Mirza Asadullah Beg Khan — known to posterity as Ghalib, a `nom de plume’ he adopted in the tradition of all classical Urdu poets, was born in the city of Agra, of parents with Turkish aristocratic ancestry, probably on December 27th, 1797. As to the precise date, Imtiyaz Ali Arshi has conjectured, on the basis of Ghalib’s horoscope, that the poet might have been born a month later, in January 1798.
The death of his father and uncle during his youth left Ghalib with no male-dominant figures. He then moved to Delhi.
Ghalib’s early education has always been a matter of confusion. There are no known records of his formal education, although it was known that his circle of friends in Delhi were some of the most intelligent minds of the time.
Around 1810, he was married into a family of nobles, at the age of thirteen. He had seven children, none of whom survived (this pain has found its echo in some of Ghalib’s ghazals). There are conflicting reports regarding his relationship with his wife. She was considered to be pious, conservative and God-fearing while Ghalib was carefree, unconventional without any scruples, and arguably not very religious, in the strict sense of the word.
Ghalib was very fond of drinking and gambling (in this respect, he himself admitted he was not quite a strict “Muslim”). Gambling used to be an offence in Delhi at that time and he was even apprehended once for having indulged in it in his own backyard. Ghalib also had an affair with a courtesan who quite admired his poetry. There still exists the First Information Report filed against Ghalib in Kotwali ( “Police Station” is a more convenient term in modern (English) language), Daryaganj, New Delhi that relates his rivalry with the then Kotwal when it came to the courtesan.
Ghalib never worked as such for a livelihood but lived on either state patronage, credit or generosity of his friends. His fame came to him posthumously. He had himself remarked during his lifetime that although his age ignored his greatness, it would be recognized by later generations. History has vindicated his claim. He also is arguably the most “written about” among Urdu poets.
He died in Delhi on February 15th, 1869.
Showering encomium on Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib’s poetry is like employing rich epithets to describe William Shakespeare’s tragedies or Salvador Dali’s surrealistic strokes. Ghalib’s couplets are what he is. He is Urdu poetry. That is all you know, that is all you need to know.
Ghalib’s death anniversary falls on Feb 15. Should it be marked? If yes, then why is it important to mark creative individuals’ birthdays and death anniversaries? Perhaps to remember them? If recalling the important days in their lives makes a difference with respect to carrying out research on them, aexploring hitherto unravelled facets to their works and lives, then why not?
But sadly, despite Ghalib’s undisputed stature as a literary colossus, we’ve yet to decide whether he was an Indian or defied geographical boundaries.
In Pakistan we don’t seem to ‘own’ him as we own Allama Iqbal, Faiz Ahmed Faiz or Josh Malihabadi. Yes, scholars have undertaken tasks of ‘understanding’ his works or of Ghalib shanasi (which means getting acquainted with him), but one feels that the vital ‘ownership’ factor is amiss.
So why is Ghalib important to be considered as one of our own? Answers:
(1) he enriched the Urdu language by almost exhausting the possibilities of linguistic inventiveness and creative ingenuity.
(2) he had the temerity to explore undiscovered lands in the realm of poetry that prior to him weren’t even thought of as plausible literary subjects.
(3) he blazed a trail for many a creative man to indulge in ghazal-writing like never before… and the list goes on.
To Ghalib composing poetry wasn’t a leisurely pastime or a part-time job. He was dealing with existence, warts and all. He was just 13 when he got hitched to an 11-year-old girl, Umrao Begum. They had seven children, none of whom survived, and passed away in their infancy. It was but natural that Ghalib was crestfallen. But he never turned bitter or vitriolic. He had seen life eyeball to eyeball. And was an admirer of nature and all that is beautiful.
That is precisely why his verses brim with love for the sensual and the intangible, coupled with thebare truths of being. He knew half-baked measures would make him a run-of-the-mill poet. Yes, he was an iconoclast. Yes, he was alcoholic. Yes, he was a gambler. But these social evils (if they are that) have nothing to do with his extraordinary skill or perceptiveness. He was every inch a poet, top-notch at that. As Intizar Husain enthused about Jaun Elia, Ghalib’s personality had become anextension of his poetry.
T.S. Eliot has given world literature an irrefutable dictum: poetry communicates before it is understood. Ghalib exactly achieved that. Even to those readers for whom Persianised Urdu or intricate phrasing is a tad knotty to comprehend, his couplets appear readily accessible.
For example, every reader of Urdu poetry is familiar with the following two lines:
A worthy picture doesn’t need description/
The paper on which it’s drawn is self-explanatory attire
Yet it is not a simple idea to grasp, but don’t we all love it truly, deeply and madly?
Or for that matter the couplet which is often ascribed to the death of one of his children:
Ghalib’s verses brim with love for the sensual and the intangible, coupled with the bare truths of being. He knew half-baked measures would make him a run-of-the-mill poet.
You say we’ll meet on Judgment Day/
Isn’t this gesture apocalyptic in itself?
This is the work of an artisan as well as of a genius. The couplet is fraught with etymological possibilities. It sounds personal. It has a mystic ring to it. It has an air of worldly wisdom about it. And seems easily identifiable.
Even when Ghalib tries to be a bit impish and light-hearted, compromising on contextual weightiness, he wins the reader over by virtue of his brilliant wordplay.
You don’t let me kiss but keep looking at my heart/
You think that having me for free would be a worthy bargain for you
Mir Taqi Mir was a great poet, period. But he has many imitators, if not successors. Ghalib had neither a predecessor nor a successor. He scaled heights that not many can even think of. According to an adage, you are always alone at the top. Ghalib is alone, for sure.
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