer Bukhari?
نری بماری، نری بماری
He’s just an illness – a pure sickness!
چار چفیرے ایہدے تھّبے، اتے، ہیٹھاں، سجّے، کھبّے
Everywhere around him are his wild stunts – up, down, left, right!
الٹا سِدھا ایہہ پاجاماں، فیر وی نیوں نیوں کراں سلاماں
His pajamas are all twisted – and still, I salute him again and again!
Closing lines By Tanvir Bokhari
بخاری جی چلو چھڈّو، فقیر اِنج نہیں گِلا کردے
Come on, Bukhari Ji, let it go – a true faqeer doesn’t complain like this.
بھلا ہووے زمانے دا ٹُرے چَلّو صدا کردے
Let the world be kind – just keep moving, always singing your tune.

Professor Anjum Azmi:
Professor Anjum Azmi writes in his article “The Art of Tanveer Bukhari”:
Poetry in every language of the world shows the beauty of words, their musical quality, elegant phrases, delicate thoughts, and deep meanings of metaphors and symbols. All this reflects the layered life of human beings.
Tanveer Bukhari is a true poet. In his poetry, the tradition of Punjabi poetry has taken a new and unique tone. The truth and freshness in his emotions attract the reader strongly. His ability to use words perfectly is a clear quality. He is a beautiful Punjabi poet — not just a poet, but also a critic and researcher. His poetry proves both his inner beauty and his honest personality. His simplicity is not just in his nature but shines fully in his poetry too. He uses simple words and often reaches the level of deep and difficult expression through simplicity.
I am sure that one day, Tanveer Bukhari will not only be a big name in Punjabi poetry but also in the world of poetry. This is because he is deeply committed, and the honest person inside him is always awake.
He has already written a lot, and will write so much more that we will be surprised by his tireless work. But this is not surprising, because for him, poetry has become like worship. His hard work — his poetry — faces every difficulty of the modern world and will surely reach the point where every truthful person will feel victory. He is a poet of truth and values. He loves human beings and teaches his words to speak the language of love. His poetry is the kind that lives on.
Tanveer Bukhari is a true poet. In his poetry, the tradition of Punjabi has taken a special form that attracts with real and fresh feelings. His skill with words is his clear identity.
Allama Majbar:
از شیشہ گلرنگ چوں جام بکف آری
بینی تو دراں صورتِ تنویر بخاری
از خطہ پنجاب بِسے شعر نگاراند
ایں شاعرِ نو خیز کُند سحر نگاری
From a colorful glass, if you lift it like a cup,
You will see the face of Tanveer Bukhari in it.
Many poets have come from Punjab,
But this new poet writes with magical charm.
Maqsood Nasser:
If we try to list all the qualities of this humble poet who has given all his abilities for the Punjabi language, even then we may not do full justice. This leader of Punjabi literature gave Punjabi poetry a new style and tone. He does not just love village streets, ponds, animals, fields, and clay walls —
He is the soul of the mother tongue.
He is connected with every dust particle and thing of this country.
He can speak hundreds of verses in one sitting. He is the leader of the mother tongue who keeps writing and doesn’t stop.
Tanveer Bukhari writes:
جگ کیڈا ای ہولڑاکر گھتے رکھی رکھسی بھرم تے بھار تیرا
چپے بُرکی، گراہی تے وک جاوے، ایڈا بھُکھڑا نہیں فنکار تیرا
What kind of world is this — full of noise,
Still it will carry your pride and weight.
If it gets a small bite, it sells itself —
But your artist is not that hungry.
If I say he is the only poet in writing new-style poetry, it won't be a lie.
Thought and philosophy can fit into two lines,
But to hold back a flood of feelings in just two lines — that’s a hard job.
Look at the poem:
پِنڈے وچوں چنگاں پھُٹ دیاں نیں پئیاں
سورج جوپی بیٹھا واں۔۔۔
Boils are bursting from my body,
I am sitting under the burning sun...
In France, there was a well-known writer Joachim du Bellay (1522–1560).
He was a true son of France, and French was his mother tongue.
In those days, Latin and Greek were considered better than French.
People used to read and write in those languages, and it was commonly believed that French could not reach their level.
Joachim wrote a book in 1549 in defense and explanation of the French language, giving it a high status.
This was a great work from a writer of prose.
Similarly, the Italian poet Dante had done something similar even earlier.
He wrote Divine Comedy in his mother tongue, and made his language’s name great forever.
Tanveer Bukhari has also taken the same path.
He set out to give his mother tongue Punjabi a respected place.
And he gave his ideas and poetry such depth that the reach and richness of Punjabi literature grew even more.
Tanveer Bukhari is a dedicated son of his mother tongue.
He has given everything at its feet.
He is always busy with it, day and night —
As if he has no purpose in life other than loving his mother tongue.
جگ دی انگلی پھڑ کے ٹُر دا میں تنویر کوئی انّھا ساں
اپنی ہمت سیہتی اپنے رستے آپ بنائے نیں
Holding the world’s finger, I, Tanveer, walked like a blind man,
But with my own courage, I created my own paths.

Below is a simplified English translation of the selected content. Poetry is kept in the original Punjabi, followed immediately by easy English. Critic comments are also simplified and clear:
Roznama Amroz(31 August 1975):
جگ دے مکھڑے اتے لکھیاں ہوئیاں سوچ وچاراں
چُپ چپیتے پڑھدا رہنا سارا دن اخباراں
Thoughts are etched on the face of the world
Silently reading newspapers all day long
مر گیا تنویر نہ ہوئی کسے نوں وی خبر
نالدے کمرے چ اونویں ای ریڈیو وجدا رہیا
Tanveer died and nobody knew
In that dark room, only his radio kept playing
Rana Ghulam Shabbir:
Tanveer Bukhari is a poet who blends tradition, classical style, and modernity. His poetry draws on personal experiences, observations, and challenges—reading it, you recognize his unique voice. He rejects criticism’s rigid paths and breaks old forms to create a fresh style.
Ameen Khayal:
Walking life’s long journey, Tanveer notes events and kindness along the way. He describes them beautifully and with smooth flow, giving us a sense of literary beauty.
Riaz Ahmed Shad:
He doesn’t rely on preset terms or formulas. For him, life is full and imperfect — blind, lame, or any condition. Where society exploits people, he breaks the power of words. He turns ordinary, non‑poetic words into poetry with his magic.
Izhar Ahmed Gulzar:
Tanveer has given ghazal a fresh identity using straightforward village language. His poetry uses pure, rural expressions and simple speech.
Sanu Bhatti:
He describes the cruelty and oppression in our society in such a clear, powerful way. He highlights those deep wounds that make us feel pain and shame.
Muhammad Aslam Samra:
His poetry shows mysticism, tradition, and modern thought — all clear and distinct. He seems rebellious, talking about revolution with new colors. In today’s world, he is intoxicated by experience; he observes the cruel world and expresses his reaction through poetry.
Mian Munir Hussain:
He has shown paths beyond selfishness and injustice in this world. His poems can't be confined to one genre. He deals with pride, poetry, mysticism, knowledge, civilization, customs, real life, religion, true love — breaking any barrier to explain the hidden truths through his verse.
Nasir Agha:
When you see Tanveer’s pain and suffering, you are reminded of the great Punjabi poet Mir Taqi Mir. It’s not wrong to call Tanveer our modern Mir.
Dr. Syed Akhtar Jafri:
Tanveer lives, sleeps, walks, breathes Punjabi language all the time. He needs no praise, no selfish gain. A devoted, content poet, he lives quietly in a village, serving Punjabi language and literature without any greed.
Maqsood Nasir Chaudhry:
The groundbreaking style he introduced is unique to his personality. Such talent doesn’t come every day. He is not only a poet of today but also of the future.
Inam-ul-Haq Javed:
A special musical quality is found in each of his couplets and poems — every line carries a unique rhythm and melody.
Rauf Sheikh (Panjab Rang, Lahore):
In his essay “Basic Anguish” (1980), he says:
Tanveer’s poetry is emotional and heartfelt. He is a traveler through life’s lonely valleys, a wanderer in forests of observation, aware of loneliness and broken relationships, and grateful for being confined inside human existence.
His poetry is the poetry of life’s deepest pains — he doesn’t build walls of confusion or complex castles of words. Rather, he shapes what he sees and feels into verse.
Modern life has scattered people, creating distances between them in cities and villages. Tanveer gave life to that loneliness with his pen.
He is not just a poet of history but also a critic skilled in art and expression. The future may honor his poetry, but his prose and intellectual achievements shouldn’t be forgotten.

Dr. Aftab Ahmed Naqvi (Naḥmaduh):
We praise and send blessings upon the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him). In literature, when we praise and admire the Prophet, we call it naat. This kind of writing is a matchless example of love and devotion, something we don’t find anywhere else.
Many great leaders, politicians, and religious scholars have come into this world and left strong impressions. But if all their services are collected, they still can’t match the status of our Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. Punjabi naat poetry adds a new chapter to this admiration.
نعت تیری سرمایہ میرا
باقی سب ہذیان محمد ﷺ
Your praise is my treasure,
All else is meaningless, O Muhammad ﷺ.
For Tanveer Bukhari, writing naat was like receiving a spiritual blessing. Although he wrote many important things in literature before this, once he began writing naats, everything else seemed meaningless to him.
کہندا رہنا نعتاں اونویں
میتھوں جیویں لکھان محمد ﷺ
He keeps saying naat again and again,
As if it’s me writing Muhammad ﷺ's praise.
Prof. Arif Abdul Mateen (Sohni Dharti):
It’s true that our Punjabi poetry is full of sincere and rare gems about love for our homeland. Our senior poets have praised the peace of their land and expressed deep emotional connections.
But Tanveer Bukhari’s book Sohni Dharti expresses these feelings in a very unique and beautiful way that is unmatched in history. It is the best example of a graceful Punjabi poetic tradition, where you can feel your love for the land in every breath.
It creates a strong emotional bond with our fields, rivers, trees, and villages.
دنیا وچ ہر دیس دے اندر ہر جو ہے ہر بیلے
رہندے نیں موجود بخاری ساڈے جہے ہر ویلے
In every country, every land and corner of the world,
People like Bukhari live, always present among us.
Tanveer Bukhari's poetry carries a universal message, the same as the message of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ — love, unity, and brotherhood.
حُسن محبت تے ایکتا دا سدا سبھنا تیک اپڑاویا جے
میر ی گل دے مگر ضرور لگنا میرے مگر بے شک نہ آیا جے
Beauty, love, and unity always spread to all,
Even if you don’t follow me, remember what I said.
Arshad Iqbal Arshad – About Tanveer Bukhari and His Father:
Tanveer Bukhari inherited knowledge and poetry from his father, Syed Abdul Rahman Shah Mubashir. He was a master poet in both Urdu and Punjabi and belonged to the noble Bukhari Syeds. His pen name was Mubashir.
He was born in the late 19th century in village Kadmay, district Ferozepur. His father was a religious scholar and a memorizer of the Quran. He studied deeply in Islamic studies — tafsir, hadith, logic, as well as Sanskrit, Ayurvedic texts, and English. People called him “Chaudah Ilmi” (master of 14 sciences).
He was very spiritual and lived a simple life. Though he worked in a government job for a while, he left it out of dislike for the British and dedicated his life to spreading Islam. His younger brother supported the family financially, while he traveled and served people.
Many people became his followers. Even non-Muslims accepted Islam through him. He also taught medicine and healed many without charging money.
One day, a rich man whom he had cured offered him a big note. He refused and said:

“I healed you in the name of God. Give this to someone poor.”
When the man insisted and said, “Please take it for your children,” Mubashir Shah got angry:
“Are you my caretaker or is God? (God forbid),”
and threw the note in the fire, where it turned to ash.

His Legacy:
This strong character passed to Tanveer Bukhari as well. He never submitted his work in competitions or accepted awards. If someone disrespected values, he would openly criticize them. But he was also kind and generous like his father.
One time, the narrator needed a book written in Gurmukhi (Punjabi script). Tanveer Bukhari first refused but after a warm conversation, he took him to a small room and gave him many Gurmukhi books saying:

“Take these now, you can have the rest later.”

Final Days of Mubashir Shah:
In 1938, he moved to Bhikhi Wind (then a village in Kasur, now near the India-Pakistan border). He wanted to publish a Quranic commentary. He even prepared a printing press and published some spiritual stories.
But in 1940, he passed away at the age of around 45. He was buried in his home village Kadmay. At that time, his youngest son Tanveer Bukhari was only six months old.
Tanveer Bukhari's Family:
He had two elder brothers and one sister. The eldest, Syed Abdul Ghafoor Shah, died in Pakistan in 1985. The youngest son, Dr. Syed Tanveer Bukhari, passed away on June 1, 2023.
His son, Syed Mohsin Ali Shah Bukhari, described his appearance:

"Medium height, slim and graceful. Wheatish skin. He wore a turban (usually white) or a cap. At home, he wore a traditional tehband and sometimes trousers. His beard had turned white."

Washna 1992 Page58

Poetry from Syed Abdul Rahman Shah Mubashir's booklet "Hazar-ul-Maut":
لکھ لکھ حمد خدائے نوں جس نوں سدا بقا
باجوں ذات خُدائے دی سبھ کجھ ہور فنا
Praise again and again the Lord who lives forever,
Without God's being, everything else will perish.
ویلا ای کجھ جوڑ لے توشا خرچی راہ
دیس بکالے راہیں کجھ نہ چلدی واہ
Use this time to gather provisions for the journey,
In the hereafter, nothing else will help you.
نت نہ ایتھے آونا نت نہ رہن بزار
سُر پر ہوسی جاونا جد سدے سرکار
You won't come here forever, nor stay in these markets,
One day you’ll be called by the Lord and have to go.
غافل ہو کے بیلیا سُتوں پیر پسار
ساتھی تیرے نال دے جا پہنچے دربار
O careless friend, don’t sleep with legs stretched out,
Only good deeds will reach the Divine Court with you.
His Message and Personality:
Syed Abdul Rahman Shah Mubashir was a man of faith, trust in God, and spiritual strength. He believed that begging from others was a dishonor to humanity. His poetry encourages people to rely only on Allah and to leave behind the greed and attraction of this world.
ربا ربا کوکاں ہر دم گھڑیاں کر کر باہیں
دنیا دے وچ کوئی کسے نوں دیون جوگا ناہیں
Call out "O Lord!" all the time, with raised hands,
In this world, no one has the power to truly give.
شوہدی شوم کمینی دنیا، لوبھن حرص وکنی
ہو درویش جھکے جے کوئی سر اوہدے سوہنی
This world is low, greedy, and selfish,
Only a dervish (saint) deserves your respect and bow.
اپنے مالک دا در چھڈ کے غیراں کول نہ جاویں
ہتھ پھڑ لیسی قدرت آپے بندیا ڈول نہ جاویں
Don’t leave your Lord’s door to go beg others,
God Himself will hold your hand when you’re lost.
جس دن توں ہے اساں مبشر ڈور اوہدے تے سُٹی
رج رج ہے دین دُنی دی ہر اک نعمت لئی
From the day we trusted the Lord completely,
We’ve been blessed with every gift of life and religion.
Sufi Teachings:
Mubashir Shah was not just a poet; he was a Sufi, a wise spiritual guide, and his poetry teaches people to trust Allah but also to recognize their own inner self.
ہوش سنبھال توں بندیا او ویلا اپنا آپ بھُلان دا نہیں
کوئی جانے تے اوس نوں کیہ جانے جیہڑا اپنا آپ پچھاندا نہیں
Wake up, human! This is no time to forget yourself,
How can someone understand God who doesn’t even know himself?
صورت رب دی وی آوے کیہ نظر تینوں توں تے اپنی شکل پچھاندا نہیں
پھریں کھنجیا اپنے آپ کولوں ایہ وصف مبشر انسان دا نہیں
Even if God's form appears, will you see it if you don’t know your own reflection?
Running from your own truth is not the quality of a true human, says Mubashir.
His Legacy and Loss:
Syed Abdul Rahman Mubashir was a great writer, poet, Quranic commentator, and scholar of his time. He left behind a lot of valuable writing. Some of this work is preserved at the Punjabi Cultural Centre in Kuriyal Kalan, but much of it was lost.
Among all his children, only Tanveer Bukhari became the true custodian of his father’s legacy, but sadly, Tanveer was just six months old when his father passed away.
The Quranic translation and Punjabi poetic works that Mubashir Shah had written were left behind in India during migration. Only Tanveer's elder brother had access to those writings, but much of that heritage was not saved.
Tanveer Bukhari’s Interview Statement:
In an interview with Imran Haider, Tanveer Bukhari shared that after his father's death, the entire family returned to their village in India, and later, after Partition, they migrated to Kuriyal Kalan (Pakistan).
At the time of migration, the Quranic translation and a large amount of poetic material written by his father was left behind in India and could not be recovered.

TANVIR BOKHARI

Tanvir Bokhari and Public Opinion

Tanvir Bokhari and Public Opinion

"Many writers and poets in life have written about Tanvir Bokhari."

Rauf Sheikh:

Professor Syed Azhar Kazmi:

Zigham:

From the Pen of Nazd:

Poetry by Tanveer Bukhari and Others (translated simply):

Amrita Pritam:

Allama Ghulam Yaqub Anwar:

Chaudhry Muhammad Afzal Khan:

Professor Sarfraz Hussain Qazi:

Khalil Atish:

Nasir Agha

Professor Akram Saeed:

Ghulam Mustafa Busmil:

From the newspaper “Awaam,” Lyallpur (now Faisalabad):

From Haft Roz Punjabi Akhbar (25 September – 1 October 1975):

Chaudhry Afzal Khan:

Wain:

نیگیٹو (Negative)

Monthly Punjabi Zaban:

Khaleel Aatish:

Nadar Jajoi:

Khalil Atish: Gul-e-Nakhustin

Hakeem Faiq:

Allama Ghulam Yaqoob Anwar:

Asi Razwi:

Ghulam Mustafa Bismal:

Saqib Cheshti:

Sadiq Kafi:

Nasir Bokhari:

Khalil Atish:

Professor Anjum Azmi:

Allama Majbar:

Maqsood Nasser:

Roznama Amroz(31 August 1975):

Rana Ghulam Shabbir:

Ameen Khayal:

Riaz Ahmed Shad:

Izhar Ahmed Gulzar:

Sanu Bhatti:

Muhammad Aslam Samra:

Mian Munir Hussain:

Nasir Agha:

Dr. Syed Akhtar Jafri:

Maqsood Nasir Chaudhry:

Inam-ul-Haq Javed:

Rauf Sheikh (Panjab Rang, Lahore):

Dr. Aftab Ahmed Naqvi (Naḥmaduh):

Prof. Arif Abdul Mateen (Sohni Dharti):

Arshad Iqbal Arshad – About Tanveer Bukhari and His Father:

His Legacy:

Final Days of Mubashir Shah:

Tanveer Bukhari's Family:

Poetry from Syed Abdul Rahman Shah Mubashir's booklet "Hazar-ul-Maut":

His Message and Personality:

Sufi Teachings:

His Legacy and Loss:

Tanveer Bukhari’s Interview Statement:

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