Unravelling Ghalib

Bhupesh Bhandari on how to read the undisputed master of Urdu poetry and writer of remarkable letters.

Aate hain ghaib se yun mizami khayal main
Ghalib sarir-o-khama nava-i-sarosh hai
From the skies come these lines to my thoughts
The ink of your pen Ghalib, is the voice of the angel

Asadullah Khan was a proud man. Few could write with his felicity; never before had a wordsmith so wise put pen to paper. There was nothing lightweight about any poem which went with the taqallus Ghalib or Asad — ever. In this couplet, he compares his writings with what the angel Gabriel said when it disclosed the Koran to Prophet Mohammed. Elsewhere he writes:

 

Na sitaish ki tamanna, na sile
ki parwah
Gar nahin hain mere ashar main mani na sahi
Neither do I crave praise, nor do I care for reward
If my couplets are worthless,
so be it

You could call him cocky and pompous. But for close to 200 years now, his fans have felt that he was probably right, though at a couple of places he spares some praise for Mir Taqi Mir.

Rekhte ke tum hi nahin ustad Ghalib
Kehte hain agle zamane main ek Mir bhi tha
You alone are not the master of language, Ghalib
In the age gone by there was Mir, they say

Ghalib was born in 1797 at Agra and died in Delhi in 1872. In his lifetime, he saw the refined culture of Delhi touch its high watermark (his contemporaries included the likes of Zauq, Momin, Zafar and Azurda), the decline of the house of Timur, the 1857 revolt and India become a British colony. He composed verses in Persian and Urdu, and wrote numerous letters. Persian, at that time, was the language of the nobility — Urdu was spoken by the masses. (This is like the Russian royal household where only French was spoken; Russian was for hoi polloi.) Ghalib, as a child, was trained in Persian, and it was with some reluctance that he got down to writing in Urdu. It is said that after he had imbibed enough French wine in the evening, he would get down to his verses. For every thought that occurred to him, Ghalib would tie a knot in a scarf. In the morning, when the khumar of the wine got over, he would undo the knots and write the verse. French wine, and later rum, was a lifelong affair with Ghalib. And he wrote:

Masjid ke jer-i-saya kharabat chahiye
Bhaun pas aankh, kibla-i-hajat chahiye
Next to the mosque I crave for liquor
Like brow next to the eye, and the seer who fulfils wishes
Ye masail-i-tasawuff, ye tera biyan Ghalib
Tujhe hum wali samajhte, jo na badakhwar hota
These matters philosophical and your description, Ghalib 
You would have been God, had you not been a drunkard
Ghalib chooti sharab, par ab bhi kabhi-kabhi
Pita hoon roz-i-abr-o-shab-i-mahtab main
I gave up liquor, but still I drink
On clouded days and moonlit nights

Ghalib’s Urdu diwan (compilation) was first published in 1841 and was sold out in no time. A few years later, a second edition was brought out and all copies were sold before one could say Irshad. Altaf Hussain Hali wrote Yaadgar-i-Ghalib, which is the most celebrated account of his life, prose and personality. Then, in 1969, during his centenary year, the government decided to set up an institute in his memory. A committee was formed; Indira Gandhi was its president and Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed its secretary. Thus came into being Aiwan-i-Ghalib, or the Ghalib Institute, in Delhi. It has, amongst other things, published the diwan in Hindi – that’s the closest one can get to Urdu; English just doesn’t do justice to Ghalib’s, or any other Urdu poet’s, work. This is a good starting point for anybody who wants to get acquainted with Ghalib. All the difficult words and phrases have been adequately explained. The trick is to read the verses over and over again till they begin to resound in your head. Ghalib is to be read carefully before you get down to hearing artists like Begum Akhtar and Mehdi Hasan sing him. Ghalib had the great ability to bring unrelated words together to forge a remarkable phrase. For instance, he writes

Dard minnatkash-i-dava
na hua
Main na achcha hua, bura
na hua
Pain didn’t respond to the pleas of medicine
I didn’t improve, I didn’t get worse

Some knowledge of Muslim history helps. In his verses, he may talk of Ibn-i-Mariam (Jesus Christ, the son of Mary), Namrud ki khudai (Nimrod, false God), et cetera. And there are many references to Muslim customs — lack of knowledge can hinder appreciation. Ghalib writes:

Raat pi Zumzum pe maiy
Subhaddam dhoe dhabbey jama-i-ihram ke
My night was spent drinking at the Zumzum
In the morning I washed the marks off my robe

Zumzum is the well near the Ka’aba — all Haj pilgrims are required to drink from it before they circumambulate the holy shrine. And jama-i-ihram is the special robe that all are required to wear. For those who do not understand the significance of the two, the verse will hold little appeal. But it assumes a whole new meaning once the significance is known.

Ghalib was also a prolific writer of letters. For long years, he lobbied hard with East India Company for his pension, from the estate of his uncle, to be raised from Rs 62.50 per month. But it came to naught. He wrote letters, some effusive, mostly sarcastic and still others blunt, to the authorities in Delhi and Calcutta. Ghalib had several shagirds. His favorite was Hargopal Tafta. The students would often send him their verses for correction and seek his advice on simile and syntax. The letters Ghalib wrote are no less interesting than his couplets. Pavan Verma’s Ghalib: The Man, The Tomes (Penguin) perhaps has the best account of his letters.

Ghalib’s life, in spite of his genius, was tinged with tragedy. He lost his parents early in life; an adolescent affair did not reach its desired conclusion; he was always short of money, and his lavish lifestyle meant he was forever in debt; among vices he cultivated many and was even sent to the jail for gambling; his brother had lost his mental balance; none of his seven children survived; and there was little he shared with his wife — while she was orthodox in her religious beliefs, Ghalib had little time for it. His unconventional ways were the stuff all Maulvis frowned upon. Not that Ghalib cared.

Kahan maikhane ka darwaza Ghalib aur kahan wayaz
Par itna jante hain hain kal wo jata tha ki hum nikle
Of what use is the door of the tavern to the preacher
I know he entered yesterday when I left
Still, the strain of deep-felt sadness is unmistakable.
Ranj se khun gar hua insan to mit jata hai runj
Mushkilen mujgpar padi itni ki aasan ho gayi
Pain ceases to be pain when it fills a man
Problems so many befell me that they became easy