A Thousand Yearnings

by Ralph Russell

  Mir’s poetry shows how deep was the impact upon him of this catastrophic decline of the Mughal Empire and of Delhi, to which he felt the deepest attachment even when conditions forced him to leave it and live elsewhere. All standards of honourable conduct were abandoned. There were repeated invasions and lootings. Rivals for power stopped at nothing to achieve their ambitions. A chief minister, before being invested by the Emperor with the robe of office, swore on the Holy Quran never to betray him. That same morning he deposed him, imprisoned him and blinded him. Mir lamented the abandonment of honourable standards of conduct, contrasting the age he lived in with a (partly imaginary) past; in the Mughals’ greatest period, the innovative and tolerant reign of Akbar (1556–1605), standards were indeed higher, though not as high as Mir imagined.

  By the time Ghalib was born (1797), Mir was already an old man, and conditions had changed markedly. In his early teens Ghalib came from his native Agra to live in Delhi, and by then the British conquest had at any rate brought some stability. But though there was now order in the city, Ghalib equally looked back to an earlier age as one with higher standards of conduct.

  They saw their poetry as a high calling, a means of asserting the values that really mattered. They felt that all around them were people who considered themselves poets, but only a few had anything significant to say. Ghalib defined poetry as ‘the creation of meaning, not the matching of rhymes’. Mir felt the same. Muhammad Husain Azad,* who wrote lively accounts of the lives of the great poets, tells us how Mir responded to a young nobleman who requested him to initiate him into the art of poetry. Mir said, ‘Young sir, you are a noble and the son of a noble. Practice horsemanship and archery and the handling of the lance. Poetry is a task for men whose hearts have been seared by the fire of love and pierced by the wounds of grief.’

  ~

  Mir speaks often of physical desolation and spiritual decline:

  This age is not like that which went before it

  The times have changed, the earth and sky have changed.

  is ahd ko na jaaniye agla sa ahd Mir

  vo daur ab nahin, vo zameen aasmaan nahin

  Here where the thorns grow, spreading over mounds of dust and ruins

  These eyes of mine once saw the gardens blooming in the spring.

  jis ja ki khas o khaar ke ab dher lage hain

  yahaan hum ne inhi aankhon se dekhi hain bahaaren

  Here in this city where the dust drifts in deserted lanes

  A man might come and fill his lap with gold in days gone by.

  udti hai khak sheher ki galiyon mein ab jahaan

  sona liya hai god mein bhar kar vahin se hum

  These eyes saw only yesterday house after house

  Where here and there a ruined wall or doorway stands.

  kal dekhte humaare baste thhe ghar baraabar

  ab ye kahin kahin jo deevaar o dar rahe hain

  Metaphors drawn from this desolation recur in his verse:

  Tears flow like rivers from my weeping eyes

  My heart, like Delhi, lies in ruins now.

  deeda e giryaan hamaara neher hai

  dil kharaaba jaise Dilli sheher hai

  You ask me of the ruin of my heart by pain and grief

  It is a city looted by an army on the march.

  kharaabi dil ki kya anboh e dard o gham se poochho ho?

  vuhi haalat hai jaise sheher lashkar loot jaata hai

  The city of my heart—alas!—was once a wondrous sight

  Her going razed it to the ground; none will live there again.

  kharaabi dil ki kya anboh e dard o gham se poochho ho?

  vuhi haalat hai jaise sheher lashkar loot jaata hai

  Burnt in the flames till every building was reduced to ashes—

  How fair a city was the heart that love put to the fire!

  jal jal ke sab imaarat e dil khaak ho gayi

  kaise nagar ko, ah, muhabbat ne di hai aag!

  He bemoans the conditions of the time:

  Ours is a dark age; men have lost all trace of love and loyalty

  In former days it was not so; these things were second nature then.

  ahd humaara tera hai ye jis mein gum hai mihr o vafa

  agle zamaane mein to yehi logon ki rasm o aadat thi

  Roaming from land to land I sought for loyalty

  Grief tears my heart; it is not to be found.

  sau mulk phira lekin paai na vafa ik ja

  ji kha gayi hai mera is jins ki naayaabi

  The cult of human decency has vanished from the world.

  What men are there upon the earth! What times we live in now!

  rasm uth gayi duniya se ik baar muravvat ki

  kya log zameen par hain! kaisa ye samaan aaya!

  Such friends I had—and one by one they died and turned to dust.

  I am a fool—nobody grieves for anybody now.

  kya kya azeez dost mile Mir khaak mein

  naadaan yahaan kisu ka kisu ko bhi gham hua

  What man would want to live in times like these?

  When doing good means wishing yourself ill.

  ye zamaana nahin aisa ki koi zeest kare

  chaahte hain jo bura apna bhala karte hain

  Ghalib echoes these feelings:

  How can I tell the virtues of the men to whom this age gave birth?

  He does me harm to whom I have done good repeatedly.

  kahun kya khoobi e ausaaf e abna e zamaan Ghalib?

  badi ki us ne jis se hum ne ki thi baarha neki

  Extremely difficult an easy task can prove to be

  Not every man will manage to achieve humanity.

  bas ki dushvaar hai har kaam ka aasaan hona

  aadmi ko bhi muyassar nahin insaan hona

  Mir regards the nobility, as those who set the tone for society, with special disfavour:

  Although the fortunes of the age have not shown favour to me

  So that the ways of wealth and grandeur could not be my ways,

  Praise be to God that I am poor and mean—for none can class me

  With the great ones whom men delight to honour in these days.

  go tavajjuh se zamaane ki jahaan mein mujh ko

  jah o sarvat ka muyassar sar o saamaan na hua

  shukr sad shukr ki main zillat o khvaari ke sabab

  kysi unvaan mein hum chashm e azeezaan na hua

  I will write verses showing that I hold the great

  In that same honour as the great have held my verses.

  jaisi izzat mere deevaan ki ameeron mein hui

  vaise hi un ki bhi hogi mere deevaan ke beech

  My verses are all liked by high society

  But it is to the people that I speak.

  sher mere hain sab khivaas pasand

  par mujhe guftagu avaam se hai

  Since evening fell, the flame within my heart

  Burns dimly, as it were a poor man’s lamp.

  shaam se kuchh bujha sa rehta hai

  dil hua hai chiraagh muflis ka

  Both feel that their poetry is not valued as it should be. Mir writes:

  My verse is not like any other poet’s

  The way I speak to you is all my own.

  nahin milta sukhan apna kisu se

  hamaari guftagu ka dhab juda hai

  In every region, every city, far and wide my fame is known

  The beauty of my poetry is spoken of in every home.

  door tak rusva hua hoon shehron shehron mulk mulk

  meri sher o shayri ka tazkara ghar ghar hai ab

  Ghalib, ironically feigning ignorance of Mir’s status, classes himself with him:

  Ghalib, you aren’t the only one supreme in Urdu verse

  They tell me that in former times there lived a certain Mir.

  rekhte ke tumhin ustaad nahin ho, Ghalib

  kehte hain, agle zamaane mein koi Mir bhi tha.

  And yet he asserts his own distinctive contribution:

  The world holds others too who write good poetr
y

  But Ghalib’s style, they say, is something else.

  hain aur bhi duniya mein sukhanvar bahut achche

  kehte hain ki Ghalib ka hai andaaz e bayaan aur

  He gives himself freely to those who really value his poetry:

  I give my poetry away, and give myself along with it

  But first I look for people who can value what I give.

  bik jaate hain hum aap mata e sukhan ke saath

  lekin ayaar e taba e khareedaar dekh kar

  I am collyrium freely given for the eyes of men

  My price the recognition of what I confer on them.

  surma e muft e nazar hoon; meri qimat ye hai

  ki rahe chashm e khareedaar pe ihsaan mera

  (Collyrium—kohl—surma—is a dark eyeliner used to make the eyes seem brighter, but was also believed to sharpen the sight.)

  They speak to an audience that cannot appreciate what they are saying, and they feel a keen regret that this should be so. Mir writes:

  How could I tell my tale in this strange land?

  I speak a tongue they do not understand.

  rahi nagufta mere dil mein daastaan meri

  na is dayyaar mein samjha koi zabaan meri

  I wrote in every metre, wasting all my years

  Bringing up pearls for men who did not know their price.

  har bahr mein ashaar kahe umr ko khoya

  is gohar e naayaab ki kuchh baat na paai

  Why bother, Mir, to speak to this assembly of the deaf?

  One speaks to those who listen: what’s the good of speaking here?

  phira mat Mir sar apna giraan goshon ki majlis mein

  sune koi to kuchh kahiye bhi is kehne ka kya haasil?

  Ghalib, having tried his fortune without success beyond the bounds of his own homeland, asks himself:

  Ghalib, who honoured you at home, that other lands should value you?

  Be frank: you are the straw that does not feed the bonfire’s flame.

  thi vatan mein shaan kya, Ghalib, ki ho ghurbat mein qadr?

  be-takalluf hoon vo musht e khas ki gulkhan mein nahin

  I may be good, I may be bad—I live in ill-matched company—

  A flower thrown on the bonfire, or a weed among the flowers.

  na janun nek hoon ya bad hoon, par suhbat mukhaalif hai

  jo gul hoon to hoon gulkhan mein, jo khas hoon to hoon gulshan mein

  At times they feel that they would do best to withdraw from human company altogether. Mir says:

  Live out your life away from man’s society,

  for men no longer feel that you are one of them;

  Thousands and thousands here were laid low in the dust

  and no one even asked what had become of them.*

  tu jahaan se dil utha yahaan nahin rasm e dardmandi

  kisi ne bhi yun na poochha hue khaak yahaan hazaaraan

  And Ghalib (in three linked couplets):

  Now let me go away and live somewhere where no one else will be

  Where there is none that knows my tongue, where there is none to speak with me.

  There I will build myself a house with, so to say, no doors, no walls

  And live there without neighbours, and with no one to keep watch for me.

  If I fall ill, then there should be no one to come and visit me

  And if I die let none be there to weep and wail and mourn for me.

  rahiye ab aisi jagah chalkar jahaan koi na ho

  hum sukhan koi na ho, aur hum zabaan koi na ho

  be-dar o deevaar sa ik ghar banaaya chaahiye

  koi hum-saaya na ho aur paasbaan koi na ho

  padiye agar beemaar to koi na ho teemaardaar

  aur agar mar jaiye to nauhaakhan koi na ho

  Sometimes he is ready to burst with the bitterness he feels:

  My heart is vibrant with complaint as is the harp with music

  Give it the slightest touch, and you will see what happens then.

  pur hoon main shikve se yun raag se jaise baaja

  ik zara chhediye, phir dekhiye kya hota hai

  At other times he contemplates his position with wry humour:

  O Lord, they do not understand, nor will they understand my words.

  Give them another heart, or else give me another tongue.

  ya rab, vo na samjhe hain na samjhenge meri baat

  de aur dil unko jo na de mujh ko zabaan aur

  I do not long to hear men’s praise; I seek no man’s reward

  And if they say my verses have no meaning, be it so.

  na sitaaish ki tamanna na sile ki parva

  agar nahin hain mere ashaar mein maani na sahi

  Mir says of his own poetry:

  Don’t think me a mere poet—no, my verse

  Is made of pain and grief more than you know.

  mujh ko shayqr na kaho, Mir, ke sahib maine

  dard o gham kitne kiye jama to deevaan kiya

  Under this guise of poetry Mir speaks the sorrows of his heart.

  What poetry it is, my friends!—this lover’s way of life.

  is parde mein gham e dil kehta hai Mir apna

  kya sher o shayari hai, yaaro, sha’aar e aashiq

  As ‘lovers’ in the full ghazal sense, they are aware of the transience of life, and its inevitable sorrow. Ghalib says:

  Spring is the henna on the feet of autumn—nothing more.

  In this world lasting sorrow follows transient delight.

  hina e paa e khizaan hai bahaar agar hai bhi

  davaam e kulfat e khaatir hai aish duniya ka

  The rose has opened wide her arms for the farewell embrace

  Come nightingale, it’s time to go! The days of spring are gone.

  aaghosh e gul kushooda bara e vida hai

  ay andaleeb, chal! ki chale din bahaar ke

  And Mir writes:

  The rose’s scent, the nightingale’s sweet song

  And life—alas! how soon they pass away!

  bu e gul ya nava e bulbul thhi

  umr, afsos! kya shitaab gayi!

  The sun of life sinks fast behind the roof.

  Do what you have to do, Mir; night comes on.

  hai lab e baam aaftaab e umr

  kar le so kiya hai Mir din thoda

  * See p. 241.

  * Ed: This is a rare example where Ralph Russell used four lines rather than two in translating a couplet, to enable him to convey more fully what is implied.

  Ghalib’s Personal Philosophy

  Ghalib’s ghazals are particularly rich in philosophical reflections. The ghazal’s highly condensed form means that his thoughts are expressed elliptically, but by piecing them together, one gradually builds up a picture of his personal philosophy.

  ~

  He often feels that the universe exerts its powers to annihilate everything delicate and beautiful:

  It makes my heart quail when I see the effort of the blazing sun

  I, a mere drop of dew that hangs upon the desert thorn.

  larazta hai mera dil zahmat e mihr e darakhshaan par

  main hoon vo qatra e shabnam ki ho khaar e be-aabaan par

  Not one created atom here but what is destined to decay

  The sun on high a lamp that gutters in the windy street.

  hain zavaal aamaada ajza aafreenish ke tamaam

  mihr e gardoon hai chiraagh e rahguzaar e baad yan

  He is sure he has something of value to contribute. He may be a lone figure, but he has his own resources to keep him company:

  Each of us is a world in which all kinds of fancies throng

  I sit in an assembly even though I am alone.

  hai aadmi baja e khud ik mahshar e khayaal

  hum anjuman samajhte hain khalvat hi kyon na ho

  Yet his sense of his own unique importance is also something he must subdue, if he is to fulfil the tasks he has set himself:

  For all the expertise I have acquired in breaking idols

  As long as I exist a heavy stone still blocks my
path.

  harchand subuk-dast huey but-shikani mein

  hum hain, to abhi raah mein hai sang e giraan aur

  In my construction lies concealed the stuff that is to ruin me—

  The hot blood of the peasant holds the lightning for his crops.

  meri tameer mein muzmar hai ik soorat kharaabi ki

  hayoola barq e khirman ka hai khoon e garm dehqaan ka

  He needs to know what it is he is living for, and he repeatedly makes clear that the guidance which orthodox Islam provides is not enough. In several verses he refers to the legendary figure of Khizar, who accompanied Sikandar (Alexander the Great) in search of the water of immortality.* Khizar found it and drank, but Sikandar did not, and there is some suggestion that Khizar contrived it so. Khizar now wanders immortal and tradition says that he comes to the aid of travellers who are lost, and guides them onto the right way.

  Ghalib says he will find his own way:

  I am not bound to take the path that Khizar indicates.

  I’ll think an old man comes to bear me company on my way.

  laazim nahin ki Khizar ki hum pairvi karein

  jaana ki ik buzurg humein hamsafar mile

  You know how Khizar treated Alexander—

  How then can one make anyone one’s guide?

  kya kiya Khizar ne Sikandar se

  ab kise rahnuma kare koi?

  He is prepared to value whatever others can teach him, but will not surrender his own judgement:

  I go some way with every man I see advancing swiftly

  So far I see no man whom I can take to be my guide.

  chalta hoon thodi door har ik tezrau ke saath

  pehchaanta nahin hoon abhi raahbar ko main

  He suggests that God Himself may now be prepared to reveal secrets that He had hitherto kept to Himself:

  Why should we think that all who go will get the same reply?