Part III: Gryees Naameh: Cunning of Farmer: Maqbool Shah Kralwaer

            The poem depicts the story of a deceitful debtor( in this case a rustic farmer) who constantly schemes to avoid repaying what he owes. Through flattery, false promises, and manipulative tactics, he delays payment, causing frustration, worry, and regret for the creditor. It highlights such farmers (as community) cunning, greed, and the consequences of misplaced trust, while also showing the tension between honesty and deception in social and financial dealings.

The Cunning of Farmer

The one from whom he hopes a motive of barter,

He flatters, his dry channel soon will brim with water.

He spins him tales, and like wax makes him soft,

Ensnares him, takes his gain, then vanishes aloft.

He’ll come for debt in kind and ask it in cash,

Saying, “This week my daughter has a wedding bash.”

I’ll repay the debt as soon as she is wed,

I swear I’ll come myself to clear what’s said.

Some gifts worth your debt, no doubt, will come her way,

Take them, and your burden on me will allay.

Lending has been a custom from ages past;

No one foes their daughter, so my debt I’ll pay fast.

I will not turn back from my word, I am a man who repays,

Renowned far and wide in the market and trade ways.

If you don’t trust, verify in secret, unseen,

I have skill in hand, I am myself a craftsman keen.

Fear not, let courage never fade or swoon,

Trust in God, and He will help repay very soon.

He thugs a hundred bucks and means to keep;

By force alone he’ll own the debt, else will not speak.

When the collector comes, with unyielding call,

Lashing with twigs, the canes will maul.

Trembling and quivering, he will fall and lament,

Pretending helplessness, to win the sympathy meant.

I had figured out what I owe to you,

But my own misfortune made that plan undo.

Six special shawls, in pairs I had wrought,

The mite struck them all, to ruin brought.

Grant me a month’s grace; meanwhile I’ll work hard,

After a month I will send; my word to you, unmarred.

If he does not heed, he will say, “Do not worry,”

“My wife and my children will serve you fully.”

If you don’t trust me, stand up; I’ll show my property,

I have a son; I’ll keep him pledged till then with thee.

Otherwise, I have a fit daughter, very beautiful,

If you wish, I’ll keep her counted with your maids, dutiful.

Buy me and free me from the tyrant’s chain,

Keep me as gratitude my sons retain.

With myriad excuses, his temper he’ll soften,

He wins his object, then roams declaring it often.

He will not hand himself over, keeps him guessing,

He comes home only when winter is pressing.

When the creditor calls for the debt to be paid,

He acts struck ill, then sleep is his masquerade.

He begs him to bear a few weeks’ delay,

Once I stand on my feet, I’ll myself arrange the pay.

When the pledged time passes, the creditor returns,

Asks the son if his father from illness has turned.

He says he lay grievously ill all the night,

Eyes bulged from their sockets, no one slept tight.

No hope and no means, he retraces the way home;

This accursed fate of mine drove me to harm my own.

Feeling sorrow deep, for the misfortune he met,

“Why did I trust him? My naivety I now regret”.

If on the road he meets him, with grass piled high,

He whispers in his heart, “My regret; he’ll never rectify.”

He approaches him, to ask about his well-being,

“In dire need I am; to you alone I’m seeing.”

He turns away his face, not a word does he speak,

“What debt do I owe? Show proof if you seek.”

“Bring forth the witness before whom you lent me money,

“You waste my time; I have tax instalments to worry.”

He will shout, show rage, act like serpent of black-tan,

“Do I owe a penny to this poverty-stricken man?”

“I don’t know him; perhaps he’s in error,

He raves with madness; some tragedy is his terror.”

He feigns an inverted pot, forgetting the creditor’s claim,

“And truly,” he insists, “It is you who owes the same.”

Deal not with a farmer, let caution be your guide,

Though he begs at your feet, let no credit slide.

Feeling regret or sorrow is no concern for him,

At last, he places in your hand a vile, obscene limb.

Maqbool Shah Kralwaer

Note:

Certain expressions and phrases are employed in the poem, which I shall endeavour to explain at the end. Translating the entire masnavi will take considerable time, as it is quite extensive.