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Ghalib

Ghalib is impish, reckless, obsessed with titles and distinctions,
roguish, a breaker of religious norms, a connoisseur of sorrow, and a
genius. He knows all the old poems of love and says:

While telling the story, if each eyelash does not drip with blood
You’re not telling a love story, but a tale made for the kids.

Delhi, in his time (the mid-nineteenth century), had a lively culture
and a vigorous tradition of poetry recitals, or mushiras, sponsored by
the Mughal emperor. Ghalib’s poems veered away from the traditional
poetics clichés of the time, and were thought to be difficult.

	I have to write what’s difficult; otherwise it’s
		difficult to write.

Ghalib was a Muslim, and yet the wine he drank was not symbolic:
	Just put a wineglass and some wine in front of me;
	Words will fall out of my mouth like apple blossoms.

Ghalib’s lines, so elegant and sparse, stretch the muscles that we
use for truth, muscles we rarely use:
	My destiny did not include reunion with my Friend.
	Even if I lived a hundred years this failure would be the same.

It is as though when Kabir writes a letter to God, God always
answers. We could say that when Ghalib writes a letter to God, God
doesn’t answer. Ghalib says:
	When I look out, I see no hope for change.
	I don’t see how anything in my life can end well.

Ghalib’s tart, spicy declaration of defeated expectations ranges over
many subjects:
	Heart-sorrow eventually kills us, but that’s the way the heart is.
	If there were no love, life would have done the trick.

This shift from the buoyant confidence of Kabir, Rumi, and
Mirabai to the disappointment of Ghalib: what could it mean?
Perhaps the turn to failure is natural six centuries after Rumi and four
centuries after Kabir. Perhaps spiritual achievement involves more
difficulty now than it did in the thirteenth century, or perhaps this
change in tone has nothing to do with history at all. Perhaps Ghalib
writes only six letters a day to God, instead of forty; perhaps he’s
distracted from the Road by the very love affairs that are to him the
essence of the Road. He is a truth-teller around losing the Road.
Awareness of this change was my first surprise.

We might look at the amazing way that Ghalib’s ghazals are put
together. No clear thread unites all the couplets. For example, if we
return to the poem mentioned above, "My Spiritual State," which
begins:

	When I look out, I see no hope for change.
	I don’t see how anything in my life can end well.

we see a statement of theme. But a fresh theme, a little explosion of
humor and sadness, arrives in the next stanza:

	Their funeral date is already decided, but still
	People complain that they can’t sleep.

The third couplet, or sher, embarks on a third theme:
	When I was young, my love-disasters made me burst out laughing.
	Now even funny things seem sober to me.

It slowly becomes clear that we are dealing with a way of adventuring
one’s way through a poem utterly distinct from our habit of textual
consistency in theme. Most of the poems we know, whether
written in English, French, German, or Hausa, tend to follow from an
idea clearly announced at the start. "Something there is that doesn’t
love a wall." The poet then fulfills the theme, often brilliantly, by drawing
on personal experience, and by offering anecdotes, dreams, other
voices: "Good fences make good neighbors." By the end, the theme is
fulfilled. The ghazal form does not do that. It invites the reader to discover
the hidden center of the poem or the hidden thought that ties it
all together, a hidden center unexpressed by the poet himself or herself.
I find this delicious. Moreover, when we arrive at the final sher,
where, according to our typical expectations, the poet should clinch
his argument, Ghalib often does exactly the opposite. He confounds
everyone by making a personal remark:

	Your talk about spiritual matters is great, O Ghalib.
	You could have been thought of as a sage if you didn’t
		drink all the time.

Biography

[incl notes from Indian Literature : An Introduction, compiled by the
University of Delhi, http://books.google.co.in/books?id=mivv3p-msd8C&pg=PA112&lpg=PA112 ]

Ghalib was born in Agra on December 27, 1797. His grandfather, who was
Turkish, had come to India from Samarkand [in the time of Shah Alam II], as a
military mercenary, working for the governor of Punjab and other
emperors. His two sons continued in this profession, which was a dangerous
one. Ghalib’s father died when he was four. His mother belonged to an
affluent family in Agra, and Ghalib lived in that house with his maternal
relatives, [flying kites and playing chess]. He began writing poems in
Persian when he was nine; all his life he loved the Persian language best,
but wrote hundreds of poems in Urdu as well.

Ghalib was married at thirteen and, shortly after, moved to Delhi where he
remained the rest of his life. Delhi was the capital of the Mughal Empire;
the emperor, Bahadur Shah, was of course subordinate to the British at that
time.  Inside the palace, however, called the Red Fort, the emperor was the
Majesty, the Shadow of God, the Refuge of the World. The emperor held
elaborate poetry readings twice a month in the palace. Ghalib became
immensely famous as a poet in Delhi, even though his poems were considered
very difficult.

[ In 1827, he went to Calcutta where he spent a couple of happy years.  He
loved the greenery, the pretty women, and the mangoes, but also interacted
with Muslim, Bengali and English intellectuals... He returned to Delhi in
1829. ]

He led a rather rakish life. He had many debts with wine sellers.
For making poetry and drinking wine, he best loved "cloudy days and
moonlit nights." Late at night when he was writing, with the help of
wine, he would tie a knot in his long sash each time he finished a
stanza. Finally he would go to bed, and in the morning, as he untied
each knot, he would recall the stanza and write it down. He got into a
lot of trouble with the Islamic authorities, and was arrested for gambling,
[leading to his trial and imprisonment in 1847 - one of the most distressing
experiences of his life].
A pension had been awarded to Ghalib’s father, and that
pension came down to him; Ghalib spent much time over the years
making sure this pension continued.

In 1857, all that period of poetry readings and social lightheartedness
came crashing down. The Delhi revolt against the British started
in May of 1857. The rebels invaded the city, killed many English soldiers
and officials, and razed their houses. The English took up position
outside the city and four months later recaptured it with great
brutality. They retook the Red Fort, flattening houses in a wide area
around it in order to have the space clear for cannon. They began
hanging Indians suspected of treason and ultimately hanged over
20,000 people. At one point, Colonel Brown began to call in persons
of importance and question them. Most arrived dressed very soberly.
Ghalib arrived wearing red and yellow clothes and a conical hat.
Colonel Brown asked, "Are you a Muslim?" "I’m half a Muslim."
"How can that be?" "I don’t eat pork, but I do drink." Colonel Brown
was apparently amazed at this sort of reply, and questioned him no
further.

Ghalib remained inside his own house, living very cautiously:
"Death is cheap," he said, "and food expensive." During this time, he
was often ill, had severe depressions, and was eventually bedridden
with sores and swelling all over his body. Many of his poems had been
lost. The poetry readings and the "exciting life" ended, and he still had
twelve more years to live. But everything had changed. Nonetheless
he went on writing his poems and continued to become embroiled in
literary controversies. Ghalib died in 1869 and was given an official
Sunni burial. His wife died exactly a year later.
	My last breath is ready to go, is leaving.
	And now, friends, God, only God exists.

All of the following translations of Ghalib have been done with the
generous collaboration of Sunil Dutta.

Poems of Ghalib

When the day comes

One can sigh, but a lifetime is needed to finish it.
We’ll die before we see the tangles in your hair loosened.

There are dangers in waves, in all those crocodiles
	with their jaws open.
The drop of water goes through many difficulties before it
	becomes a pearl.

Love requires waiting, but desire doesn’t want to wait.
The heart has no patience; it would rather bleed to death.

I know you will respond when you understand the state of my soul,
But I’ll probably become earth before all that is clear to you.

When the sun arrives the dew on the petal passes through existence.
I am also me until your kind eye catches sight of me.

How long is our life? How long does an eyelash flutter?
The warmth of a poetry gathering is like a single spark.

O Ghalib, the sorrows of existence, what can cure them but death?
There are so many colors in the candle flame, and then the day comes.

The clay cup

If King Jamshid’s diamond cup breaks, that’s it.
But my clay cup I can easily replace, so it’s better.

The delight of giving is deeper when the gift hasn’t been demanded.
I like the God-seeker who doesn’t make a profession of begging.

When I see God, color comes into my cheeks.
God thinks—this is a bad mistake—that I’m in good shape.

When a drop falls in the river, it becomes the river.
When a deed is done well, it becomes the future.

I know that Heaven doesn’t exist, but the idea
Is one of Ghalib’s favorite fantasies.

Leftovers in the cup

For my weak heart this living in the sorrow house is more than enough.
The shortage of rose-colored wine is also more than enough.

I’m embarrassed, otherwise I’d tell the wine server
That even the leftovers in the cup are, for me, enough.

No arrow comes flying in; I am safe from hunters.
The comfort level I experience in this cage is more than enough.

I don’t see why the so-called elite people are so proud
When the ropes of custom that tie them down are clear enough.

It’s hard for me to distinguish sacrifice from hypocrisy,
When the greed for reward in pious actions is obvious enough.

Leave me alone at the Zam Zam Well; I won’t circle the Kaaba.
The wine stains on my robe are already numerous enough.

If we can’t resolve this, today will be like the Last Day.
She is not willing and my desire is more than strong enough.

The blood of my heart has not completely exited through my eyes.
O death, let me stay awhile, the work we have to do is abundant enough.

It’s difficult to find a person who has no opinion about Ghalib.
He is a good poet, but the dark rumors about him are more than enough.

My destiny

My destiny did not include reunion with my Friend.
Even if I lived a hundred years this failure would be the same.

Your promise determined my life; but it was not believable.
If I had believed it, I would have died of joy anyway.

What kind of friendship is this when friends give advice?
I wish they knew healing or simple, ordinary sympathy.

Heart-sorrow eventually kills us, but that’s the way the heart is.
If there were no love, life would have done the trick.

This night of separation, whom can I tell about it?
I think death would be better, because at least it doesn’t repeat.

Your hesitation indicates that the thread you had tied is weak;
You would never have broken the thread had it been strong.

Ask my heart sometime about your arrow shot from a loose bow.
It would not have hurt so much if it had actually gone through.

Rocks are hard, so they don’t cry, but if your pain
Were genuine, Ghalib, it would make even rocks cry.

After my death, my reputation worsened. Maybe if I had just drowned
In a river, and had no tomb, they would have let Ghalib alone.

This great one, who can possibly see her? She is this One.
With just a hint of two, we might have achieved a meeting.

Your talk about spiritual matters is great, O Ghalib.
You could have been thought of as a sage if you didn’t drink all the time.

Questions

Since nothing actually exists except You,
Then why do I keep hearing all this noise?

These magnificent women with their beauty astound me.
Their side glances, their eyebrows, how does all that work? What is it?

These palm trees and these tulips, where did they come from?
What purpose do they serve? What are clouds and wind?

We hope for faithfulness and loyalty from people.
But people don’t have the faintest idea what loyalty is.

Good rises from good actions, and that is good.
Beyond that, what else do saints and good people say?

I am willing to give up my breath and my life for You,
Even though I don’t know the first thing about sacrifice.

The abundant objects of the world mean nothing at all!
But if the wine is free, how could Ghalib hang back?

Don’t skimp with me today

For tomorrow’s sake, don’t skimp with me on wine today.
A stingy portion implies a suspicion of heaven’s abundance.

The horse of life is galloping; we’ll never know the stopping place.
Our hands are not touching the reins nor our feet the stirrups.

I keep a certain distance from the reality of things.
It’s the same distance between me and utter confusion.

The scene, the one looking and the ability to see are all the same.
If that is so, why am I confused about what is in front of me?

The greatness of a river depends on what it shows to us.
If we separate it into bubbles and waves, we are lost.

She is not free from her ways to increase her beauty.
The mirror she sees is on the inside of her veil.

What we think is obvious is so far beyond our comprehension.
We are still dreaming even when we dream we are awake.

From the smell of my friend’s friend I get the smell of my friend.
Listen, Ghalib, you are busy worshiping God’s friend.

My spiritual state

When I look out, I see no hope for change.
I don’t see how anything in my life can end well.

Their funeral date is already decided, but still
People complain that they can’t sleep.

When I was young, my love disasters made me burst out laughing.
Now even funny things seem sober to me.

I know the answer—that’s what keeps me quiet.
Beyond that it’s clear I know how to speak.

Why shouldn’t I scream? I can stop. Perhaps
The Great One notices Ghalib only when he stops screaming.

This is the spiritual state I am in:
About myself, there isn’t any news.

I do die; the longing for death is so strong it’s killing me.
Such a death comes, but the other death doesn’t come.

What face will you wear when you visit the Kaaba?
Ghalib, you are shameless even to think of that.

My head and my knees

If I didn’t cry all the time, my house would still be desolate.
The ocean is huge and empty, just like the desert.

Am I to complain about the narrowness of my heart?
It’s unbelieving; no matter what happened, it would have been confused.

If I were patient for a lifetime, the Doorkeeper would surely let me in.
The doorkeeper of your house could model itself on such a heart.

Before anything, there was God; had there been nothing, there would
	have been God.
It was because I lived that I died. If I had never lived, what would
	have become of me?

Sorrow stunned my head; so why should I feel bad about my beheading?
If it hadn’t been detached, it would be resting on my knees anyway.

Ghalib died centuries ago. But we still remember his little questions:
"What is before God?" "If I had never been born, how would that be?"

Some exaggerations

The world I see looks to me like a game of children.
Strange performances and plays go on night and day.

King Solomon’s throne is not a big thing to me.
I hear Jesus performed miracles, but I’m not interested.

The idea that the world exists is not acceptable to me.
Illusion is real, but not the things of the world.

The desert covers its head with sand when I appear with my troubles.
The river rubs its forehead in the mud when it sees me.

Don’t ask me how I am when I am parted from you.
I notice that your face turns a little pale when you’re near me.

People are right to say that I love looking at myself, but sitting
In front of me is a beauty whose face is bright as a mirror.

Just put a wineglass and some wine in front of me;
Words will fall out of my mouth like apple blossoms.

People imagine that I hate, but it’s merely jealousy.
That’s why I scream: "Don’t say her name in my presence!"

Faith pulls me in one direction, but disbelief pulls me in another.
The Kaaba stands far behind me, and the Church stands next to me.

I am a lover; therefore, charming a woman is my work.
When she is near me, Laila makes fun of Majnoon.

The time of reunion brings happiness rather than death.
When reunion came, I remembered the night of parting.

We have a sea of blood now with large waves.
I am content with it; I know worse could happen.

My hands move with difficulty, but at least my eyes are lively.
Just leave the glass and the wine jug standing where they are.

Ghalib is a Muslim also, so we know a lot of each other’s secrets.
Please don’t speak badly of Ghalib when I’m around.