He has written different kinds of poetry, both long and short odes. He was for some time in Gujarāt with Mīrzā Niām-ud-dīn Aḥmad. When he came to Dihlī, after the deposition of Qāẓī Muḥammad, who was a fanatical Shī‘ah and an evil liver, the late Ḥakim ‘Ain-ul-Mulk* in Lāhor besought the Ṣadrs* to appoint Mullā ‘Ahdī to the Qāẓī-ship, and by way of an anticipatory omen found the words Qāẓī ‘Ahdī* to give the date of his imaginary qāẓī-ship, but it was all of no avail and resembled the story of an imaginary man riding an imagin­ary horse in an imaginary plain and playing polo with an imaginary stick and an imaginary ball. ‘Ahdī then went with the Ḥakīm to the Dakan, and nothing is known of him after the Ḥakīm's death, neither what happened to him nor whither he went.

The following verses are by him:—

A quatrain.

“Though the lip of my complaint was wet with blood,
The smoke from my heart arose from the chimney of my
eyes,
My tears rained down sparks and fire,
My sighs kindled and became like a burning coal.”

At the time when Ḥakīm ‘Ain-ul-Mulk departed from Lāhor and also (after a short time) from this world of wickedness and strife, the following quatrain, attributed to Ḥakīm anā'ī, was discussed:—

“Breathe once more, for thy Beloved is near thee,
And the bird of thy desire is near to the cage.
How long wilt thou say, ‘I am far from my Beloved?’
Look within thyself, for the Friend is very near thee.”*

Maḥvī composed the following quatrain:— ²⁸³

“Maḥvī, whose heart is near to all men,
Is near to the bud of the garden and to its thorns and
rubbish.
For this reason he was not repulsed from the litter of the
beloved,
That the sound of his weeping resembles the sound of its
bell.”

Ḥakīm ‘Ain-ul-Mulk composed the following in answer to both quatrains:—

“Since thy Beloved is near thee every moment,
Beware, for thy fire is near the dry grass!
O thou who hast fallen behind thy companions and lost the
way
Hasten, for the sound of the caravan's bell is near.”

Mullā ‘Ahdī composed the following quatrain and also wrote it, as a keepsake, in my common-place book, and our companionship in prayer was changed for separation:

“The freedom of this caged bird is near at hand,
And this flame is near to the thorns and stubble,
Grief would fly from me with a thousand wings and pinions,
Did it but know with whom it consorted.”

I wonder at my own hardness of heart seeing that I am able to sit and beat my breast with a stone in the absence of so many friends.