FWP:
SETS == HANUZ; TRANSITIVITY
SUN: {10,5}
Ghalib originally composed a ghazal of eight verses (Raza p. 141; Raza p. 142), from which he chose three (Hamid p. 54) for publication in his divan. More on this topic: S. R. Faruqi's choices.
What's going on in this verse? It takes us a while to find out, for the first line is incomprehensible until we hear the second-- which, in the clever oral-performance arrangements of a mushairah setting, might take a while.
Don't consider me to be at leisure, free from care, even now that I'm in the grave. For the wound/scar of passion is still/now an ornament to the neck-opening of the shroud. On the use of hanuuz , which can mean either 'still' or 'now', see {3,4}. For more examples of the dead-lover-speaks situation, see {57,1}.
How is it an ornament? It's an ornament 'like the dawn/morning and the sun'-- but like them in what sense? First: in shape and fieriness.
About the 'crack of dawn': Dawn shows itself in a glowing golden-orange line of light like a slash along the edge of the dark horizon; in English, we even speak of 'the crack of dawn'. This narrow line of brilliant light is like the neck-opening of a kurta-- or a shroud-- which in the lover's case is soon torn open to reveal further radiant, burning wounds/scars [daa;G]. Similarly, of course, the sun rises to reveal the full radiant light and heat of the morning. Other verses that play on this idea: {149,1}; {166,1}.
Second: in inseparability, as Bekhud Mohani points out. There is never a sunrise without a morning, or a morning without a sunrise. Similarly, the neck-opening of my shroud never fails to reveal the wounds/scars of passion, and the wounds/scars of passion never fail to end up, along with the lover who bears them, under a shroud.
Third: in universal significance and visibility. Just as everyone in the world observes the first line of dawn and its resulting sunrise, and counts on it to sustain life, similarly my 'dawn' and 'sun' of wounds/scars are part of the ongoing cosmic passion play. That's why you can't consider me to be well out of it, free, at leisure. Sometimes my daa;G are even presented as a possible tourist attraction: for a delightful example, consider {5,5}.
Or even more to the point, consider {62,8}: when every day the lover shows off one more scar/wound, people think it's the rising sun. (And, I argue, they may even be right.) With this verse, we learn that the centrality of the wound/scar of passion continues onward into the grave-- and outward into the cosmos, as the ultimate life force of the ghazal universe.
For there's even an ultimately arrogant fourth reading possible:
the wound/scar of passion is an ornament at the neck of my shroud-- just as
the dawn and the sun are as well. All of them are equally at my disposal,
even in the grave. (Perhaps they are like those sets of interchained silver
buttons one can buy for the neck-opening of a certain kind of kurta.) In short,
don't imagine that I'm at leisure just because I'm dead; there's as much going
on with me as ever, or perhaps even more going on than ever (remember the
two meanings of hanuuz ).
Nazm:
Morning is a metaphor for the passing of the night of the lifetime, and he has given the neck-opening of the shroud as a simile for the collar [garebaa;N] of the dawn. The meaning is that even after dying, I am not free of passion. (66)
== Nazm page 66