Abul Qasim was no ordinary poet. His life’s work was Marsiya—a genre of poetry dedicated to sorrow, loss, and remembrance. In the Kashmiri language, he spun verses that carried the weight of centuries, blending Persian elegance with the rugged, emotional landscape of his homeland. His words were not just about grief; they were a lifeline for a community that had weathered countless storms, a reminder that in their shared sorrow, they could find strength.
By Muzaffar Hussain Bhat
In the quiet village of Gund Khwaja Qasim, nestled within the mystic valleys of Kashmir, lies a story largely forgotten—a story of poetry, exile, and unfulfilled dreams. It’s the story of Mirza Abul Qasim, a 19th-century poet whose Marsiya, the heart-wrenching elegies commemorating the martyrs of Karbala, once resonated with the soul of a people. But today, his name barely echoes beyond the narrow lanes of his hometown.
Abul Qasim was no ordinary poet. His life’s work was Marsiya—a genre of poetry dedicated to sorrow, loss, and remembrance. In the Kashmiri language, he spun verses that carried the weight of centuries, blending Persian elegance with the rugged, emotional landscape of his homeland. His words were not just about grief; they were a lifeline for a community that had weathered countless storms, a reminder that in their shared sorrow, they could find strength.
But even the strongest of lifelines can fray. The Marsiya of Abul Qasim, while deeply cherished within the Shia community, never found its way into the broader tapestry of Kashmiri literature. His verses remained in the shadows, much like the man himself— obscured by the twists of fate that led him away from his beloved Kashmir.
It was the early 1840s, and the air in Gund Khwaja Qasim was thick with tension. Abul Qasim, once a man of means and respect, found himself at odds with a local adversary known as Asad Joo. The reasons for Asad Joo’s vendetta are lost to history, but the outcome was brutal and clear. Backed by a band of miscreants, Asad Joo forced Abul Qasim to flee his home. With his family in tow, the poet embarked on a journey to Lucknow—a journey that would mark the beginning of his exile. As they passed through Tosa Maidan, they were robbed, stripped not only of their possessions but, perhaps more painfully, of the last ties to their homeland.
Hakim Ghulam Safdar would later record this grim chapter in a 1962 issue of the journal ‘Al- Irshad’, published by Bab ul Ilm Budgam. His words paint a vivid picture of the man who once was: “Mirza [Abul Qasim] was well-off, possessing substantial estates and several houses, remnants of which still exist in Gund [Khwaja Qasim]… Supported by a group of miscreants, Asad Joo eventually forced Mirza Abul Qasim to leave his homeland. On his way to Lucknow, Mirza and his family were robbed at ‘Tosa Maidan.'”
The story didn’t end there. The Khwaja family of Gund Khwaja Qasim would later respond in kind, publishing an open letter in ‘Al-Irshad,’ offering their side of the tale. Recently, Khwaja Mohammad Qasim even compiled an entire book on the poet’s exile, unearthing layers of a history that still divides local opinion.
But there is another, more poignant aspect to Abul Qasim’s life—his desire to be buried in Karbala, the land of the martyrs he so revered. Lucknow was only a stopover for the poet, who soon made his way to Karbala, where he spent his remaining years in quiet service to the pilgrims. His life in exile was marked by unfulfilled longings, and yet, in his final
moments, one wish was granted. He found his resting place in the soil he had sung about all his life. It’s a bittersweet ending, a twist of fate that left him forever estranged from his homeland, yet bound him eternally to the martyrs he so deeply venerated.
In the midst of Kashmir’s ongoing conflicts and the perennial echoes of suffering, Abul Qasim’s Marsiya offer something more than mere lamentation. They are a bridge between the past and the present, between the ancient tragedy of Karbala and the contemporary struggles of the Kashmiri people. His poetry whispers to us that even in the darkest of times, words can be a path to the divine—a way to process pain, find meaning, and perhaps, discover a glimmer of hope.
But the tragedy of Mirza Abul Qasim’s life is also a tragedy of memory. His contributions to Kashmiri literature remain underappreciated, his name a faint whisper in the annals of history. And yet, in honouring him, we honour more than just a poet. We honour the resilience of the human spirit, the power of words to transcend time, and the beauty that can arise even from the depths of sorrow.
Mirza Abul Qasim’s Marsiya, once confined to the shadows, deserve to step into the light. For in their verses lie the stories of a people, their pain, their faith, and their undying hope for a better tomorrow.
