Moon at Half Past Noon

Sahir Ludhianvi (1921-1980), born Abdul Hayee, was one of the most influential and celebrated poet-lyricists of the 20th century in India. His life was the crucible in which his art was forged, defined by a series of profound personal conflicts that he transformed into universal anthems.

His identity was shaped by a tumultuous childhood in Ludhiana. The son of a wealthy landlord and his tenth wife, Sardar Begum, Sahir’s early life was scarred by his parents’ separation and a bitter legal battle over his custody. He famously chose his mother, a decision that plunged them into financial hardship but instilled in him a lifelong defiance against feudal authority and an unwavering solidarity with women. The stigma of being deemed “illegitimate” (naa-haq) became the foundational wound and the primary ink for his poetry.

Emerging onto the literary scene with his first collection of Urdu poetry, Talkhiyan (Bitternesses), Sahir quickly became a leading voice of the Progressive Writers’ Movement. His verse was a powerful, cinematic blend of romantic yearning and fierce social critique, targeting capitalism, communalism, and hypocrisy in all its forms.

His move to Bombay in the 1950s cemented his legendary status in Indian cinema. He became the poetic voice for a nation grappling with its newfound independence and ideals, writing timeless lyrics for films like Pyaasa, Naya Daur, Kabhi Kabhie, and Phir Subah Hogi. Beyond his art, he was a fierce advocate for the rights of lyricists, successfully fighting for equal pay and recognition alongside music composers.

Yet, the man behind the public persona remained profoundly solitary. His most celebrated relationship, a deep but unconsummated love for the poet Amrita Pritam, revealed a man capable of articulating the deepest nuances of love but paralyzed by the fear of commitment, a ghost from his broken home. He never married.

Sahir Ludhianvi’s legacy is that of the ultimate romantic rebel—a man who dined with the elite but wrote for the marginalized, who composed the most tender love songs while guarding his own heart, and who channeled a lifetime of personal bitterness into a body of work that remains a timeless, beautiful, and necessary cry for a more just and loving world.

These are his words, as if he were talking to us.

The earth is silent,
and the moon and stars are too,
But my heart’s own clamour—
who will listen to its pain?

The caravan of youth passed
through this very road too soon,
And till today, the wounds of these paths
still fester in my dust.

I fled the battles
I should have fought with every word.
A thousand complaints I have
against my own wakeful senses,

This world, alas, is not the world
I wished upon my dreams.
If a war is necessary, then let it be war,

We yearned for peace,
yet stood against the tyrant’s law.
I regret that I left my banner
down and did not fight on.

I ran before the dawn could justify
my sleeplessness was worth the wait.

Go and tell the leaders of the nation,
show them these sights,
Where are those who once
took such pride in this nation’s name?
I left the song unfinished—that is my greatest shame.

We came from a mist, and to a mist we shall return—
This is my forgettable story in the infinite universe.
I regret only that I rushed the final curtain’s fall.

Your hands held mine, it’s true,
but they were no shackles,
You are free to leave me and reject me if you wish.
But know that your memory
is the only freedom I now wear.

Though I never made
this barren land a garden of flowers,
I did remove a few thorns
from the path on which I passed.
And that small, humble deed is my only claim to grace.

And if we meet again,
by some strange coincidence,
I will seek out the thorns of my heart—
the pain I chose— Reflected and preserved
in the sorrow of your eyes.