اسی کا شہر وہی مدعی وہی منصف
ہمیں یقیں تھا ہمارا قصور نکلے گا
Law is rarely neutral when power writes the rules.
sher arz hai:
usī kā shahr vahī muddaī vahī munsif
hameñ yaqīñ thā hamārā qusūr niklegā
This sher is by Ameer Qazalbash (1943-2003).
muddaī: accuser, plaintiff
munsif: judge
yaqīñ: certainty, belief
qusūr: fault, guilt
hameñ/hamārā: can be read as the singular I/mine, or the plural we/our – both forms work well here.
A rough translation:
His was the city, he the accuser, he the judge
I knew with certainty the fault would turn out to be mine
This sher captures the bitter helplessness of facing an adversary who controls all the levers of a corrupted system. When power and justice are held in the same hands, the outcome is never in doubt. Note the past tense of yaqīñ thā – the trial already happened, and the verdict was what the accused knew it would be, because it always happens that way. This is what elevates the sher beyond a single grievance: it isn’t the account of one bad outcome, but a description of how the mechanism works every time.
Beyond the literal courtroom, the verse speaks to any asymmetrical struggle— societal, political, or personal—where, no matter the facts, you will always be found at fault.
Part of what makes the verse so striking is its tight bandish (craftsmanship) and rabt (the logical link between its two lines). The first misra—usī kā shahr, vahī mudda.ī, vahī munsif—moves with a sharp, three-part cadence. By repeating vahī and stripping away filler conjunctions, the poet establishes the adversary’s absolute dominion in just seven words. The second line delivers the inevitable consequence: hameñ yaqīñ thā hamārā qusūr niklegā. The phrase qusūr niklegā (the fault will turn out to be ours) perfectly captures the cynical theatre of a trial where the verdict was predetermined.
