The Mark of the Qalandar: Power, Freedom, and Mastery of Time

 

 

  بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Allama Muhammad Iqbal was one of the most influential voices in modern Urdu and Persian poetry. Trained in philosophy and law, he wrote poetry not as ornament but as moral and spiritual address. Iqbal’s central concern was the awakening of the human self (khudī)—a self strengthened through faith, courage, responsibility, and inward discipline. Drawing deeply from Qur’anic thought, Sufi symbolism, and classical Persian–Urdu idiom, he re-imagined figures like the qalandar not as escapists, but as spiritually sovereign individuals who stand free from fear, illusion, and the tyranny of time.

“Qalandar ki Pehchaan” presents the qalandar as a figure of inward authority—one who follows Truth rather than the age, breaks the spell of false power through conviction, and moves through time as its rider, not its captive.

کہتا ہے زمانے سے یہ درویشِ جواں مرد
جاتا ہے جِدھر بندۂ حق، تُو بھی اُدھر جا!

 Transliteration:
Kehtā hai zamāne se yeh darvesh-e jawānmard / Jātā hai jidhar banda-e Haq, tū bhi udhar jā!
Close translation:
“This young, manly dervish says to the age:
Wherever the servant of the Truth goes—go there too!”
My version:
“This dervish—young in years, grown in spirit—tells the world:
Follow the path of the one who serves the Truth; go where he goes.”
Explanation:
زمانہ (zamāna) is not just “time”; it’s the whole worldly age: fashions, politics, crowd-logic, fear, distraction.
درویشِ جواں مرد (darvesh-e jawānmard) is a striking phrase: a dervish is usually imagined as gentle or withdrawn, but jawānmard implies chivalry, courage, moral backbone—a spiritually charged “brave-hearted” person.
بندۂ حق (banda-e Haq): Haq means Truth/Reality and is also a divine name (God as “The Real”). So this is not “truth” as opinion—it’s alignment with the Real.

The couplet is basically saying: don’t let the age lead you; let the God-aligned person set the direction.
My take: the tone is already commanding—this isn’t a shy mystic; it’s a voice that expects the world to correct itself.

ہنگامے ہیں میرے تری طاقت سے زیادہ
بچتا ہوا بُنگاہِ قلندر سے گزر جا

Transliteration:
Hangāme hain mere terī tāqat se ziyādah / Bachtā huā bungāh-e qalandar se guzar jā.
Close translation:
“My upheavals are greater than your strength;
If you want to stay safe, pass by the qalandar’s dwelling.”
My version:
“The turbulence I carry exceeds your power—
If you value your safety, don’t linger at the qalandar’s door.”
Explanation:
ہنگامے (hangāme) = commotions, tumults, upheavals—inner force that spills into the world. It suggests spiritual intensity that is not decorative; it disrupts comfort.
بنگاہ (bungāh) = abode/den/dwelling-place. It can feel almost like “lair,” giving the qalandar a lion-like aura.
بچتا ہوا (bachtā huā) is idiomatic: “if you’re trying to avoid harm / if you’re being cautious.”
Meaning: If you’re living on shallow strength—status, noise, intimidation—don’t pick a fight with someone powered by certainty and surrender.
My opinion: this is one of the most “anti-pretence” couplets—almost a warning label: don’t approach spiritual fire if you only know smoke.

میں کشتی و ملّاح کا محتاج نہ ہوں گا
چڑھتا ہوا دریا ہے اگر تُو تو اُتر جا

Transliteration:
Main kashtī-o mallāh kā muhtāj na hūṅgā / Chaṛhtā huā daryā hai agar tū to utar jā.
Close translation:
“I will not be dependent on boat and boatman;
If you are a rising/swollen river—then subside.”
My version:
“I won’t need a boat or a ferryman—
If you’re the river in flood, then fall back and make way.”
Explanation:
کشتی و ملّاح (kashtī-o mallāh) = boat and boatman: the usual “means” and “helpers” we rely on.
The qalandar says: my crossing doesn’t depend on external arrangements. This is not bragging for its own sake—it’s a metaphor for tawakkul (radical trust), plus spiritual authority.
چڑھتا ہوا دریا (chaṛhtā huā daryā): a river in spate = life’s overwhelming obstacle, chaos, danger, history itself.
اُتر جا (utar jā) literally “come down / descend,” i.e., ebb, subside, step down. The river is being addressed like an arrogant opponent.
So the image is: when inner alignment is complete, even the “river” is told, lower yourself.
My opinion: the couplet’s power comes from how calmly it dismisses dependence—no drama, just certainty.

توڑا نہیں جادُو مری تکبیر نے تیرا؟
ہے تجھ میں مُکر جانے کی جُرأت تو مُکر جا!

Transliteration:
Toṛā nahīṅ jādū merī takbīr ne terā? / Hai tujh meṅ mukar jāne kī jur’at to mukar jā!
Close translation:
“Has my takbīr not broken your magic?
If you have the courage to disavow—then disavow!”
My version:
“Did my cry of ‘God is Greater’ not shatter your spell?
If you’ve got the nerve to recant—then go on,recant”
Explanation:
تکبیر (takbīr) here is not mere ritual sound; it’s a symbol of a consciousness that declares: God is greater than fear, empire, ego, illusion.
جادو (jādū) = magic/spell: the enchantment of false power—seduction, intimidation, glamour, propaganda, ego-trance.
مُکر جانا (mukar jānā) is wonderfully double-edged in Urdu: it can mean to deny (as in refusing truth) and also to go back on something / to back out / to retreat. Both meanings work.
The rhetorical question (“Hasn’t it broken…?”) implies: it already has. The second line is a taunt: if you think you can resist this clarity, attempt it.
My opinion: this couplet captures the poem’s spine—the qalandar’s weapon is not a sword; it’s a worldview that breaks illusions.

مہر و مہ و انجم کا محاسِب ہے قلندر
ایّام کا مَرکب نہیں، راکِب ہے قلندر

Transliteration:
Mehr-o mah-o anjum kā muhāsib hai qalandar / Ayyām kā markab nahīṅ, rākib hai qalandar.
Close translation:
“The qalandar is the reckoner/accountant of sun, moon, and stars;
He is not the mount of days—he is the rider.”
My version:
“He takes the measure of sun and moon and stars;
He isn’t dragged by time—he rides it.”
Explanation:
مہر، مہ، انجم (mehr, mah, anjum): sun, moon, stars—cosmic order, vast cycles, the clockwork of existence.
محاسب (muhāsib): reckoner/accountant/auditor—someone who can “take account,” measure, see patterns, not be dazzled. This implies inner clarity so steady it can face the immensities without shrinking.
ایّام (ayyām) = days, time, historical change.
مَرکب (markab) = mount/ride (horse, camel—something you sit on, but that also carries you).
The reversal is the point: most people are carried by time—deadlines, eras, fear of change, nostalgia. The qalandar is راکب (rākib), the rider: time is his vehicle, not his master.
My opinion: this is the culminating claim—true spiritual freedom isn’t “escaping the world,” it’s standing so firmly in meaning that even time feels like a tool rather than a threat.

This “qalandar” is not presented as a passive renunciant. He’s a figure of fearless inward freedom that becomes outward authority:

• he follows Truth (Haq), not the age;
• he carries storms that undo shallow power;
• he crosses obstacles without needing conventional supports;
• his takbīr breaks the world’s “spell”;
• and he masters time, rather than being mastered by it.