When I met Ghalib

     
Ghalib (courtesy: midday)

         Was it the only time he had to refill himself. Now he had done so, he should not spit on the road. God," these were the immediate thoughts that struck my mind when I asked a rickshaw puller if he could take me to the Ghalib ki Haveli.


"Yes 30 Rs," he said and took out the Shikar paan masala from his shirt-pocket, tore it with his smudgy teeth, held his mouth to sky and poured the gutka into his mouth. His lips brown and sticky.

Fortunately he didn't spit. How could he. The road to the Haveli was choked; the rickshaws, carrying women and men to and fro from the locality overburdened with humans and machines, were cautiously plying on the crowded street. The saliva if the rickshaw puller had ejected from his mouth would probably had fallen onto a burqa-clad lady or the woman who had recently put up a tilak onto his forehead before stepping out of his house and boarding the rickshaw to take some breathe outside the doomed lanes. After around 15 minutes of pedaling, bypassing the electronic and hardware stores and eateries, the rickshaw puller halted his vehicle near the Haveli.

I tread cautiously in the narrow lane to locate the Haveli, and little did I know I was already at the footsteps of Ghalib. I barged into the grey building. Its stones, engraved in sand, resembled some old structure that has been cautiously preserved over the centuries. But we know that the building was repaired some decades ago to give it a look of the dwelling that was Ghalib's abode in the last stages of Mughal period. The structure had fallen to the hands of merciless men who were operating different establishments over the tomb of the greatest Urdu poet.
           
         Hue mar ke ham jo rusva hue kyuun na gharq-e-dariya
         Na kabhi janaza uThta na kahin mazar hota

Ghalib did not require a shrine. He is everywhere, an eternal being who will remain with us for all times to come. But I still had a craving to visit the place where he drank and knitted the words and and gave them meaning, resembling life and death.

I looked into his eyes that wore a serious look, undeterred by the times that has seen both rise and downfall of the world post Ghalib era. Never in my find came the thought, even for a while, that Ghalib had died a long time ago and what I am seeing is his bust, his kurtas and his hand-written  notes.

It appeared to me that Ghalib was unmindful of the outside hustle-bustle while siting in his couch, dedicating all his energy and concentration, and writing...

'Koi mere dil se pooche tere teer-e-neemkash ko
Ye khalish kahaan se hotee jo jigar ke paar hota'

I said, 'he dude. You are ok. There is no arrow. We are all your admirers, why should we inflict any injury to you? Tauba…God save us'.

He raised his head, put his pen aside and looked me into the eyes and as usual an outburst followed.

'Ye kahaan ki dosti hai ke bane hain dost naaseh
Koi chaarasaaz  hota, koi ghamgusaar hota'

He drooped his head, looking at his unfinished work, his hawkish eyes kept me guessing what would be going on in Ghalib's mind. He remained in the position for a long time, perhaps checking my patience, but I did not relent and stood there like a thristy man in the middile of a raging desert.

'I am sick. My soul is wandering. My spirits are flowing high and down, like the tides in a deep ocean', like Ghalib was reading my mind, he closed his eyes, his forehead was gleaming, the flourescent lights donning walls behing him lit the surface around us -- it seemed that everything had been put in place for a meeting of the two wandering souls -- he opened his eyes, his lips gained rhythm... Ghalib was at his best

         Dard ho dil mai to dawa kijiye
         Dil hi jab derd ho to kia kijiye

        Feeling a disappontment in me, Ghalib tried to pacify...

Ishrat-e-qatra hai dariya mein fana ho jaana
Dard ka hadd se guzarna hai dava ho jaana

I responded, 'No No No. The soul has found solace. The bliss is being at at your doorstep. The wanderer has found the destination.'

It was true. I did not mind going through the tumultuous journey, travelling in choked lanes, where one gasps for fresh air. Reaching to Ghalib's dwelling is akin to travelling barefoot on a roasting desert-sand. We may convince ourselves that the end result is rewarding, but then one may ask a question that is it what Ghalib, who had poured out his heart and soul for us, deserves? Why would Ghalib's haveli long for sunlight, why would the fragrances of jasmine and lavender not reach to Ghalib? But again I will say Ghalib does not need our generosity. He does not belong to the earth, nor the sky. No worldly pleasure will compensate Ghalib's super natural abilities. Ghalib was a rebel, and a rebel lives on his own terms and conditions.
The dusk was throwing itself on the locality. After a brief stroll  in the place, I returned to say goodbyes. And I found Ghalib in his usual posture, looking at his hand-written words, and perhaps reading aloud what he had just dotted down...

     Udne de in Parindo ko Aazad Fiza me Ghalib
      Jo tere Apne Honge Wo Laut Aayenge Kisi Roz

Criss-crossing the lanes, I took an another rickshaw this time pulled by a fragile elderly, and headed towards Jama Masjid.
   
Qayoom Sheikh

( tripadvisor)

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