Free The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry by Mir, Raza Page A

my murder, even if God
    Asks me. Immunity upon you, I’ll bestow.
    Hell’s fire will lose its heat, turn into cold water
    When we sinners pass wet in shame from head to toe.
    I’ll flash the flame of my pain like a lightning bolt
    But will its light scare you away? I do not know.
    You may search, but will never find a trace of me
    I’ll pass from sight like a glance, swift as an arrow.
    O Zauq, for mullahs ruined by seminaries
    A visit to yonder tavern may be apropos!

Mirza Ghalib
    Hoon garmi-e nishaat-e tasavvur se naghma-sanj
    Main andaleeb-e gulshan-e na-aafareeda hoon
    Behold, I sing in the heated joy of imagination
    For I’m the nightingale of the yet uncreated garden.
    The name of Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib (1797–1869) rolls off the tongue like a word of gratitude. Indeed, Ghalib is a gift, and he was well aware of it. In his own words, ‘
Surma-e muft-nazar hoon, meri qeemat ye hai / Ke rahe chashm-e khareedaar pe ehsan mera
’ (‘I am the kohl that adorns the eye, my only price is your grateful sigh’). I am sighing.
    What makes Ghalib so unique? Like Shakespeare in the English dramatic tradition, he has now been studied so much that all his poetic output has been subjected to the full glare of scrutiny, and plumbed for metaphorical hints and allegorical subtext. What made his poetry great was its simultaneous accessibility and impenetrability. He could write the most playful verses about mangoes and the most opaque verses about the nature of existence. Consider the first sher of the first ghazal of his deevan
.
It goes: ‘
Naqsh faryadi hai kis ki shokhi-e tehreer ka / Kagazi hai pairahan, har paikar-e tasveer ka.
’ The literal translation of this two-liner could be: ‘Whose creativity does the creation complain about? / Every picture wears paper robes.’ This verse lends itself to multiple meanings, and is possibly the most analysed sher in the history of Urdu poetry. 1 Much has been said about the consternation of the poets in the Delhi mushaira circles—who were more used to lighter fare—when they heard such verses. The meaning of this famous verse actually hinges on a few metaphors. The wearing of paper robes refers to an ancient Persian custom in which complainants to the king dressed in paper to signify their unhappiness. Perhaps Ghalib is upset at God for the imperfection of his creation (the human); perhaps he is lauding humanity for its ability to critique God. In my opinion, a good translator would do well to not offer a direct interpretation of the sher, but rather alert the reader to the important elements of metaphor and context—and then promptly get out of the way.
    We are also aware of a variety of anecdotes about his life that show him to be a colourful character. One anecdote has it that British soldiers once accosted him in a post-1857 round-up. The soldiers asked him, ‘Are you a Muslim?’ Ghalib replied, ‘I am half-a-Muslim.’ Watching their mystified expressions, he ventured a clarification: ‘I drink liquor, but do not eat pork.’ Likewise, his love for mangoes was well known. Once, his senior friend, a
hakim
(doctor), was watching Ghalib gorge on mangoes. He espied a donkey, which was rooting about in the garbage, but left a heap of mango peels alone. Hakim Saheb loftily remarked: ‘Look Mirza, even the donkey does not like mangoes.’ Never one to let such an opening go waste, Ghalib reparteed: ‘True, Hakim Saheb, only a donkey would not like mangoes.’
    Ghalib’s witty anecdotes disparaging religion would fill pages, as would his sly asides at those in power, including those whom he depended on for financial assistance, and composed ceremonious odes to. His love life was chequered, his morals suspect, his sense of responsibility repugnant, but he was a character worthy of the appellation ‘poet’.
    Ghalib has been translated by several people, from language experts to armchair enthusiasts. It is refreshing to see him as the bone of contention among